:gray matters:

old friend

2011-04-19T16:27:00.002-04:00

hello emptiness.

ive been staring into you for a long time. ive been searching for the answers in you, hoping they would reveal themselves, praying they would emerge from the darkness, like little streaks of light unfolding into great illuminations.

but i havent had much luck. not recently. not in the past few months.

its strange, emptiness, because you are everywhere. in the television. on the radio. at the bus stop where someone tried to dress you up in meaning but only achieved the dull shock of vandalism.

i see you in the conversations i overhear. in the discussions i have. in the text messages i receive and even in the ones i send. i noticed you in the forms i had to fill out when i was in the ER and they told me i had pneumonia. you had stripped me of a diagnosis that would give purpose to what ails me. i thanked you for that, that time. but still it left me with nothing.

a pack of antibiotics and some weak painkillers. a pain in my chest that would eventually go away.

i like you there, emptiness, but for soem reason i feel we've grown distant.

like you dont need me anymore. or maybe i dont need you.

i know you are inside me, but i dont think the answers are there. not this time.

great escape

2011-04-15T12:31:00.003-04:00

we waited past the silence. first came night and then came lights out and then came the silence, but the silence is too soon. you have to wait until the silence builds into the white noise of sleep, the creaking of beds as bodies twisted in REM, the steady huff of heavy breathing, the drone of the world outside folding into the still hum of indoors. we waited patiently, lying in our beds and staring at the stucco ceilings, and when we felt it was time, we made our move.

The window wheezed open slowly and Tasi looked at me with wide, panicked eyes and i hissed at him to keep moving. he took his leg and swung it over the sill and his feet crunched softly on the gravel when he touched the ground. i followed after and we tip toed along the side of the house until we were standing in the street with the moon pouring down on us like a spotlight from a tower. we stood still for a moment, breathing in the midnight chill. we looked at the house, at the windows of the house, searching for movement, and there was none. he spit on the ground.

Fuck you, he said, then gave the house a middle finger. i smiled and started walking down the street towards the highway.

there was a cold spring wind circling our necks that loosened the further we got from the house. we walked down the hill towards the sound of traffic. all the homes we passed were dark and indifferent, their manicured lawns flanked in shadows, protected by neatly trimmed bushes. it was lights out for Millbrae, past silence for all its residents. the streetlamps buzzed nervously above and it was the only noise there was. we seemed to be the only ones alive in the entire town, as if it were all ours to escape from. no other footsteps on the sidewalk, no cars smashing down the street. the highway was only a few blocks away and the bus would be there in any moment.

c'mon, i hurried Tasi.

we got to the highway and stood for a moment, watching the cars zooming north and south. there were more lights there, and the air was warmer. we walked along the road, following a knee level guardrail, until we came to a clear passage that would allow us to run across. we waited for a window then scrambled to the grassy median. there we waited for another window then scrambled to the other side, the one going north. the bus stop was in front of a motel, the red neon of the vacancy sign blurred into the florescence of the parking lot lights, bathing the bus stop in a pale orange glow. We sat at the bench, looking toward the horizon for an oncoming bus. Tasi pulled out a marker and tagged the seat next to him and i counted the little bit of money i had.

where we gonna go? he asked me.

i dont know, i guess ill go meet my friends in the Mission, you can come with me.

nah, he said, im gonna go to Sunndale, my aunt lives there.

Sunnydale? i said, damn. Sunnydale was a notorious collection of project houses on the edges of san francisco. a small grid of misery forgotten by the city. id never been there and never wanted to go there. their anger reverberated all the way to the pacific ocean. you can chill with me, i said.

its cool, she'll put me up, he mumbled.

i grabbed the marker and tagged the bus stop sign, then walked over and tagged the bench behind Tasi. in the distance we saw the shape of the bus slowly barreling towards us. i pulled out some money and gave Tasi enough for a one way ride. when we got on the bus it was mostly empty, just an old lady in the front and a drunk in the middle. we sat in the seats furthest to the back, on opposite ends, and opened the windows and let our elbows spill out into the passing night. for most of the ride we didnt say anything. the towns sped by in dim streaks of light. the barely paused as all the stops were empty. we had done it, we had done it. and we were afraid.

three on the house

2011-04-05T16:09:00.003-04:00

i went to a bar after work the other day. i do that often.

it was late night early morning and a guy im familiar with was pouring drinks so i knew it would be a cheap visit. i ordered a whiskey but no beer. i didnt need the suds. he poured it heavy and on the flatscreen was a black and white animated movie with a convoluted plot i couldnt follow. outside the streets were wet from a recent rain. i sat and stared and sipped my whiskey.

at the other end of the bar was a girl with short blond hair and a brassy attitude. she was young and thin and insulted the bartender with a clever smile on her face, a knowing smirk that was at once disarming and still mischievous. i clocked her for a moment then turned back to space.

me and the bartender started a discussion on food. sandwiches, in particular, and where the best deli's in the neighborhood were. there was the 5th ave deli where they grilled their pastrami sandwiches and had a nice array of cheeses from which to choose from. there was the deli on nostrand ave that served their sandwiches on rye and piled them high with meat and cheese and spicy mustard. there were the multitude of delis on every other corner that served the same fare but were consistent and stayed open 24 hours. there was the acceptance of how limited our options were, especially at night, when the stomach grumbles and the mind wanders and the cash in your pocket burns a hole. i told him about a deli i knew, he told me of one he knew. we decided to deliver reviews next time we met.

then the girl came over. the bartender told me her name was shane. she introduced herself and when she asked how i was and i just said alright she feigned interest in why i wasnt stellar. i told her that in life sometimes a rainbow didnt follow the rain and she looked confused for a second then ordered another white wine. she had an attractive face, angular and defined. her eyes were big and her chin was long but it held a proportion that favored her. she let her bangs fall loosely, which i liked. still i didnt say anything. there wasnt anything to say.

a guy to my left started telling me about the spiderman musical on broadway. there was no segue, no introduction, i hadnt even noticed he was there. he just launched into how it was getting a bad rap in all the press, how the production quality of it was beyond any other in the theater district. the songs were better. the acting was good, the costumes and narrative and even the high flying wire acts were all executed to perfection. he didnt understand why everyone was so against it. according to the critics, its an epic failure. according to him, its a smashing success. i listened to him gush about it while nodding, indifferent to everything save the whisky on my lips. eventually he turned from me and began talking to someone else about something else, as if he were never talking to me at all.

shane then whispered in my ear that he was creepy. her breath was hot and sweet from the wine and when she said the word creepy there was a wet hiss i could feel on my earlobes. she explained that he had tried to take her home one night but that there was something about him, something beyond suspicion, a danger, that she couldnt put her finger on. alarm bells went off in her head. she politely declined and he, to his credit, was gracious and accepting of her rejection, but he watched her from afar the rest of the night. and she was afraid to walk home alone, so she spent her remaining cash on a cab just to circle the block and drop her off a few doors down.

it was getting late and i was on my third whiskey. i asked the bartender how much i owed and he gave me a meager total so i tipped him bigger than i planned. he thanked me and then poured me another. i put a napkin on my glass then went outside to smoke a cigarette. when i went back inside shane was on the other side of the bar but as i sat down she came back over and sat next to me. i could feel my legs beginning to wobble and my head was swimming and even though she was painting a target on her chest i decided not to go for it. she was too young. too blond. too skinny. there was no mystery about her, nothing i wanted to find out.

i sucked down my whiskey in one gulp and said good-bye to everyone around me. she looked shocked and disappointed but i knew shed get over it. then i opened the door and went outside and put on my ipod to keep me company. it wasnt a long walk home but i knew it would be lonely.

new shirt

2011-04-02T23:08:00.004-04:00

i was standing at the intersection of broadway and church and the sun was pale and the cars kept turning the corner even though the light was burning red. i stood in front of a newstand being watched by photoshopped celebrities posing on magazines hung by a clothespin. it began to rain.

i wanted to buy a new shirt, one with a quiet modern pattern and no obvious logos and buttons and a collar because its time to finally grow up, so i was headed to a department store that was new yorks best kept secret, even though everyone knew about it.

i felt like a giant lumbering through the doors. my shoulders smothering the shopping experience for others. i tried to avoid touching people as i walked through the crowd. letting the forces of gravity create an orbit around me, allowing my mass to curve space and time. all our magnetic waves attracting and repelling as see fit.

there are voices bouncing off voices and echoing from the walls, the stuttering tone of security tags being scanned. people with headsets squeezing by in stealth precision, saying excuse me only as an automatic response, barely registering their own vocal vibrations. the alarm goes off by the door but not a notion is made by anyone. european tourist calculate the price of jeans in polysyllabic gibberish. and old pan asian couple consider a leather belt.

i get to the shirt section but cant take it anymore. it is noon on saturday and ive finished a midterm. it is cold and my tobacco is low. i have to write another paper but i miss her and cant think so i decided to buy a shirt instead. my phone hasnt vibrated in hours and i have to be in class soon. the train is under construction and running local so everything is slower than usual. there is nothing in my size. im on the brink of emotional collapse. i have half an hour to feel new and feel smart and write a paper and be on time and make the right decision but i cant find my fucking size. there is a tie hanging from a rack of hooded sweatshirts. i take a breath.

there will be no turmoil. there will be no disruption. there will be no spark inside; no supernova of pain and misery.

in my hand is a nice plaid shirt. a clever pattern of earthtones. a subtle statement of colors. the perfect fit.

i will look good in this.

friends

2011-03-28T01:50:00.003-04:00

you ever just call up youre friend just to tell them you love them?

not just any friend, but a friend you love.

not having anything to say or any purpose of the call other than just that. to say that you are the one i love. i love you, my friend. you are important to me. know that.

its simultaneously a celebration and a promise. a declaration of faith.

you love them.

just call them and say it.

its easy.

Raising Hell

2011-03-27T10:58:00.003-04:00

when he told me they were doing a show that night i initially didnt believe him. the legendary Run DMC were performing in san francisco and i hadnt heard about it until that night? the possibility of this seemed slim, considering we both worked in the record industry and we were both avid hip hop fans and to see Run DMC live was the holy grail of shows. this, even though they were past their prime and nostalgia had yet to lift them back into relevance (that wouldnt happen for another two years). still, i agreed to go. it definitely wouldnt hurt, and if he was wrong then we'd already be on the town and surely there would be some other shenanigans for us to get into.

we go to the DNA Lounge at about 9pm, the show wasnt starting until 10. As we approached the box office i noticed, pasted on the window, a hand made sign that read: Run DMC- $20. it was only twenty dollars? to see the group that changed the landscape of pop music in the 80s and arguably launched rap music into the mainstream stratosphere for good? this seemed, for lack of a better term, too good to be true. the fact that there were still tickets available did not lessen my skepticism either. we each paid for a ticket, got our hand stamped, and walked into the club, my friend beaming with enthusiasm and me wary and kicking myself because i had lost a precious Jackson.

the club was packed, which did lift my spirits some. at least i hadnt been the only one fooled that night. the DNA lounge is designed in a very practical manner. there is a fairly large, square dancefloor with a stage at the front, and an upper level balcony that wraps itself around it, allowing patrons to watch the madness from above while sipping on their over priced drinks. we made our way to the balcony as the main floor was too packed, got ourselves some drinks, and began rolling a joint. from where we stood i had a perfect view of the stage. hanging from the back of it was a huge banner bearing the legend: Run DMC, in their classic black and white font. in front of that was set up two turntables, and at the front of the stage two microphones on stands. that was it. i had to admit, this was encouraging, but i still wouldnt believe it until i saw it.

slowly the crowd began to press against each other. i wondered if they would oversell tickets then have the fire department come in and shut down the show. that was a classic shady promoter move i knew and had experienced all too many times. my wariness began to kick in again. it was a healthy mix of people, not your usual hip hop crowd, all races and ages, girls and guys alike. we began to smoke the joint and i let the feeling of being stoned wash over me while i clocked the faces and bodies that crowded the area. i wondered if i was the only one that was skeptical, everyone else seemed to be wearing their happy faces. all eyes were wide. the enthusiasm was thick and palpable.

thats when he came on stage, Jam Master Jay himself. my jaw dropped to the floor. was that really him? still, my outlook was hesitant. maybe he was just going to do a DJ set. not that that would be a bad thing, mind you.

then Run and D came out. the crowd roared in approval. they wore their classic black pants and black jackets and black tshirts underneath, even sporting the hats they were so closely identified with since they early, RUN DMC albums. they looked like they did on the cover of Raising hell, or in the movie Krush Groove. they looked exactly how i, and everyone else in the room, wanted them to look. i marveled at their royalty in silence, letting the crowd do the cheering for me. i couldnt believe it. they were there. i was looking at Run DMC, live, in the flesh.

the facetiously introduced themselves, as if we didnt know who they were, and went into the first song of what would be an hour and a half set. the sound was stellar, rare for a hip hop show, and their set was flawless. you could tell they had rehearsed it hundreds of times. hit after hit after hit. not letting up for one moment, keeping everyone in the crowd standing and cheering and aching for more. younger hip hop acts have to take note of this kind of shit. they new how to put on a show better than most anyone id ever seen.

at one point, after a second joint, we decided to barrel our way down to the main floor. we wanted to feel the energy they were giving off. we squirmed our way to the middle of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, hardly able to move for ourselves. thats when Run decided to reintroduce the group again. He sited his alternate moniker, Reverend Run, and pointed to the decks to allow Jam Master Jay to get some love. then he asked DMC, what do they know you as, D?

as DMC launched into "King of Rock" a jackpot of excitement erupted on the foor. the whole place exploded as those enormous rock drums, courtesy of John Bonham from Led Zeppelin, thundered through everyone. i was being lifted as the crowd jumped up and down, absolutely mental, along with the track. for a moment a began tearing up. this was easily one of the most exciting moments id ever experience in my concert going career. i was overwhelmed with joy.

when it was over we stumbled from the place, exhausted yet still thrilled with the night. i cant even remember what we did afterward. most likely went home and talked about what we had just seen and felt. it was one of the most satisfying concerts any of of would ever have, and we knew it deep in our bones, as sweat still clung to our flesh. we had seen the legends. they had delivered.

too much

2011-03-25T13:06:00.002-04:00

it is so much easier to not get your work done.

to just let it sit in front of you untouched. like peas on a plate. rejected and ignored. my work is unwanted.

but it begs for attention. its a needy beast, always haunting me. i need to get on it.

but i just cant. there is too much. its work overload over here.

serenity now.

to the door

2011-03-23T13:23:00.003-04:00

i could write another post about a show i went to see but its not in me this afternoon. not much is, to be honest.

its raining out. earlier snow was falling in big, heavy flakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. there was a palpable frustration in the city, as no one wanted to see snow again for the remainder of the year. we had enough this winter, and felt we had suffered through the season admirably and deserved a break from the cold whiteness that blanketed us so. our grievances were valid, and it seemed only right that we spend the rest of march marveling at the bloom of spring, as the colors came back to the trees and the tarp was taken from the patio furniture. instead we have one more day of misery. a day of slushy gutters and a night of huddling inside our big coats. the coats we were prepared to retire to the closet, with the hoods and the down filling and the big pockets our lighters get lost in.

i cant say i feel very well. my stomach is turning and my heart beats faster than usual. i hope its just a minor cold, a consequence of my drinking habits, or perhaps the result of eating too late. what i dont want it to be is an emotional sickness, because you just never know when those are going to go away. they stew inside you, subsiding at times, then swelling up again in huge waves of anxiety.

thats neither here nor there, though.

the weather outside is bringing me down. im waiting for a food delivery to come. groceries, not just one meal. i havent had the chance to go shopping in a while and my refrigerator was entirely bare. well, not entirely. there were three apples. a quart of milk. some beer. a can of salsa. ive been living off of takeout and, although im fine with that, it can grow tedious and boring after a while. sandwich after sandwich. the occasional burrito or pizza pie. it became a sad habit i wanted to rid myself of. so i went online and ordered groceries from one of those internet supermarkets you see ads for on the subway. i scheduled the delivery to come between 12 and 2.

it is 1:50. the only thing pressing on my doorbell is the pattering of rain. they better show up soon.

wa do dem

2011-03-21T13:44:00.005-04:00

im going to write a series of post about concerts ive been to. this is the first one, hopefully they will get better.

i dont know which concert to start at so ill just start at the first one i remember going to. i was a senior in high school. most kids had already been to concerts, or at least all the friends i went with said they had, so i guess im a late bloomer in that regard.

my brother had just gotten his first car. a silver nissan maxima. he'd only had it for two days, this was our first outing. it was a good three or four years old yet still looked pretty brand new. the stock stereo had a decent rumbling bass and the windows and seats were electric. there was a moon roof and the back window was tinted. it was a four door, which meant i didnt have to fold myself too tightly in order to get into the back seat. not like i ever would have, since he was my brother i had a lock on the shotgun side.

we were already heavy stoners but none of us drank that much. its a lot easier to buy weed than it is alcohol, so we stuck with the vices that were afforded us without trouble. at the time we were hanging around these two guys, jimmy and JT, that were big into reggae music. in fact, most of our friends were into reggae music in some capacity or another, but these two guys had a deeper knowledge than most. they were the ones that bought all the old classic riddems to us. the early yodel of barington levy, the modern dancehall of buju banton, the merciless bass lines of classic roots and dub. we were young and of the idea that the more me smoked the more we connected with the music. perhaps this is true. either way, the first show we went to was a reggae gig.

it was in berkeley at a small venue not far from the college. the artist was eek-a-mouse. i was vaguely familiar with his music but liked what i had heard. we all piled into the silver maxima and put on one of his tapes and vibed on the freeway on the way to the show. we almost got in an accident while making an ill-advised turn into the fast lane and everyones heart skipped for a second, then we just laughed again and turned up the music until the speakers began to rattle and opened up the moonroof and let the early summer night pour in.

i forget how much the tickets were, under twenty bucks im sure. the place was small and packed and i had the skeptical feeling that eek-a-mouse wouldnt show up. im not sure why, id never been to a concert and i suppose i just felt it was too good to be true. he was suppose to fly in from jamaica, how could they afford that? why would he come and perform for us? for such a young, sweaty, unknowing crowd. he was a legend. a man with classic under his belt. i was sure at any moment the DJ would announce he didnt make it and we would all go home, frustrated but accepting and happy we at least made the trip.

finally he came on stage. i was nervous and excited and the butterflies in my stomach were big and wild. he was taller than i imagined, at least six foot seven. and had this lanky, rhythmic way about him. he swayed on the stage as if it was a boat at sea. nothing else but him and a microphone, not even a stand. everyone new all his songs and sang along and i just smiled and stared and tried to catch the meter and chant with them all. smoke hung above us all in a thick cloud and someone passed me a joint and i took it without question. the crowd were mostly white college aged kids in big t-shirts and baggy pants. there were only two or three people there that looked truly jamaican and i assumed they had come with eek-a-mouse. they had weathered faces with a sheen of sweat and from their lips hung long, fat joints that they just sucked at without flinching.

when he finally did a song i recognized i almost burst with enthusiasm. i sang along and tried my hand at skanking—the loose form of dancing popular at reggae concerts—and took every joint passed to me and chugged water from a bottle, letting it fall from the sides of my mouth and down my neck. i didnt know where any of my friends were and i didnt care. i was lost in the heat and the rhythm and the smoke falling between us. when he did his encore, a song i didnt recognize but that was a classic nonetheless, i pogoed a little in the crowd, letting my body flop against others and beaming unconsciously. after he left the stage i stood, mesmerized by the thinning crowd and taking deep breaths, trying to inhale it all.

outside i met my brother and the rest of them and we all stumbled to the car swapping stories and individual adventures that the night had given. jimmy had seen a guy getting a blowjob outside as he left. JT had rolled a perfect joint with one hand and shared it with one of the hulking jamaican dudes. my brother had gotten a free drink from a drunken girl who looked like she was about to vomit. i had experienced my first concert.

i dont remember getting home, but we made it because here i am. it was just the first of many concerts we would go to, most of them transported by that silver maxima, and hardly the best one. at the time though, for the first, it was a gentle and satisfying experience. a nice popping of my cherry.

super moon

2011-03-19T00:25:00.003-04:00

its been like, forever. amirite?

the moon is super and tomorrow its going to be even more superer.

and its elliptical orbit will continue on. as it was and always will be.

glory be la luna.

people say—at parties while sipping wine and eating soft cheese on crackers—that the moon affects the tides, and the tides affect us.

and that the bigger it is the more heavy the sensation.

and that the closer it is the more profound.

i dont know if that is true or not.

but i sure do feel funny.

ten minutes.

2011-03-16T16:22:00.004-04:00

ill take ten minutes out to write a little something here.

on the black space, the empty room, the crevice in the internet.

ive actually been pretty good about trying to write something every day. if not here than on a word document. sometimes i use an email for practice. sometimes i just try to be clever while chatting. but thats a cheat, i know.

i try to write in my journal, the one thats always in my backpack, with the flowery pattern on its cover that my mother gave me for christmas. i pull it out when in a quiet bar and i sip my whiskey and jot down random phrases.

sometimes ill write a whole paragraph and sometimes that paragraph will have meaning. i dont want anyone reading my most intimate thoughts so i try to find a balance between code and prose. im still working on that.

sometimes it'll just be a thought that burst through my skull and i try to get it down before it dissipates like smoke into the atmosphere. im not always successful at these, but sometimes i am.

usually though, it ends up being like this post, just a series of insignificant sentences that, when strung together, create a meager excuse for purpose. its all i have now though. maybe more tonight.

poked

2011-03-15T18:21:00.002-04:00

i am sitting here at my desk and it is early in the evening, much later than i originally planned to do my writing, but not so late that im too flooded with alcohol to actually get something down.

the black cat is tearing at the trash bag in the kitchen. i can hear his claws ripping at the plastic, the pokes and prods of kitty destruction. without turning around i just holler at him to stop and he prances into my living room and rubs his head on my ankles. so innocent, the evil creature.

i was thinking about facebook earlier, because i got an email alerting me that a cousin of mine sent me a "poke." i personally am not fond of pokes, they are a passive way of saying hello and, unless in a context that has been established long before, only send a sentiment that you find the person you are poking alive, yet not important enough to send an actual message. im sure im not alone in this idea. poking is probably the most frowned upon feature in facebook. and it is only this one cousin of mine that ever pokes me. if this doesnt explain the fractured family dynamic ive endured the past decade or so, than what else will.

i grew up with this girl, we were the first and second grandchildren, respectively. i was just slightly older than her, but we made a friendship out of consequence, being the only two kids at any large family functions. we explored the brick neighborhoods of newark, new jersey together. we dared one another too eat strange foods, then giggled and winced at the outcome. we swapped blame upon one another, taking the fall for our numerous antics. we would speak with our eyes when one of the adults grew mad, and tried to protect each other if there was any outside threat. we werent best friends, we were family. we were also children, maturation loomed.

we lost contact when i lost contact with the family, but that doesnt mean we didnt share a history. when i reconnected she was one ofthe first people i was excited to see. but the burden of our lineage had made her weary. she was sullen and aloof. i didnt take offense, we all carry our issues with us.

but once we became facebook friends she started poking me. i would always poke back, just so she knew i wasnt ignoring her, but they keep coming. she pokes, i poke back, then she pokes again. i just cant, for the life of me, understand why she wont just write the word "hi" on my wall. its almost as if shes afraid to cross a line and start an actual relationship.

that being said, i have another cousin on facebook, who post all the time. i actually have a few, but we'll get to the rest of them later. this cousin is a guy, and is the son to what i believe was my best and definitely favorite uncle. unfortunately, this uncle committed suicide and left behind two sons. one, the cousin i speak of, was named after him. the saddest thing is i dont know him at all. we only became friends because we have the same surname and were friends with all the other family members, so it made since we should be friends too. ive never even met the kid, and i couldnt quite tell you how old he is. im not sure what music he is into, what he does for a living, where he lives, what he strives for. i cant tell you anything about him except that hes my cousin and his father committed suicide and every now and then he goes to florida.

then i have a cousin who lives in new jersey. she is young and beautiful and i believe wants to be an actress or model. sometimes she speaks in a language that i can assume only the kids can decipher. extra letters and abbreviations and acronyms that havent made it into my lexicon yet. she also post a lot of strange, cryptic status updates that i suspect are directed at a boy she likes, or that likes her [which would be a more accurate assessment] but which mean nothing to anyone else who reads them. it bugs the shit out of me, and i found myself almost disliking her based solely on her status updates. i realized that was being crotchety though, and now i just ignore her.

there are other family members, a cousin in Washington state that likes to snowboard and once posted a picture of his name written in urine on the beach at dawn. there is the cousin that im not sure how im related too that changed his last name to X, recently. seriously, like malcom x. im not sure what the meaning behind it was. there is the cousin with the big mouth who always tries to call but we never see each other and she barely ever post so our meager friendship is waning. there are a bunch of aunts who i avoid like the plague. and perhaps there are more im not even aware of yet.

facebook is a strange connector. it serves its purpose to some extent. i find it strange that even family members of mine are so distant even with this great technology bringing us together. oh well. just dont poke me.

what can you do?

2011-03-13T01:45:00.004-05:00

i can do a lot of things.
i can sleep in late.
i can ponder a dawn or a dusk.
i can find a phrase and turn it.
i can work every hour of the day.
i can be too cold.
i can be too hot.
i can strip and be naked or have a sweater near by just in case.
i can go without sleep for days on end.
i can figure out why you should or you shouldnt.
i can stray upright after a shot and a spike.
i can drink you under the table.
i can read your bones and tell you how old you are.
i can have my heart broken make it break your heart.
i can be the shoulder you cry upon.
i can find us food know matter what time it is.
i can give you advice even if you dont need it.
i can give you advice if you do.
i can sort through your tunes and make a good playlist.
i can make you feel good about yourself.
i can make the day scream mercy.
but what i cant do is
ride a mountain bike down the streets of Uruguay without shitting myself.
and that dude did.
bravo.
link courtesy of busblog

kung fu theater

2011-03-09T12:43:00.002-05:00

of all the people to get me into kung fu movies as a kid, i never would have thought it would be my grandmother, but thinking back to it now, it was her and no one else.

its not that she was a woman too gentle to be entertained by the art of combat, in fact, she was a stern lady that, as the creases folded more on her face, had a fight inside that matured with her. a woman who could grow cross at any moment and who, although filled with a cold, distant love, inspired a slight fear in everyone she met. so after considering her more, it makes sense she would be the one who sat me down every sunday afternoon and while writing in her recipe book or stitching a piece of clothing, watched the four hour block of martial arts flicks that the local stations promised us.

every sunday after morning mass we would all come home in one of grandfathers large luxury sedans. i would race to the kitchen and pour myself a bowl of cheerios with a pile of sugar on top, then eat it while watching the remaining cartoons on television. when they were over i would go upstairs and climb from my church clothes, still stiff from being ironed that morning, and get into my jeans or a pair of shorts, then pull on a tshirt.

when i would get back downstairs she would be sitting in the large easy chair closest to the tv, under the portrait of a dying jesus christ, with her hands already busy and the tv tuned to the station. one of my aunts might be there too, adjusting her glasses in anticipation or buried in a book, waiting for the fights to start. id lay on my stomach facing the tv and like the rest of them, i would begin to wait.

my grandfather would never be there, he'd be off working with his hands, involved in his own wars. and most of my aunts would be off enjoying the weekends final hours with friends or other family members. the quiet hustle and bustle of a large family would fill the background with a pleasant din, but id be focused on the tv. id be waiting for the scratchy horns that signaled the beginning of Kung Fu Theater, the mix up of colors that alerted the viewer that the show was about to start. it was always the same, and the movies would sometimes be repeats. there seemed to be a finite collection of 70's kung fu movies but i loved every single one of them. so did my grandmother.

during the show i would get up and try to imitate the moves i saw on screen. for me, it was like a training camp, the movies were my sen sei, my teacher, and i was the student learning the art of kung fu. i think i figured if i watched enough of them id be a martial arts master eventually. and lord knows i tried to become one. but every afternoon, like clockwork, id get too rowdy and start distracting my grandmother and she would hiss at me to sit down before i broke something, so i did. perhaps if she would have never interrupted my training id have become a regular Bruce lee. who knows?

i only bring this up because recently i saw a movie called Ip Man. i dont watch kung fu movies much these days, but i will go ahead and declare that it is one of the best ones ive seen in years. if you like kung fu flicks, check it out. it delivers.

casper

2011-03-07T12:37:00.003-05:00

i ran across a lot of people back when we were raving. our apartment was a halfway house for almost every raver in san francisco at the time. there was rarely ever a point when it was just the flatmates there. the doorbell stayed ringing and we stayed answering it. in the morning i would step over young and exhausted bodies, burned out from the night before and the night before that, piles of human ash and stain. strange faces greeted me when i got home, most were oblivious that they were even in someone elses house. i could hardly keep track of everyones name and im sure only half of them knew mine.

one name i did remember was casper, though. he had been over a times and was a fixture on the scene. there was nothing remarkable about how he looked or dressed. he was an average white kid form the suburbs of california that always wore a hat and never had a jacket. i have one distinct memory of him sitting cross legged on the floor in one of our rooms, his eyes closed and his neck rolling in rhythm with the music playing. we were no doubt on drugs but he seemed to be simultaneously in control while being lost at the same time. it was mysterious. i was fascinated by him. he was strange in an impressive way, like an artist that had yet to find his medium. we sat there alone in the room, both of us not speaking, listening to a mix tape and dancing in place.

at one point he mumbled something and i asked him what he said and when he repeated it i still didnt understand but nodded my head in agreement anyway.

its been forever since i thought of him and what ever became of him. i assumed he moved back to the suburbs and tried becoming whatever it is he was aiming to become. i suppose i was half right.

this is what he did over the weekend.

i didnt know his name was chris until i read the article. its sad to think this is where hes at and its even sadder to think its not surprising. but such is life. we all made our choices and we all meandered down our paths and sometimes the rut we dig ourselves into is one we cant get out of. that dot on the map that tells us "we are here" is sometimes in the most awful place.

i think its time he made a change.

form and function

2011-03-04T12:31:00.002-05:00

if anyone is reading this and you were a fan of electronic music in the 90's then you should probably listen to Benji b's show on radio 1 this week.

well, you should probably listen to benji b's show every week, but this week especially.

its a retrospective of photek, the legendary drum n bass soldier from the even more legendary Metalheadz crew. the first hour is all his old classics from the heyday of cut up drums and gut rattling low ends.

listen to it for nostalgia or listen to it for the tunes or listen to it because your interested in what the good stuff sounded like when the good stuff was being played and made.

i never got too into drum n bass, i was a house music fan, but that doesnt mean i couldnt appreciate a good tune. and photek made nothing but good tunes in those days. he would chop up his drums in the most clever way, being simultaneously spare while still filling every void. he used other worldy sounds that seemed to be beaming into your head from a distant galaxy where they had more colors than us and the air was always clean.

i remember i saw him at the justice league in san francisco when that club was the center of the universe and he played a set that tore off everyones ears. i left that night and the next day went to a record store and bought about five photek singles and a photek album. they all delivered and i still have them on my shelf.

but the thing to do in drum n bass was to play dubplates before they ever got released. it was very serious business. you couldnt be a drum n bass dj and just be playing the tunes that came out that week. they were already old. the crowd took this very seriously. i always wondered if this practice helped be the downfall of the genre. how can you ever be a good d n b dj without being able to just buy the tunes first. how could you ever be cool enough?

these days photek lives in los angeles instead of london and he makes house and dubstep instead of drum n bass. i dont follow him much anymore but hes still revered by electronic music standards. maybe ill check out some of his new stuff. maybe it will still move me, have me sitting in front of the speakers asking how did he do that?

check out benji b

early riser

2011-03-03T11:29:00.003-05:00

ive been waking up earlier and earlier. soon ill be rising with the sun and the disappearing cold. greeted by the warming sky, a breakfast of bird chirps.

this is good. my biggest complaint about living has been there just isnt enough hours in the day. and i knew this was my own doing, that i was sleeping away the time i need, that i was wasting the time i had.

id been told before that i should just wake up early but im a stubborn one that scoffs at advice and always has an arsenal of excuses on why i cant live any other way than the way im living.

but the solution was obvious and even though i turned a blind eye to it i guess sometimes the solution just folds into you.

first i began waking up an hour before i used to, these days i find myself waking up two hours before i used to. if this pattern keeps up ill be waking three hours before i used to and then the only option will be to finish work earlier and have more room to breathe.

i still lay in bed for a half hour or so before i actually get up. this way the dreams have faded and the worry has simmered and the day is a little more clear as i climb into uniform.

it also gives me time to just jot down a few words every morning before i begin to do that which has to be done.

and it gives me a little more time to think. a little more time to find my place in the matter.

bags

2011-03-02T14:00:00.002-05:00

when it rains it pours and from the looks of it, a storm is brewing.

or perhaps its here and im soaked to the bone, so wet i cant get any wetter. and i dont feel it falling upon me anymore. is that a good or a bad thing?

and ive been through enough to know this storm will pass. the winds will push it behind me, or carry it forward where it will patiently wait.

ive had to make adjustments in myself recently. in life we reach crossroads and when you go down one road you cant go down the other. a sacrifice had to be made and sometimes those sacrifices can fill your heart with loss. this was one of those sacrifices. one for the greater good. one that threatens to stay, that you may carry with you for a long time.

and it isnt as if i dont carry with me the burdens of my past, but ive learned to cope with them, to fit them into places where they only teach me instead of beat me.

but the decision to take on this loss grinded my head into the dirt. i was shredded and lost it for a bit. and in the process of this burden i created another loss. and it seems too much to lose at one time. but perhaps this is how things were supposed to play out.

i dont make the rules and i dont think anyone else does either, they are just what they are. there is no divine parent wagging their finger at you. no ethereal force sending you signs.

its tough but right now a lot has been taken out of me. even my words are simple and plain. the words will come back though. they always do. they always do.

march of the martini

2011-03-01T12:22:00.004-05:00

its been two weeks, maybe more, since i last smoked weed. this is less of an accomplishment than i thought, as it has come quite easy, but the novelty of it is hardly lost on me.

i was a daily smoker for many years. too many to count or admit. the first few years i was what you could consider a stoner, and i mean that in the most literal sense. smoking weed was part of my identity. i wore shirts with pot paraphernalia, hung posters on my wall that displayed my allegiance to the leaf, would bond with strangers based solely on our shared habit, and could smoke all day until i passed out. i hung around a group of kids that were also stoners, and found those that didnt smoke nervous squares, cowards of modern society. i would get excited when, in films, characters would smoke weed. i would feel a special connection to them, as if they were written that way for my benefit. when movies would come out that used smoking as a pillar of plot development, id be first in line to see them, and id be the first to point out any inaccuracies in how they practiced it, as if i were an expert. of course, all songs that were about weed i immediately liked, and would add to my soundtrack to play while having a session. i was dedicated to smoking. it gave me purpose.

then i got older and i grew out of appearing like a smoker, of letting myself be defined by weed. i didnt smoke any less, but i took down my posters and rarely wore my pot themed clothes. some of my friends went further into the character, eventually turning into hippies, and i still hung out with them but we werent as close as before. i wasnt a stoner, i was just a smoker. id begun to cling to other drugs anyway, so no one substance could be my legend. still, i smoked all day, almost every day. waking up to a bong load and passing out with a spliff in my mouth. my roomates sold weed at the time, so it was always in abundance. i didnt think anything of it, it was just something i did. something everyone did. it wasnt a way of life, it was just another part of it.

back then smoking had a few different effects on me. sometimes it would inspire me. i would get these unorthodox thoughts or poetic sensations. it would help me think through my dj sets, sometimes mixing records in my head before i even put them on the turntables. when i ate food i would devour it, absolutely ravenous by the time it hit my lips. and sometimes it would calm me down and help me forget my worries. it was, without a doubt, a helper, not a hinderer.

as i got older and my responsibilities grew, i smoked less (much to my chagrin). i had learned that, no matter how beneficial i thought weed was, i got spacey when i was high. and being that i worked a high pressure job that i didnt want to lose, i had to stop smoking during the day. i couldnt be blanking out at my desk if i got an important call from someone. then i began school, so i had to push my smoking time back to even later in the evening, because studying or writing, although doable while stoned, wasnt the best way to get an A. my papers would get too creative, and i wouldnt retain as much of my reading. i got used to this, and smoking at night before i went to sleep became a pleasurable habit. it helped me to unwind, and it made getting to sleep easier.

then i got even older, and my brain became filled with all the worries of the world. i still smoked only at night, but not just because of school or work, but because i would start to panic if i smoked during the day. i would grow concerned about bills, about deadlines, about ambitions. i would let an impending sense of doom suffocate me, and want to curl up in a fetal position instead of doing anything else. id always thought i was the kind of person who would never let weed make me paranoid, but i suppose life wound me up, and unwinding was just harder to do.

recently, with everything in my head and heart, i just havent wanted to smoke. it frightens me, what ill think of were i to get stoned. i dont want to panic, or get angry, or worst of all, grow sad. so im taking a break. i have a few drinks and the solace of silence. its working so far, and ive even begun to get up earlier in the day. i will probably pick up the habit again, but it'll be much more infrequent, and ill probably only want to do it while on vacation. this is reasonable. i dont dislike weed, at all. i just dont love it anymore.

emergency meeting

2011-02-27T12:08:00.003-05:00

we have an emergency staff meeting today. the boss texted all of us twice about it. once yesterday afternoon and once this morning. i guess she wanted to make sure we got the message. i have to work today anyway, so its not as if i would have missed it. but its not as if i want to go to it either.

i know what its about, shes going out of town for a few weeks and is nervous about leaving the bar in our hands. fair enough. we are a competent group but we all let things get a little casual every so often. so she will have to go over the things we are and we arent to be doing.

we shouldnt be giving away liquor. this is obvious, but in our environment sometimes the lines are blurred. its easy to just give away a beer from the tap, or a drink from the well. its a courtesy, but sometimes it gets out of hand. i know there have been times where a friend or a pretty girl has sat at the bar, gotten shit faced drunk, and ive only charged them for a few things. of course, this leads to the fact that we are drinking as well [or at least i am], and the sense of judgement gets scrambled, and the job goes second behind having a good time. obviously, when shes gone, this cant happen. we cant be getting drunk and we cant be getting people drunk for free. this should go without saying, yet it needs to be said. ive actually learned how to not buy too many drinks for people. there is a way around it, while still taking care of the customer. its mostly going to be a matter of me not drinking as much, which i shouldnt be doing anyway.

we have to be aware of the health department, and make sure all our bases are covered in terms of keeping the bar clean. this is really important because we are due for an inspection soon. a few bars in the neighborhood have been hit recently, one of them receiving a low grade, which they have to prominently display on their front window. thats not, as we say, "a good look." so the water in the sink should be hot and the fruit should be free of any signs of flies. the bar should not be sticky and the towels should not be covered in grime. we must make sure the bottles are all capped so no bugs crawl in looking for the sugar. the thermometers in the fridge should be at state assigned temps. no spoiled milk. no spoiled juices.

the regulars need to be checked so that there are no shenanigans. no getting to rowdy or making a scene. no heated conversations that may scare of the other customers. voices at a reasonable level. no invasive behavior. hands to themselves.

and as for me, i need to find the focus to make sure it all runs smoothly. at least on my watch.

greater good

2011-02-24T12:55:00.002-05:00

laying down on the cold surface with your shirt off and your pants off and wearing a paper gown with no back to it. waiting. listening to the whirr of the machine as it grinds itself into power. the ticka tacka ticka tacka of it working, of it studying you, looking inside, at your bones. searching for the poisons that are eating away at your blood and muscles and infecting your organs. you are surrounded by the machine and the noise is loud and miserable. ticka tacka ticka tacka. it is like a panic exploding in your head. you try to be patient but cant wait for it to be over. even if it is for the greater good.

***************************

you take her to the vet to get blood work and the secretary says they will call you in a couple days when the results are back. you coddle her in your arms instead of putting her in a cage. the air is cold and her fur is thin and matted but still feels warm on your cheek. you whisper in her ear that it will be ok. everything will be ok. when you get home you place her on the bed and go to the kitchen to get her food. after pouring it in the bowl you go back to your bedroom, where she still lies. hushed and unmoving. her eyes blinking slowly. she wont eat. she hasnt eaten in days. this is the end. you know it. before the vet calls back you call the vet and make an appointment. you have to put her down. you have to put her out of her misery.

**************************

hungry

2011-02-22T11:44:00.003-05:00

everyone calls him Hungry. at least those that know him do. i dont call him anything really, save maybe generic titles of recognition when i have to tell him to get out from in front of the bar. its not good to have him in front of the bar, and its especially bad to have him in it. so when he comes around i keep an eye out so that he doesnt start to linger too long. its just bad for business.

i used to always see him on eastern parkway, near grand army plaza, waiting at the corner for traffic to stop so that he could approach the car windows and solicit for money. i usually dont pay this much attention but i noticed he always wore a different set of clothes, he didnt much look like a homeless person. he looked like a guy that took showers, had a roof, and housed a wardrobe of decent threads. i couldnt tell if he made enough begging for change to do all this, or if he just did it for the hell of it. i didnt think to hard about it though. i would just walk by and look curiously.

then i started seeing him on his bicycle a lot. he would be riding around the neighborhood, saying whats up to people while going or coming. this is how i found out his name was hungry. a friend told me that he grew up in the neighborhood, that he was addicted to drugs, that he lived with his mother. it made sense.

after a while he stopped posting up at grand army plaza, id only see him on his bike. i wondered if he had found another place to solicit money, a more profitable corner. winter came and he started to sport a big black coat. i noticed his clothes didnt change as often too.

he'd drop his bike on the ground and walk into the store next door. he'd say hello to everyone, addressing them as Fam'. he even tried to get on my good graces a few times, seeing as we recognized each others from the area. i was steely though, i nodded to him but at the same time my face was impenetrable. i wouldnt allow him to think we were friends, that could just be dangerous.

he started getting jittery. youre not looking so good, Hungry, my friend said to him. he just laughed a wild, unhinged laugh and said, i'm alright fam. his hat was dirty and his clothes were getting dirtier and he started getting a crook in his body, as if he was always bent to the side. his shirts became oversized, even more oversized than the fashion warranted, and his pants grew baggier. they looked like they would fall off.

over the course of a year id seen him decay, but he never completely went under. he still wore a smile and still said hello to everybody. he still rode his bike around the hood. he just got thinner, more brittle, and the dirt upon him grew. his smile, which was always there, got blacker and more crooked, and his eyes became glassier and less aware.

the other day he came into the bar. we were closing but there were still a few people in there. when me and the barback saw him we both groaned and rolled our eyes. he walked to teh corner and plugged in a cell phone that im positive wasnt even on. he danced a bit in place, as if hearing loud music in his head. i stared at him while wiping down the bar. finally he turned to me and with that crooked smile said, lemme get a shot, fam.

no, i said, were closed.

he smiled even wider and said, ok i get it fam. hey, you want to buy a bike?

i looked outside where his bike was leaned up against the wall. i wondered how he would get around without it. it was a nice bike.

no, im good, i said.

a'ight fam, holla at me, he said. then he unplugged his phone and walked out. i looked around to see if he had left anything or taken anything, but there was nothing in that corner. as he left i could hear the swishing of his arms in that big black coat, which engulfed him almost entirely. it was cold outside, maybe 20 degrees in the wind. he got on his bike and rode away.

what was that about? my barback asked.

nothing, i said, guy just wanted a drink.

navigating the chasm

2011-02-21T14:14:00.004-05:00

the art of being alone is a delicate one. Americans that practice the craft usually suffer from the inevitable side effects, some more than others, and that can get dangerous. but it is something that is inevitable chosen, no matter how much the lonely try to spin it in a way that blames the rest of the world on their solitude. being alone takes a certain degree of courage, of self hatred, and of focus. probably the only ones that are alone that transcend these petty traits, which are centered around the ego, are monks. they are masters in the medium of loneliness.

monks are, of course, usually not american. i speak of the monks that perch themselves on mountains and let their mind go blank and release their desires into the wind. those are the only monks i really know of; those holier than though individuals who wear long dull robes and shave their head bald. monks who rarely, if ever, speak, and never feel the need to. these monks are beyond the trappings of our society, they have no reason to hate commercials or love popular music or wonder why their pants feel tighter than usual. these monks are never bothered if no one calls them all day, they dont anticipate a response from a text they've sent, they could care less if someone doesnt return the affection they give. to them, it isnt about wanting. wanting is for the weak.

but we are americans, and to want is practically all we know. we are wrapped up in our desires. we want to see that movie or wear that shirt. we want a pay raise and to be respected. we want to look like the people that seem to have everything. we want to be thrown surprise parties where all our friends are there waiting for us in the dark and when the lights turn on we want to actually be surprised and feel the rush of joy and elation and the swelling up of tears because we are so lucky to have friends like this; so lucky to be loved. we want to be left romantic notes from secret admirers. we want to get handmade gifts on our birthdays. we want to be looked at from across a room. we want to be wanted.

when we dont get these things, when it seems we cant get anything we want, we feel as if we are defeated. we feel as if life has cheated us out of a decent existence. as if the universe and all its celestial bodies have conspired against our happiness, and what we are left with is the empty vessel of our bodies. running with blood, filling up with oxygen, feeling only the intellectual pain of abstract misfortune. this, of course, is a privileged sensation. especially when it comes to material items. we dont necessarily deserve all the things we want. in fact, most of the things we want are equal to the meaninglessness of us wanting them. but when it comes to being alone, that is a different story.

it is two different beast, wanting companionship as opposed to wanting a thing. companionship—at least genuine companionship—can not be procured at will. it cant be bought, it cant be borrowed. without a doubt, for some people, even if they have nothing to show, no material items to exhibit, if they have the love of someone else, they can feel content in the world. they can feel fulfilled. some would argue that all you need is love. some would even sing a song about it. but that is where the art lies and the question arises, do you need love? is that really all you need? and to go further, aside from sustenance and protection from the elements, what really do you need?

well, obviously being intellectual primates—especially the american, who lives in a society where those who are most loved are deified by the media, which has been deified by us—being wanted by another is the ultimate goal. and in a culture where this is the oil that runs our network, to feel unwanted is to feel as if there is nothing to live for. and the art is living here, in this space, in this void. of navigating the chasm between nothing and wanting.

for many this will drive them insane. and to the rest, if they are ok with it, they already are insane. we see them as hermits, potential serial killers, social retards and weirdos. the irony of seeing them in this manner, is that is just helps cultivate their loneliness, and as i stated earlier. you must chose to be lonely. because no one has to be.

i am not good at this art. it is not my craft. i realized this long ago, and grew what you can call a talent for meeting people, for being social. but right now i feel lonely. right now i feel unwanted. it is, as i am well aware, a passing feeling, but i wanted to explore it a bit, because if i cant be comfortable being alone i probably will never be comfortable at all. i think that i actually equate loneliness with loss, and to me, the worst thing in the world is a heart filled up with loss. but i know i havent lost anything, deep down i know this. sure, there is a profound desire in me to feel wanted. by the world, by my circle, by certain individuals. but i know that im not that special, that im a regular guy with reasonable good looks, a modest intelligence, and a decent demeanor. so i dont need a bunch of shit, i just need to accept that sometimes, in this life, i am not the most vital cog. that in the mean time, i can just write. that nothing is wrong with that.

oh, i just got a text from a friend who wants to go have some drinks. guess ill write more later.

2011-02-19T00:03:00.002-05:00

i gotta cut down on smoking. its not just for my health, its for my entire being. my health i do care about, but its almost secondary to the fact that i consciously have begun to realize i smoke too much. i do it out of habit. i do it out of addiction. i do it out of boredom. i do it out of anxiety. i find myself smoking cigarette after cigarette even when i dont want a cigarette. my hands just motion to the bag, an almost involuntary act, and without even noticing ill have a freshly rolled cigarette between my lips. the flame ignites the tip. im blowing out smoke again. over and over. too much.

and too much of anything is an inevitable disaster.

my face hasnt gotten leathery, my gums arent black or brown. my lungs, im sure, are a measly beige color, but according to my last check up im in no danger or anything. i do cough a lot, but i attribute that to nerves and drinking. and im sure i am stuffier than id normally be, but i was always a sufferer of congestion, even before the pack took hold.

its not like im totally going to quit, at least not yet, but i need to cut down.

waiting for the light to change

2011-02-15T13:40:00.003-05:00

it was night and the strip grew sparse, much more sparse then i ever thought it could get. i could walk freely on the sidewalk without even taking a small step to the side to avoid anyone oncoming. the sky was dark but the stars were hidden in the luminescent glow of all the signs and advertisements. it was just a deep blackness with no end. i was alone and wanted to be alone and i had decided to keep walking until i was too tired to walk anymore.

it had to be 3am by this point and my head was still buzzing from the events of just a few hours before. my skin still crawled with excitement. i had my hands in my pockets and shivered in the warm wind. the ringing of slot machines lifted out onto the street but here was no longer any romance in their jungle. there was just the cold metallic song and the promises that were never kept. there was just the faces left before them, waiting for the prize.

i walked into a casino and sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. the people around me were no longer tourist. the anxious air of vacationers had dulled into a faint scent. what was left was the simmering desperation of career gamblers and the perfume of hungry prostitutes. there were a few drunken out of towners at the craps table, flanked by hookers in short dresses and thick make up. the dealers stood with wary eyes, no doubt counting the seconds on their internal clock, waiting for the shift to be over.

i sipped my beer and then my whiskey. i didnt want to gamble, im not much of a gambler, but i still took a seat at one of the slot machines and put in a ten dollar bill and lit up a cigarette while i watched the night grow thin. a few young men walked in on rubbery legs and drunken grins and a man in a suit with salt and pepper hair counted a wad of money and then put it down on the table where the most action was.

i finished my beer and walked back out into the street. the whiskey and beer had warmed me up, i could feel it in my blood, moving through my veins, settling into my stomach. i had a light jacket on and the weather had dropped a few degrees. i couldnt tell how long id sat at the slot machine, but i didnt win any money and hadnt expected to. i looked out onto the horizon of the strip and saw where the lights ended and the dark endless desert began. i walked towards it. i wanted to be alone and i was alone and i was going to keep walking until i couldnt anymore.

mistakes of the young

2011-02-13T12:26:00.003-05:00

i remember the first time i thought i was in love. to be honest, i dont even think i knew what being in love was back then, so maybe it was just the first time i ever got physically sick over a girl. where she affected me so profoundly, i felt it in my guts. perhaps this was simply a crush, but i think i had had one or two crushes by then. this was strong though, a memorable one. it left a scar.

it was a girl named Anitra and we were in third grade. she was a thin, light skinned girl with huge brown eyes and a perpetual half smile. she sat in two desk from the front of the class, surrounded by her giggling friends. i was on the opposite end, near the back of the class, next to a tall gangly girl who always raised her hand to answer questions and always got the answer wrong.

i didnt even speak to Anitra much less pay her much attention, but i suppose during a recess or a lunch break she noticed me at some point, because her friend one day approached me in the yard and asked if i had a girlfriend. i said no and she pointed to Anitra who stood nervously near a jungle gym peeking from the side of her eye at us, the girl said -do you want her to be your girlfriend?

i was a very shy kid, and i imagine i blushed a brilliant red before nodding absently. i didnt know who Anitra was but i liked two things about her immediately: that she was pretty and seemed unaware of it, and that she liked me. it would have been impossible for me to say no. never before had a girl been interested in me, at least that i was aware of, and it was obvious to me then, that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. i didnt know what a girlfriend and boyfriend did, but i knew what a couple was. i had seem them on tv.

the girl then went back to Anitra and said something to her and Anitra looked up at me and waved. i waved back. this was our first act as boyfriend/girlfriend. it went successfully. then the bell rang and we went back to class,

like i mentioned, i was a shy kid, so in class i snuck glances at her when she wasnt looking and then when i saw she was, i would pretend i was paying attention to something else. the graffiti on my desk, the blackboard, the teacher, the cursive alphabet that lined the top of the class walls. with every glance i snuck though, she grew more and more alluring. the way her braids were always so tight and perfect, the way the beads made a two color uniformed pattern that dangled at the ends of hair. her unusually long eyelashes and how she seemed to always blink and they would swing up and down like huge wings from her eyelids. her curious half smile and the way she would giggle with her friends. covering her mouth with her skinny hand to hide her amusement from the teacher. there was a confidence about her, a comfort in her skin without it being arrogant. by the end of the first day a full crush had formed in my heart. i couldnt wait to go home and think about her all night in the quiet of my bedroom.

the next day at school we met up in the yard again, this time both of us face to face. we said all of three words to one another and i cant remember what any of them were. i just recall standing and leaning against a wall and looking at the ground and her looking at the ground and us both smiling but not doing much of anything else. we were together. thats what counted. we were showing the world that we were two and not one.

there was another guy in our class named raymond. he had a supreme confidence about him. tall and good looking and housing manly qualities even at out tender age. he also was amazing at sketching things on paper. his most famous piece being a spitting image depiction of michael jackson on the cover to the Human Nature single. everyone liked raymond, even me, though we never spoke. he was one of the most popular kids in our school, even though he was only in third grade. i admired him greatly, and when he began to pay attention to Anitra in our class i was more jealous that she was friends with him than i was that he was talking to her.

i admit, i played it all wrong, but i was too shy and too nervous to play it any other way. i never let our relationship develop beyond those awkward moments, standing together in the yard. i never spoke much. i never held her hand. i never even attempted to get to know her further than what i already did, which wasnt much at all. at one point, even her friends tried to push us closer together, and typical in my failure with girls, i shyly ran away. evading her and her friends for the entire recess period. i didnt realize it then, but this was my downfall. i expected her to make all the moves, to force the issue a bit, to pull a better boyfriend out of me. it was the beginning of establishing a pattern of passive stances in my relationships. one i should have learned from but didnt. do i ever learn anything?

i should have known that raymond was going to one day spend a recess with her. he, unlike me, openly spoke to her in class. he was hardly shy about it and i couldnt blame him. he had the adoration of most everyone in the school, and could impress her with his sketches and doodles while still being one of the smartest people in class. what put it over the top though, was when he made a sketch of her. it was gorgeous. completely capturing her beauty while still evoking her shy, humble manner. even i, burning with jealousy (now of him and not if her) had to admit it was a remarkable portrait. so that afternoon, when i saw them standing together during recess, it wasnt a shock so much as an expected turn of events.

they stood there, her looking nervous and awkward like she usually did, and him standing next to her, moving his hands in a fluid, animated fashion, telling her something no doubt charming and clever. i was too much of a pussy to even walk over and take my position next to them, next to her, on the wall. i just looked from afar, a sickness building in my stomach, the sadness of loss swelling up in my chest. i spent that recess staring at them while sitting on the stairs fiddling with my food, not eating at all. i knew that the very next day the same scene would occur and again i would be helpless to it. i let myself go to the nature of things. the erosion of our minor affair. the inevitable distance and the silent break.

of course i didnt know how much i felt for her until after she was gone. this is how things go usually. you are left with the emotions you have but never knew were there. the sting of defeat lingers long after the race is over. i didnt want to go home even though i knew i would have to. and i would sit and think of her all night in the quiet of my bedroom.

2011-02-12T13:24:00.002-05:00

i have a nine o'clock science class. thats in the morning, not at night. an ungodly hour for an ungodly class. and its on saturday to boot.

its a requirement for undergrads. part of our core. but everyone in my school is either a liberal arts major or an education major, so no one really cares. even the professor, a nervous old man who dresses as if he shops at a store that sells only the tweediest of jackets and the starchiest white shirts, know thats no one is interested in what hes teaching. none of us plan to be scientist, and the course work is so elementary that if we did, it would be a long and slow road before we were making any headway in the scientific world.

but i have to go, and the only time they offered it was at nine am on saturday [there was a tuesday and even monday class as well, but my schedule wouldnt permit me to enroll in those classes]. the thing is, i have molded my life around a late wake up. the earliest i get up these days is ten am, and thats on the rare occasion i have to be somewhere or there is a meeting i couldnt schedule for noon or after. now i not only have an early class, but i have to BE there at nine, which means i have to get up at eight!

i realize this woe is me attitude deserves no sympathy whatsoever. a great majority of people get up much earlier than that. my schedule, i recognize, is rather luxurious. im just complaining [ive been whining a lot lately, i think my vagina is on the fritz]. but its still hard on me. especially considering its only one day a week, not everyday, which would establish a routine i could get used to.

anyway, i just wanted to get up and write a little. and i had nothing to write about. my class was canceled today because of Lincoln's birthday [yet another thing i can thank Lincoln for] so i decided to get a little writing done before i began my day.

carry on.

another morning

2011-02-11T12:17:00.003-05:00

the black cat is lying by my side when i wake, curled up in the fold of my crooked position. he stretches his arms out and unsheathes his claws and pulls at the blanket ever so gently. our eyes lock and he blinks. good morning, says the curse.

good morning.

i put on some coffee and pull on a sweater. my bones feel brittle and my veins filled with dust. i can tell my feelings will be hurt today. i pull on a sweater and head to the store. the curse needs to be fed.

outside the wind is cold and still. the streets are empty and the traffic partial. there is no screaming and no sirens. there are no limping bodies blanketed in dirty coats, eyeing you for change or stumbling from the liquor store. no buses crunching along the month old snow. no young men in dark hoodies standing on the corner. i get the food and a beer and shuffle back to my building. i check my mailbox and there is nothing in it. there are no neighbors smoking in the hallway. no smells of cooking lingering in the air. no voices coming from the doors as i climb the stairs to my apartment.

i open the beer after i finish my coffee and turn on my computer. i check my email but no one has bothered to reach out. just anonymous spammers and invites to events ill never attend. i take a healthy swig from the bottle and an even healthier drag from a cigarette. in the rising smoke of my exhale i see impending doom. the black cat crawls into my lap, this will be my demise, i whisper to him, stroking his fur. he purrs.

i go downstairs and check the mail again. nothing. something breaks inside of me but i cant tell if it is my spirit or my heart. the hallway is quiet and cold. i go back up to my apartment.

inside i open another beer and after the first sip i begin to cough. it happens in a series of huge, racking shudders and for a moment i think that this is it. then it stops and i stand there in the wake of another episode. the black cat comes and rubs his body against my ankles, circling my feet in a figure eight. i can tell my feelings will be hurt today.

work day

2011-02-09T14:02:00.003-05:00

he would come over early, before i was even awake, and be sitting by my bed when my eyes finally opened. it was never startling, for a person like him this was typical behavior. he probably hadnt slept the night before. to be honest, i dont remember how i would get to sleep each night, with all the crystal meth we were doing at the time. i suppose i drank myself to sleep. maybe i took a pill or something. i cant remember. i know i didnt eat though.

id get out of bed and stand and stretch in my underwear and he would be sitting there leafing through my records anxiously. before i could even rub the sleep from my eyes he would point to a cd case where a few rails were already lined up. id take one half up the left nostril, the other half up the right, and snort down the burn and swallow the drip. it was such a familiar sensation, pleasant at the time, that im sure it wasnt just the amphetamines that woke me up, but the excitement of the process that got me going. back then there was no such thing as bad speed, even the most unsavory of or friends could find some proper glass.

i would grab a towel and head for the shower and while in the shower get a good narration going in my head. a fury of words and phrases that sometimes stuck but mainly just rolled by. when i would get back to my room he would be on my decks, the sun just emerging from the early morning fog and the light spilling onto all the ash and dust, letting two records collide into a clever third song. id do another line and get dressed for work. without speaking he'd rail up a few more. fuel for the wicked before the doldrums began.

his car smelled of old beer and perfume. i couldnt smoke in it because he didnt smoke, so when we would stop at a store to grab a few forty ouncers id just give him my money and stand on the corner, sucking down nicotine until he came back. by the time we got to work a reasonable buzz was going we were ready to begin the day.

id sign in and then do some early paperwork. i was the export manager to the warehouse so i had to get all my packages out by two o'clock. at noon we would take a lunch break but we would never eat, we'd go get a couple more forties and then park on a hill overlooking the airport. id sit on the hood of his car taking heavy swigs from the bottle and chain smoking as the planes took off and landed at SFO international. when the hour was almost up we'd do a couple more lines off of a cd on his dashboard and then drive back to the warehouse more buzzed then before.

he would tell me about the old days of clubbing in new york, back when the big clubs were fraught with drugs and the djs took their craft seriously. we both agreed that san francisco was where it was at but that soon new york would reclaim its title as the place to be. i believed every word he said, even the most absurd stories, because i knew he was capable of anything. he was a god damn nut case, consuming every drug in sight and letting the world know he didnt care what it thought. it was surprising that he had such a belly, considering all the drugs we did. i was about ten pounds underweight and no amount of beer would ever gather up to give me pudge. he though, wore a heavy armor of fat on his body and face, it just made him all the more unstoppable.

at the end of the work day we would meet at the parking lot with an armful of stolen records in hand. id smoke a cigarette before i climbed in and then we'd do another line before taking off. when we got back into the city we would get another round of forties but he'd just drop me off and go home to his girlfriend. i forget what i would do. i just know it would all start again the next morning.

baby steps

2011-02-07T14:18:00.000-05:00

It is like walking into the ocean. First standing at the shore and letting the water drift up and touch your toes. Looking down at your feet as they sink into the wet sand and watching the waves curl into crashes, finding which one will be the one that reaches you. Taking a step forward and letting the water wash up to your ankles and spreading your toes and letting sand creep between them. Looking back to see if your mother is watching and she sits there eating a salami and cheese sandwich and waves at you and smiles.

The dim sun above just settled in the sky. Taking another step forward into the cold water and your knees knocking and your teeth chattering. Looking out into the sea and there is nothing but the empty grey horizon. The water rushing up past your shins and its ice cold but your feet are ok. They are warm by this time. They are used to it.

Behind you she is smoking a cigarette and staring up into the sky, lost in thought. The crumpled paper bag lay next to her and she has taken off her shoes and dug her feet into the beach. She looks so content and alone that you want to run back to her and throw your arms around her neck and say something, anything, to make her smile again.

The water lifts up to your thighs and you stop and shiver. In the distance, like a speck, is a boat you just noticed. It has no sails and simply sits, floating against the falling sky. You look back so you can point it out to her and she is digging in her purse and doesn’t look at you. She looks so small in the great white bed of sand that you can hardly make out what she has pulled from her bag but then when you see the plume of smoke rising up from her head you realize it was a cigarette. This comforts you.

When it gets to your waist you wonder if you should turn back. Goose pimples cover your arms and chest and the muscles in your stomach tighten. You hold your breath. Your legs are ok, they too, have finally gotten used to it. They aren’t warm but they are no longer freezing. You are in a spot where waves crash behind you and before you but where you stand the water just swirls slowly, pushed too and fro by the great weight of the earth.

She has lain on the towel and is reading a paperback book. The wind is beginning to kick up the edges of the towel. It flaps against her knees but she doesn’t care or at least pretends she doesn’t care. You can no longer see your feet in the dark water. Waves swell up and fold against your chest. You take a deep breath and lift up, drifting with the tide for a moment before feeling your toes touch the soft ground again.

You take one last look to see if she is watching you. Her book is on her breast and it heaves with her breath and you cant tell if she is sleeping or just watching time change in the sky. Waves slowly break at your neck, tickling your chin. The boat throbs on the horizon. There is no turning back. You inhale as much air as you can and dive.

about to crack

2011-02-02T22:18:00.003-05:00

the steps were dark and icy and almost hidden in the nights limited light. i was on the phone and i was talking to a person i dont remember anymore. a person lost in the waters of yesterday. i was taking the steps slow and gingerly. the phone was on my ear and a voice was coming from the receiver. i forget what the voice was saying.

it wasnt that id gotten a new job. one that paid me a comfortable sum monthly, and offered full health benefits. that didnt demand all my time nor bore me with tedium. and that positioned its self in my schedule with humble generosity, only asking that the duties at hand get done, but at my leisure, of course. it wasnt that there was something inspiring about to occur, or that something inspiring had already occurred. there was no new sensations to be explored. no reason to get excited. it wasnt about anything of great significance, if it were i can only beg that id remember.

but as it droned on in my ear i felt my foot give way beneath me. it was so sudden that by the time i realized i was going to fall, i had already fallen half way down. i was behind the universe by a fraction of a second.

it was then i thought about my back. i have a deep concern for my precious spine. you only get one. i envisioned a howl of pain and then the long wait for help, crumpled on the street in the cold stillness of winter. my spine is already fragile, the only refurbished element of my brittle skeleton. with an unfortunate inch in one direction or another, it could come up the loser in battle of collapse. i would have to wear a bag on my leg that collected my involuntary bowel movements. a shitbag. i have no health insurance and there is no way id get paid leave from work. id lose my apartment. id go into a most debilitating debt, with hospital bills on top of normal bills and my now stolen student loan dwindling quickly. my future would be permanently handicapped, as would i.

i twisted, opting to break a rib if breaking anything. i threw my arm out, grasping for the railing. i bent my other arm and broke the fall with my elbow. then i slid down the the stairs on my butt.

i assed my body, my bones, as i sat there. my breath coming out like thick smokey plumes in the air. i was alright. there was minimal damage, if any. i let out a sigh and tried hoisting myself up with one arm while returning to the phone call with the other. i made it. but damn.

my cell phone screen is broken and my assbone hurts like hell.

cutting corners

2011-01-31T05:33:00.003-05:00

my internet has been spotty. going in and out in no consistent pattern. i just got it installed last week, after a good half a month with no service at all, and from the moment it was hooked up, it went out for no good reason.im assuming that it was installed incorrectly, that there is an unstable connection somewhere along the line. im no whiz when it comes to technical set ups, but i have my suspicions why this is happening.

the first time a technician came out there was a simple reason why he couldnt hook it up. he was afraid. to install internet into my building one must go to the roof, drop down a ground wire which will run into the basement, then hook up a coaxial from my apartment to a small hub of wires attached to the backside of my building. snow still blanketed the street, it lined the sidewalks in 5 foot high ridges and banks. and a rain had fell the evening before, creating an icy sheet under your feet. a definite hazard when navigating the rooftop of a five story apartment building. when it became clear that the technician would have to complete this task in order for my internet to be hooked up, he sternly declined the job telling me id have to have someone else come out to do the deed. frustrated but also acknowledging that if i complained and he did go to the roof, id have to suffer the burden of guilt were anything to happen to him, i agreed to make another appointment and let him go on his way. sure, it is his job and he should have been trained to work under such conditions [we are in new york, after all. snow isnt entirely uncommon] but the guy feared for his life. i just didnt want to deal with it.

the second guy that came out was a supervisor. he assessed the situation, saw that it was entirely doable and that the previous technician just lacked a certain bravery to complete job, and told me that another person would have to come out soon to finish what had yet to be started. he did, while muttering under his breath about the lack of focus these young kids had and the unreasonable sense of entitlement the junior technicians seemed to be born with, lay down some basic groundwork for the next technician to work with. i thanked him and made another appointment with the internet company to have my service installed the following week.

when the third technician came out the attitude was different. he had a careless, almost third world bravery about him. he trudged along the roof, crunching ice under his boots and sliding every so often [without even so much as a widening of the eyes to show alarm] while peeking over the edge of the building to see just where the ground wire would have to fall. after a brief survey of the wires already available and the potential job at hand, he hissed through his teeth and grabbed one of the cables that already lay on the roof.

-these idiots think i have to do all this work to install your internet. theyre wrong. idiots. ill just take this wire here and ground it to this box on the roof to your neighbors building.

he walked over to a small hub that hung from the top to my neighbors courtyard. -see, people dont like how i work, but i bypass all the bullshit. i dont need to climb up the back of your building, why should i? there is a grounder right here. he pointed to a box just a few feet away, on the next rooftop.

he proceeded to hook a cable up to the box, which not only was i unsure was active, but that looked like a shaky jumping point, being that it just hung there and wasnt attached to anything.

-these assholes expect me to do all this unnecessary bullshit, he said, i dont need to! you understand? i cut through the bullshit my man. thats why they dont like me.

i just stared at him in silence. the wind was cold and quiet and the icy layer beneath us broke loudly as he negotiated the questionable connection. finally he put his tools away and beckoned for me to lead him back to my apartment.

when we got back inside he fiddled with a few wires from my wall, then hooked up the modem to my computer. after about ten minutes of waiting for the connection to kick in, in which i sat on my couch and he stood near my desk and we discussed the Jets loss and the potential of a decent superbowl even without our beloved green and white on the field, my google homepage kicked on.

-there ya go chief, he beamed, youre internet is on. see? i told you all that other shit was nothing. took me twenty minutes to hook that up. this is why they dont like me, because i cut through the bullshit. he hissed again through his teeth and shook his head.

i thanked him and gave him a check for the install. he wrote me up a receipt and we shook hands and he left. not five minutes later my internet went out. ive been restarting my modem each half hour ever since.

finally, today, i decided to give them another call and have another technician come out. this is bullshit. i dont even know if ill be able to post this.

why

2011-01-08T20:13:00.002-05:00

because im lazy
because im always in a rush
because i never want to do anything
because i want to do it all
because i am alone
because i never get time to myself
because it is a sport
because i hate games
because i have something inside me that needs to get out
because im empty and hollow and it doesnt mean anything
because im an adult
because i act like a kid
because i have ambition
because ill never go anywhere
because i want to launch myself out into the cosmos with my arms flailing and my teeth bare and i want to feel the universe embrace me and fall fall fall back down to earth a different person
a person with purpose, who the world cant live without. and loping along the city with eyes rolling in my head and my hair in tight uncombable curls and my breath hot and sour i want to feel like the man that my mother always promised id grow up to be.

2011-01-05T18:05:00.002-05:00

too tired to do anything, i sit at my computer with my hands on the keys and let the drone of advertisements flush from the tv. my engine is cashed. there is nothing left in me to burn.

trying to find the words

2011-01-03T17:10:00.003-05:00

when i was a kid i had a stuttering problem. it only went on for a few months, this stuttering problem, then it went away, like a virus or a scar.

i dont know when it came, this stuttering problem, i guess i just woke up with it one day. it was startling, not just to me but to everybody around me as well. like waking up with set of different color eyes, or suddenly being considerably shorter. a small change, but still a hysterical absurdity. out of nowhere i had this sudden affliction. an unforeseen characteristic had been formed. without warning, a had a stuttering problem.

and i liked it.

i dont think i developed this stuttering problem on purpose, although i did find something fashionable about it. when i stuttered —and it was always a brief hiccup of syllables, a short series of them. but never would i get so stuck on a word that i had to catch my breath and restart the sentence— it felt unique and novel. it made me feel somewhat special. it wasnt tragic, but it was sort of sad. and it wasnt contagious, nor called for the burden of assistance. it was just a slight disorder, one that signaled a quirk in my psychology. it could sometimes even be cute, a reason to pinch my cheeks.

clearly —and i was aware of this even then— it really was a quirk in my psychology. and yes, it was very sad. i cant pinpoint which issue it was i had been suffocating for so long, that it decided to return in the form of a speech impediment, but i had a lot of chaos in me back then so it doesnt really matter. choose a card. pick a number. draw a straw, they're all short.

i was living in a group home in the richmond district of San Francisco, then. only a few blocks from golden gate park, nestled in a row of Edwardian style houses just a few miles from the pacific ocean. there were five kids there and always two counselors on duty. none of them had a stuttering problem. i was about eleven years old and i was the youngest, the others were all in their early to late teens. we shared bed rooms. two boys in one room and two girls in one room. the oldest kid got his own room. or the girl, if there was only one.

we ate breakfast in the morning before school. it was there i unveiled my stuttering problem. i asked for something or was trying to say something and it came out in sputtering starts. like an engine that couldnt catch. i pushed through it and finished saying what it was i wanted to say, but everyone noticed it and for a moment i grew red in the face.

no one said anything though, they all just looked curiously at me for a moment, and then continued on eating their food or saying something or just staring at their plate and not making a sound at all. the counselors glanced at each other though, wordlessly discussing me with their eyes. i noticed this and have to admit i felt a little warm and wanted.

when it happened at school my friends would poke fun and we would all laugh, even me. it was just a small thing, a little nervous tic. even though it was the sign of some deeper, unaddressed anxiety i had, one that i was too young to consider, it wasnt terminal, it could have been worse. none of us were worried. we knew kids that sucked their thumbs. kids that were allergic to half the cafeteria food. kids that were quiet and were always bruised. kids that never showered and were mean and angry. i just had a little spasm when i spoke. a slight stuttering problem. nothing to get dramatic about.

some of my teachers looked at me sideways, and a couple asked me if i had always stuttered, as if they couldnt remember either way. a guidance counselor, whom i had to visit quite often on account of my spotty attendance record and apathetic approach towards homework, sat me down and asked when this stuttering problem started. i couldnt give her an honest answer, so i just told her a couple weeks ago, and she nodded her head and wrote something down and then looked at me gently.

when i spoke to my mother on the phone she immediately noticed and asked how long it'd been going on. i dont know, i said. she grumbled something i couldnt understand and then said, well stop it, it makes you sound dumb.

the counselors at the group home never directly addressed it, but they took special care at keeping an eye over me. id feel them in my peripherals watching as i had a conversation with one of the other kids, or when i was on the phone with someone or simply sitting at the table concentrating on my food. they would stare at me and bite their nails. they were all in their early twenties, they only took the job to pay their way through college or grad school. so they had nothing but curiosity for this oddity. and until it became of great concern, they resigned themselves to stealthily studying it. this stuttering problem.

i suppose i took the same approach, and just waited for it to pass. i made no attempts to stop stuttering, but i didnt encourage it either. i only delighted in it while it lasted. embraced the burden and suffered the concern. i was the stuttering boy. the kid with the little problem. it would go away, i knew, and it eventually did.

it went on for a few months and then just as quickly as it was realized it was forgotten. gone. and i was back to just a boy and the world grew big again.

hello

2011-01-03T01:04:00.004-05:00

its been a long time but im still here and to be honest i always will be, until of course, im dead.

ive been meaning to write and write about things that are worthy to write about but you know how it is with fear and emotion and intellect and courage shit, not to mention articulation and cadence and the language of it all. hell, it just becomes a jumbled mess and who am i to say it shouldnt be.

i got a 4o oz of beer to my right. its not malt liquor if thats what you were thinking. not that i give a shit what you think anyway. its the king of beers. but for those watching their calories, yet still want a chilly smooth taste. its Bud Ice. thats right. its golden and sudsey behind an iconic blue label.

so im planning on writing all the time but as anyone who reads this blog knows, that will only last a week or so before it ends. its not like a new years resolution or anything, just a decision i made since we are entering a period which may signify a rebirth of sorts. im just going by the calender, really. there is no sentiment beyond that. its the 2nd and i wanted to start the 1st. look at that, im late already.

i have a billion things inside me - or maybe its only a few thouand or possibly a couple hundred or perhaps just ten or so - and they all are in pieces waiting to be formed. i aim to complete their puzzles and then paint them to make them pretty.

it only took all the poisons i could find to make me realize ive grown sick and need medical attention.

i think thats it for now. i will write more later.

another dream

2010-12-02T13:21:00.003-05:00

i had a dream last night that i was becoming a fast friend and close confidant of thom yorke. we traded music -me a cd of this band i really liked and him a cd of radiohead music that was inspired by the band i really liked. we'd cracked jokes with one another and shared winks and nudges and sly soundless glances that no one else could see. i didnt hide my excitement and he wasnt put off by how anxious i seemed.

he took me to his loft apartment which was in a corner of a european museum. the public milled about along the floor and no one bothered us. he wore his casual clothes that looked almost like pajamas and i wore my usual jeans and a tshirt uniform.

at one point i went to the bathroom, i had to relieve my bowels. the bathroom was public and right outside it was a beach. windows lined above the toilet and you could smell the ocean and hear the cheery sounds of summer play.

a girl that i knew vaguely but didnt recognized kept looking in the window at me. smiling innocently, trying to get my attention. i think she was kind of mentally unstable because her smirk was blank and so were her eyes. i kept telling her to leave me alone and she would pop back out then pop back in and id tell her to leave me alone again. it got frustrating so i eventually finished up and went outside to yell at her. when i did she stood in front of me with that blank innocent stare and i screamed and yelled but she didnt react, just stood there. i didnt know what to do so i grabbed her and told her to never talk to me again, then i slammed the bathroom door on her face and the beach and all the curious onlookers who wanted to see a fight.

when i returned i told thom about it, sort of embarrassed by the whole ordeal, and he just chuckled and shrugged. we then strolled through the museum again. the whole time i stared at the cd he gave me and couldnt wait to listen to it.

hair too damn high party

2010-11-18T12:44:00.003-05:00

i need a haircut bad. its been so long i cant remember the last time i cut my hair. i think its safe to say it was during the summer. i dont really mind much, as grooming isnt a top priority of mine, but the more unruly my afro gets the more i have to sondier it when getting ready for the world each day. at this point its more a hassle for me not to bother with my hair than it is for me to concern myself with it. ive let it go on too long. ive got curls that are jumping ship. dead strands that are falling to the wayside. in this age of worry, i cant be burdened with my hair. so soon i must cut it. perhaps this weekend. perhaps.

here fishy fishy

2010-11-03T02:39:00.003-04:00

ive never gone fishing before.

real fishing. where you are in a small boat with one or two other people, surrounding a cooler of beer and surrounded by shimmering lake. where there is no other sound than your voices.

ive fished off a dock once. i forget how old i was, young, i suppose. and i forget who took me, but i think it was a group home counselor. i was with a few other kids, maybe five or six, but i dont think we knew each other very well. we were friendly and got along, but i get the feeling we never saw each other again. maybe it was some special occasion, where two different group homes got together for an outing. or perhaps it was just me who tagged along with another house as either a reward or a consolation. it doesnt matter, i know i was there.

we all hung our poles over the railing and— although with the gulls circling overhead and the traffic whooshing behind us, it wasnt very serene— it was fun. the counselor tried to teach us all how to throw a line but some people never really caught on, those kids would just let their bait dangle directly below the pier and stare at the dark water, hoping to see their floater get a tug. the rest of us would launch our lines as far as we could —this was actually a good portion of the fun— then reel them in and hope the worms could seduce a bite. as if the fish were cats and couldnt resist a chase.

this worked once or twice, there were a few small throwbacks hauled in. but no one caught the big one. the one we'd have to gut. we all just scurried around, getting or lines caught in knots, launching over the sea as hard as we could. after a few hours i guess we grew restless with it because suddenly we were all herded into a van and driven back to our temporary homes.

it was a good day, but it wasnt real fishing. it wasnt quiet and meditative and patient. no noiseless winds of nature. no old friends to sit silent with.

it could be that i have some sort of romantic notion of what fishing really is. this is probably true. but i dont care. i dont care. i want that afternoon. i want to go fishing. i want that sensation. i need it.

2010-10-27T01:13:00.002-04:00

joan rivers is on jimmy fallon—which is apparently my "go to" show when i dont want to watch tv—and she looks as if she was drawn by an old asian man on 42nd street.

(the guy at the chair in front of a canvas. with the hat on. near a table that is blanketed with tshirts. you know the guy, he stalks the tourist areas. his legs casually spread open, his air brush building a shadow on the hanging white cotton.)

her hair is an unmovable blonde helmet. her cheeks are like chiseled marble; sun tanned dunes high upon her face, rolling along with her speech. her steady drone. her metered self deprecation. it is hilarious.

no srsly.

sharp pain

2010-10-25T14:27:00.003-04:00

i havent been here much because im afraid to write.

here is where i try to be truthful but sometimes the truth hurts and sometimes the truth runs in circles like water around a drain and i dont want to become repetitious especially when it would hurt every time.

so ive stayed away even though i dont want to. even though when i dont visit and contribute i feel empty and worthless like everything inside of me slipping away. like the sands in the hourglass are trickling into the negative and this hourglass cant be turned over, its a one shot deal.

it doesnt help that im burdened with responsibilities. that i have to remain focused on not one or two but three things, and that these things dont even have my full attention because there are other things im overly concerned with. other things that i have to iron out, and i keep waiting for these things to iron out so that i can get back to focusing on the things i need to focus on.

it doesnt help that even now, even here, where im supposed to be truthful, i cant even say any names.

and so i come here with sweaty palms and a head with too much in it. and so i come here not to write stories but to write about nothing. to write about all that is left in the aftermath of importance.

andi ive been carrying this cold, this sickness, with me for too long. sometimes i wonder if its my immune system and sometimes i wonder if its my emotions. sometimes i think im too sensitive to survive, that eventually i will die of a broken heart. this, even though i can be cold and even though i can be calculating. this, even though i can ignore and i can forget. this, even though i have let the past be the past, have let the ghost haunt freely, have let the scars scab up and close. this, even though i know in the end everything will be the same.

i come here to write and i do, but sporadically. this blog no longer lets me be a better writer, just as it no longer is a place i can confess. this blog has become another duty, another job which i do poorly at. i will spend my minutes here and i will accept that it doesnt satisfy. that it only adds a sharp pain in the overall frustration of my routine. ouch.

they wore camo long ago

2010-10-19T22:07:00.003-04:00

i just read a headline saying the military is now accepting openly gay recruits and my first reaction was a faint sense of celebration. i sort of yay we did it! stirring in my gut, and then my second reaction was curiosity. curiosity about why i felt that something had been achieved. curiosity about what this meant. curiosity about how gays would react to it.

i grew up around gays. my mother was gay (sometimes). a lot of her friends were gay. it was a very normal thing in my household. there was never any stigma. never any awkward pauses or embarrassed laughter. as a child, the only difference i noticed between gays and straights was that gays only had lovers, where as straights had girlfriends boyfriends wives and husbands.

dont get me wrong, im not saying i was blind to sexual orientation. i knew there was a difference, and i knew i wasnt gay. what im saying is that there wasnt anything exotic about being gay. some people just were and others werent. just another element of nature.

my moms best friend was this guy named greg. he was a shy, doughy, clean cut man with pinkish cheeks and a effete way with his hands. he always wore a cheap pair of polyester slacks and a white collared shirt under a thin knit sweater. she'd knew him for years, since before i was born, i believe.

i recall him as being somewhat distant, and not very warm to me. i think he was sort of disgusted by the presence of young children, that he felt them a waste of space. they were unable to hold intelligent conversation, were always needy, and stole precious time from the short span of young adulthood. chiefly, his best friend, who he wanted all the attention from. but back then i was sort of indifferent towards him, and didnt crave any emotional response from him anyway. he was dull and quiet and never had anything interesting to say when he did speak. plus, he never brought any presents.

now though, that im probably older than he was then, i sort of understand why he was this way. sometimes my friends kids bug me too.

she had other best friends. there was this lesbian couple who were vegetarian and didnt shave their legs. one of them was tall and thin and always wore a baseball cap. her name was paula and she had one of those names that fit. to me, she looked exactly like a paula. i forget the others name but she was shorter and wore glasses and had a short, boyish haircut. she liked to read on the sun porch while eating yellow tomatoes picked from her garden. they were nice, and let us stay with them when we lost our place on haight street. my mom slept in them bed with them every night. i think they were a triple for a while.

in any case, im wondering what accepting openly gay recruits will do to the army. probably nothing. it'll just be the army, but a little more fabulous.

a nightcap before night

2010-10-18T12:55:00.003-04:00

on the way home from class i stop in a bar to have a few drinks. i saddle up to a corner and slide off my backpack and and let my self exhale before ordering a drink. next to me is a man not much older than myself and hes trying to get the bartenders attention and adjusting his baseball hat nervously. hes fiddling with his smart phone and shifting in his seat. the bartender knows him and knows how to handle him and ignores him until he settles a bit, quiets in his stool, focuses on his phone, and then comes over to see what the guy wanted.

i sip my manhattan and dont pretend to be shy about eavesdropping on their conversation. its baseball talk. football talk. the bartender, who i know fairly well and get along with in a very casual way, without the pretense of politeness and regardless of our shared profession, knows enough about both sports to hold a reasonable conversation with the guy, who, it seems, is filled with up-to-date statistics and inside news on every player on every local team. i chime in when i can, offering the weak second hand facts i picked up in the newspaper or on sports wrap ups during the week. the bartender holds his own and backs up my statements with a knowing wink. i finish my manhattan and decide to move when the conversation dies and a window opens.

i go to another side of the bar, a quieter area where my seat is more personal and the conversation is more sparse. the bartender comes over and pours me a beer and each of us a shot of whiskey. we catch up with each other.

he is a photographer, im assuming a good one, and works the bar to pay the bills. to support his art. he knows i write and that i dont call myself a writer. we discuss the trials of creative ventures, or more accurately, how to handle those spells when the juices arent flowing and it seems the well has run dry. i tell him about how i havent written in weeks and how there are no words in me to write. he tells me of a writer whos name i forget, who worked at the post office and wrote every day for four hours and never got famous or even recognized until he was retired and about to die. i nod solemnly at this all too typical tale, afraid to respond with my voice for fear ill doom myself to the same fate. i cant write four hours a day, i think to myself, i can barely write twenty minutes a day. i ask what he does when he feels creatively blocked and he says he shoots a roll a day no matter what, even if the pictures are crap. i have to admire this and also feel a bit envious, i wonder if its easier to just shoot pictures of crap than it is to write a few pages of crap.

he suggest i look into other mediums. see a play. read some poetry. i agree, and promise myself ill try. i dont know if i will, but it seems like a good idea. i can definitely find inspiration in the cadence of written dialog, or the meter of a gentle stanza. i dont mention how i am falling behind in school, how the record company has kept me busy, how my love life has become a tangled distraction. these are all excuses, all reasons to hold myself back. he knows and i know.

i finish my beer and we take our shots. he doesnt charge me for the drinks and i tip him $20. we shake hands and i thank him for the advice. the guy in the corner with the baseball hat yells out something toward the screen. i shrug on my back pack and i walk home with the moon on my shoulders and wonder what it is i didnt write this time.

sick day

2010-10-17T13:36:00.003-04:00

its been a while since i wrote here. hell, its been a while since i wrote. since the last time i visited this site i have

grown and shaved my beard multiple times.

been burdened with school work, playing catch up with my classes.

gained about 3 pounds.

saw a few movies.

yesterday i woke up feeling ill. my head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. i could hardly breathe through my nose. my chest felt scratchy and each inhale clawed at my lungs. i went to class nonetheless, and only fell asleep twice. when i returned home i took some cold medicine and drank a cup of hot tea with whiskey in it. i laid on the couch and put a movie in the dvd player. in the middle of it a took a short nap. luckily the movie wasnt too complicated and when i woke i still understood what was going on.

the kitties laid at my feet. when the movie ended i ate food while watching reruns on tv. i began coughing later in the evening and this worried me, as i have to work today, but i had to dismiss the worry because i cant miss another shift.

i dont have much to say. i just wanted to write for a little bit. i guess ill try to resurrect this habit again. it always last for a couple weeks or so. oh well.

cough.

opening kickoff

2010-09-14T00:59:00.002-04:00

mellow night at work this evening. but that was just the end of the day.

woke up before the rising sun and let j out. she was in her scrubs and holding a big bag filled with yesterdays clothes and when i kissed her she smelled fresh of the oatmeal and shea butter scrub i have in my shower. then i slept again for a few hours.

when i woke a second time i went straight to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. it was half hour to noon and i wanted a cigarette. but before that i threw on some jeans and a shirt and i went out to the store and bought some toilet paper (i also contemplated a beer but decided i couldnt afford it so got paper towels instead).

i sat at my computer and drank coffee and watched porno while smoking a cigarette and waiting to shit. then i texted j. i put the football game on. i read email and played family feud on facebook.

it started to rain and i poured myself a shot of whiskey.

i had a book to read. lysistrata, by aristophonese. so i read it. its a small greek play. ancient, i suppose. the plot is simple. the wives of soldiers in the athens army decide to withhold sex from their husbands until peace is drawn up in the war. the soldiers eventually come crawling back from battle, boners bulging, and beg to have sex with their wives. they will do anything. so the wives say 'well we wont fuck you until you call a truce.' and the husband soldiers say, 'ok we'll do whatever, just let us get some pussy!' and they draw a truce up with the enemy and everyone fucks and is happy and dances. the end. it was a quick read.

then i took a shower and i smelled of oatmeal and shea butter and i went to work at the bar.

it was the opening day of kickoff. football fever was all around us. you could smell the pigskin on everyones breath. cheap american beers by the bottle. buffalo wings and loud voices. the drawer wasnt bad and the tips could be better, but it was an easy evening, so im not going to complain.

when all was said and done i sat back in the quiet of an empty watering hole with a beer in my hand and the fans whirring. my barback was there, this kid from the hood with a kid of his own. he rolled a blunt and we spoke of street shit and how to survive illegally. then we closed the gate and shook hands and he went home and i went to another bar.

there i caught the close of the mtv video awards on a huge flat screen tv. justin bieber was giving an acceptance speech and thanking la ried and usher. then lady gaga accepted an award. i had a bud light. kanye did a song but it was boring and i wondered if maybe i didnt get it. i smoked a joint with a guy i didnt know outside. then another guy offered to buy me a drink so i said, give me a shot of jameson, because i dont want to stay too long.

i walked home loose and warm even though the whole city is wet from the rain earlier. when i opened the door the kitties greeted me. i stooped down to them and slurred, "hello gatos! hola my little friends!'

an unexpected package

2010-09-10T13:29:00.003-04:00

she had a delivery sent to her and it arrived under the bright orange glow of early afternoon. a soft brisk wind tickled the delivery mans collar as he stood at the door waiting for her to sign. all around them the quiet of autumn, only their polite exchanges lost in the air. sign here ma'am. thank you. thank you. she watched him walk down the driveway towards his truck and thought to herself, that was a nice young man. the package was large and nearly weightless considering its size. it was unexpected, the best gifts always are, and she set it down inside the door. across the road a field of golden bones leaned in the breeze. i wonder what it could be, she asked aloud to no one. the dog came to the porch and sniffed at her feet then sat and waited. not now, she said, mama's got to get dressed first. she grabbed the package while going inside and shut the door. the dogs black nails clicked on the tiles as it scuttled behind her. the house was caught in a familiar silence. she sat on the couch and the leather cushions wheezed and the sun grew older and but no warmer in the sky. with a pen from her robe she cut through the tape and folded open the package and sighed. two pears, a crate of strawberries, and a chocolate bar. the note beside them was on a small sheet no bigger than a photograph. it read, in a wonderful handwritten cursive, This will get you through the day. Enjoy.

stuck in neutral

2010-09-09T14:06:00.004-04:00

it is a quiet seventy two degrees and the sky is descending into a chilly grey and i can hear voices out my window and voices in my head and they are having a muted conversation i cant understand. i am supposed to be writing a story that is due on october first but i cant seem to get anything out, at least nothing worth a damn. there is no ending to the story and usually this doesnt matter but for some reason i feel if there is no ending to this story this story has no meaning and isnt worth the time to write.

but its already half written, the characters have been drawn, their motivations established, the setting painted in pretty words and phrases.

i cant find it in me, and i cant find it in those that surround me, and i cant find it in the city or the night or the early morning. the ending, the meaning, the reason for the pages. all i have a collection of painfully insignificant passages, of obvious dialog and weak description. broken paragraphs that say nothing, choppy cadences and flawed metaphors. i try to make some sense of it, to stitch it together using half inspired patches of prose, but it doesnt work. it was a faulty design to begin with. this engine will never run.

prospects

2010-09-01T23:26:00.003-04:00

it isnt that im an unsavory person, though i do admit to having the capacity for depraved or lecherous desires. (i am, if nothing else, a human fully aware of his appetites.) and i reject the notion that am any more lowly or sleazy than the next man. but i have to say, im sorely disappointed with the quality of women in this semesters selection of classes. i dont ask for much, and i never intend to hit on my classmates, but its always nice to look forward to a pretty face when challenged with three and a half hours of lecture.

in my film class there is the Spanish girl with thick thighs and dirty blind hair who has full lips and blue eyes but has that needy demeanor im only turned on by when drunk. in my women in history course there is the dark brown girl who dyes her hair blond and clearly takes a hot comb to it, with big tits and a nice smile and an eager attitude that screams overachiever. and in my Spanish course there is no one. at best the middle ages mother of two with the pin up girl hair-do and a seemingly endless wardrobe of damsel in distress dresses.

other than that there is a smattering of men still clinging onto their rebellious hair length, who sport goatees and loose, casual shirts that hide their advancing girth and show off their indifferent fashion sense. there is Phyllis, the almost sickly thin black woman with the wide, desperate smile and salt and pepper hair. there is carol, who looks like shes paying her way through college with the money she makes in truck stop bathrooms. there is Agnes, who is the kind of women you know looks good in her old pictures but these days resembles just what she is, a grandmother three times over. and of course we cant forget Sylvia, who comes to class straight from the office, hands probably still cramped from all the calls she spent her day forwarding.

and then there are the others, but they all fall into those five characters, more or less.

im not saying anything is wrong with these people. they are no more exciting or inviting than myself, but my selfish attitude, coupled with my misplaced hubris, longs for some more motivation than just LEARNING to go to school. i just want someone to kinda fantasize about during the lulls. a face to look at when im bored. perhaps someone to make jokes with during our breaks. its not like im asking for romance. jesus christ who has the time for that? but it would be nice to feel like im not the only not-entirely-over-the-hill student in my classes. jeez, fucking gimme a break

second day of school

2010-08-30T14:02:00.002-04:00

in the autumn of our affair the sidewalks were still warm but the darkness came earlier and brought with it a chill. the routine of the morning kept me going as if without it i had nothing left. cars rolled by with their windows down and the old women on the stoop looked blankly out at them. men played cards on rickety tables, adjusting their hats and scratching their chins. their tells told and small half smiles below their eyes reflected upon their winnings. in the house a quiet heat stirs around the kitties shedding fur. i need a comb i need some food refill my water and change the litter box. the meaningless clicking of the keyboards keys and the bright white of the screen like a mockery of the day. the sun was at a simmer and the coffee cup left a stain. i thought about the future, about the winter, about the cold soon to come. i thought about the end of the month and the beginning of the season and being buried beneath it. it is the close of august and our hearts are tired and worn. it is without me that the world moves on.

another five

2010-08-27T13:36:00.003-04:00

this saturday i must begin the school semester. im taking a fim theory class that day, a spanish class monday and wednesday, and a history class early the same wednesday. the selection this semester was slim, no literature courses nor writing workshops, no curious philosophy classes or abstract art lectures. i had to choose by when the time was convenient for me, and i have very little time of convenience.

the spanish class really fucked me up, being spread over two days instead of the normal, one class a week routine that most courses at my school are offered in. this meant that two of my nights were taken from the get go. so i had to take a class on saturday, which is fine, but also a class during the day on wednesday, which is not fine. i have to be at campus by 1 in the afternoon, and wont be able to leave until 830 that evening. thats a full day at school. a full day in which i can do nothing but sit and listen and read and write. i suppose there could be worse things to fill my day with. but this squeezes the amount of free time through a funnel.

that funnel is tuesday.

see, i work on thursday and friday, as well as sunday. so that i have class on monday, wednesday, and saturday, leaves me with just one free day: tuesday. so on tuesday i have to get all my errands, social activities, meetings, greetings, chores, relaxing, fun, and homework done on that one day.

its going to be rough.

i suppose its only a few months, and that i should just live with this suffocating schedule without much complaint. there is nothing i can do about it. no reason to get bent out of shape. ill just hunker down, shut my mouth, focus hard, and try to accomplish.

fingers crossed.

trivia night

2010-08-24T15:40:00.003-04:00

last night i went to the bar for the inaugural trivia night event. it was a success as far as the spectrum of successes go, meaning people showed up and played but the hope is that a lot more players show up as the weeks progress. there were a smattering of regulars there, and a few randoms that just came in for a pint and got caught up in the spirit of the event, which was casual and inviting and with an easy edge of competition. i walked in a half hour before the game started. there were a few people there i knew, and i said hello to all of them.

first the girl that sits alone and drinks vodka cranberries because she doesnt want to get fat. she smiled flirtatiously and i smiled back. then on to a friend ive known since i started working at the bar, who sipped her wine and fiddled with her phone. then the guy whos name i always forget but who acts as if we have been friends since elementary school. and there was the guy that ive been talking to about getting a job, we spoke for a while as he ran down a strange experience he had to me.

he came home one evening after a long night at work and then out drinking. his door was unlocked but this was expected, as a friend of his had stayed the night and then shut it, but didnt lock it, when they left. upon entering though, he noticed something strange, a pillow on his floor in front of his bedroom. and his bedroom door was closed, which he never does. he went to the door and opened it and there in his bed was a young girl, completely naked, and fast asleep. he ran through his mind, searching for who it might be. it was one in the morning, and he didnt expect any visitors. his girlfriend was out of town, and he had no exes that bold or desperate.

he poked the sleeping body.

she awoke in a start, startling him even, and he asked her who she was and why she was in his apartment. she mumbled something he couldnt understand and he asked her again. this time she asked him where she was and he explained she was in his apartment, and she hadnt been invited, and that they did not know each other. without blushing, she asked if she could get dressed and he left the room to give her privacy. the whole time he was still confused on who she was and why she was in his bed, and he listened to the door to ensure she didnt take anything. when she re-emerged she bolted by him and out the front door. he chased after her in a panic. she wasnt wearing any shoes.

he yelled that she empty her pockets so that he could know she didnt take anything. while running, she pulled them from her pants, proving they were empty. still chasing behind her he yelled that he could call someone to help her. he yelled she didnt have any shoes. he yelled that it was late and the streets were dark outside. but she didnt stop.

when he went back to his house he began checking around to see if anything was missing. nothing was. but in the kitchen, on the counter near the sink, he found a pile of mail that wasnt his. after leafing through it, noting that half of it was open, he realized it was mail from his neighbors. not just the neighbors in his building, but all those in his neighborhood. she had stolen mail from places within a 4 block radius. random mail. bills and spam. birthday cards and investment tips. nothing seemed to be taken, but a lot of them had been opened.

he called the cops and they arrived to find the girl still huddled in front of his building, sobbing uncontrollably. aside from the story i just relayed to you, he had no information on her. they discovered she was a resident in a mental institution not very close by, and assessed that she had escaped without any shoes, and wandered around brooklyn, stealing mail and checking doors to see if they were unlocked. there was no rhyme or reason to her actions, she simply hadnt taken her meds. when he asked what he should do with the pile of mail in his kitchen they told him to take it to the people it belonged to. like anyone, he silently refused to do that, delivering opened mail to you neighbors isnt the best look. new yorkers dont usually get that involved.

i was impressed by the story, shocked and entertained as i should have been. then we shook hands and i went to my stool to play the game. i was on a team with my friend and we did ok, but not good enough, only securing second place. the questions werent too hard but were far from easy. everyone playing had a grand time, and the bar made more money on a monday night that it usually does. next monday i have school so cant go, but i plan on visiting as soon as i can. hopefully ill get something out of it. if not a good time, then a good story.

the d the i the d the d...

2010-08-18T22:27:00.003-04:00

ive got a few minutes so i figured id say whats up.

whats up?

i few things ive thought in the past 24 hours:

after having read that steven tyler is going to take over as one of the judges of American idol i stopped to think. first, i wondered if i was really going to follow through with a thought about american idol. then, after i did, i wondered what made steven tyler qualify as a judge. sure, hes in one of the most popular rock groups of all time, and even if you dont care for the later, more recent efforts of Aerosmith, which i will agree suck balls, you cant deny that "Sweet Emotion," is a pretty awesome tune. but how does that make him a good judge of talent?

sure, he can commiserate with his band members about what songs are good and what songs arent, for aerosmith, and there his opinion might carry some weight. but unless every contestant is in some unofficial tryout for the band, then how is he going to know whats good or not for american idle? its not as if hes produced any great pop acts, nor is it like hes guided any young up and coming singers to stardom. hes just been in a band, and is a musician. outside of the choices he makes in aerosmith, i dont care what he thinks or says. he is not an expert by any means.

[i know it sounds as if im way invested in the show, but truthfully i havent even seen one episode of the past few seasons, and can only name a couple of the winners. but i understand the construct of the program, and the "purpose" it aims to achieve, so sort of consider myself an informed viewer]

that being said, i think the perfect and most obvious choice as new judge on the program should be none other than p diddy. not only has he already hosted a similar program, where he searched for a pop act, held auditions and acted as head judge, then molded them into what he considered a most viable performer taking into account the talent offered, but he did this in a ridiculous fashion that not only yielded a successful pop act, but worked as pure entertainment as well. diddy would have no problem telling someone their performance sucked [something i fear not many "artist" will do, as they have such an empathy for the rejected, they cant bear to be the giver of sour news] and he would probably do it while he typed on his blackberry. he would also be able to spot that special something in a person that could potentially lead to an act we might remember for once. now i wont say im the biggest fan of the man, but i wont withhold credit where credit is due. the guy would not only help find the best contestants, but the ratings would soar in the process. it seems like a no brainer to me.

but then again, what do i know. and its american idol for chissakes. who cares?

sit down stand up

2010-08-16T14:59:00.001-04:00

i dont have much to say today, and i only have a few minutes to really get this down.

what this is im trying to get down im not sure just yet.

lets just say that the day has gone by and that it was relatively easy. that the fan is blowing and the tv is on. that a beer is in my hand and it is 4pm and it is monday, which is my saturday, and im almost out of cigarettes. lets say that my wallet is empty and my fridge is too. lets say that my bills arent going to be paid on time. lets say that i ate too much last night and i woke up with a miserable stomach ache and immediately went to the bathroom before i did anything else. lets say that the sun fell behind the clouds and the rain blanketed us with warmth. lets say the books that surround me have too many words. lets say the books that surround me have too little words. lets say i have close friends and these friends fill me with sensations beyond confession and lets say that if it werent for these friends i wouldnt be able to type right now. lets say that the accents that i hear are hard to place by i try to make out the words anyway. lets say the colors blue and red mean nothing to me. lets say the colors yellow and gray mean more. lets say i have to leave but want to stay and lets say in many ways i have no choice of the matter.

then lets say i wrote and thats what i wrote and we shall move passed this like we do everything else.

Anna

2010-08-14T17:54:00.006-04:00

did i ever tell you about Anna? we dated in the summer of 2001. a hollow romance to begin the millennium. she was tall and thin and had one of those strikingly beautiful faces, the kind everyone is taught to love. she felt awkward in her beauty though, and this made her even more endearing. she was an undergraduate med student, in many ways smarter than i'd ever be, and was celebrated among our friends as a humble, well meaning citizen that exceeded all our trust. at the time a close friend and myself shared an incurable crush on her. she was everything you could ever want in a girlfriend. whispering our affections to each other when her back was turned, we revered her. put her in an ivory tower. placed her on a pedestal way out of our reach.

so you can imagine my surprise when gossip started circulating about her having a crush on me too.

i did try to charm her whenever she was present. acting as a buffoon for her slight attention. and apparently, my clownish approach towards seduction had begun to grow on her. soon the hushed talk turned into casually intimate inquiries turned into subtle prodding turned into a sly set up for a date. and we found ourselves sitting across from each other on a table top ms. pac-man game, making shy glances and nervous jokes, fidgeting with our hands and trying to get to know one another.

we went on a few dates, mostly where i just made out with her, afraid to go too far for some reason. one day she asked me why i hadnt try to have sex with her yet. i couldnt really answer, stumbling over my words, unsure just how to say that i was scared, so i just said i dont know and she leaned in and kissed me and we had we had sex right then and there.

it was... ok.

i blamed my own nervousness on it. it not being so good. no way could my dream girl not be good in bed. it had to be me. im sure it really was. but either way, i tolerated it; it was the idea of her that i wanted, way more important than the actual thing, right?

we continued dating. we went to see independent foreign movies at the fancy art house theaters downtown. we groped each other at the underground parties on a bench or in the corner of a warehouse. we went to the beach and listened to the gulls. we had dinner at the fancy restaurant she worked at. she laughed at my jokes and whenever she made one, i laughed at hers. but she didnt talk much, i did most of the talking. and sometimes her awkward silences would grow boring. but my anxious adoration of her would win over, and id try to find something profound in her blandness.

so, i had my idea and we had our clean romance, and when she first told me that at the end of the summer she was moving to new york to attend NYU med school, i frowned but shrugged my shoulders. it was fun, but i knew it would never last. id been involved with the princess, but im no prince, so she would never marry me. we made some final dates that would carry us till the end of summer, and i thought that would be it.

but wouldnt ya know: it wasnt.

at some point between her telling me she was going to leave and her actual leaving date, i convinced myself that i was in love and would not be able to live without this girl. i grew desperate to talk to her, trying to see her in all our free time. i began to get more maudlin in my emails, more sappy and emotional. i grew weak, i told her i loved her. i think i even said it in the subject line! that was my way of initially telling her how i felt. in an email, with the words 'i love you' in the subject line. it was pathetic. i became unbearably vulnerable. a fragile, dead weight of a person. and when she finally moved to new york, i'm not faulting her for feeling finally rid of me.

but of course, the idea still raged on.

so i kept in contact with her, trying to maintain the relationship as if there wasnt an emotional chasm of 3500 miles between us. i made plans to visit new york in the fall, we would stay together over a long weekend. but the relationship would be running on empty by then. when my flight finally landed, that November at JFK, she had already decided it was over. even though i knew it was coming, it still hit me like dull surprise. she never even said it, it was just an ache. by this time the towers had already fallen. we spent the thanksgiving holiday forcing ourselves to smile at one another. me brooding about, stinging from her rejection. her sighing and blushing, paralyzed by how uncomfortable it was for me being there. we slept in the same bed, in a loft she was subletting in chelsea, but i swear it was one of the loneliest holidays id ever have.

on the last day there she finally just admitted to me that she wanted to break up, even though we already technically were. it was hard for her to do but i didnt care. i guess i wanted to hear her say it, since i had flown all the way across the country and all, and pressured her to do so. it was one of my final petty gestures in the relationship. on the way back to san francisco i leaned my head on the plane window and cried for the second time over a girl. i felt minuscule. insignificant. i was hurt like id never been before. and i know she felt hurt too, but it was the hurt you prefer, not the one you usually get. she was on the other side, only feeling the pain of moral guilt. the hurt you get from hurting someone. in truth, she was already ok, it was me who had yet to begin the healing process.

of course i did heal. it all passes, things happen, we grow. there were more girls who would break my heart even worse than she did on the vista. so i would stop pining for her, and eventually not think about her much at all, but i will never forget Anna. she put a light upon the darker roads so that i wouldnt get lost going down them again. she helped me discover an ugliness inside that ive been refining ever since. its not easy becoming who you are, but its part of the whole thing. the thing we go through.

a rose for a stranger

2010-08-13T12:18:00.003-04:00

she met her at the bar. they just happened to be sitting next to one another when a conversation between the two started. she doesnt remember how it did, but it did, thats the way things go with her.

her name is rosa and shes from Nicaragua. only been in the country for a month or so, at least thats what she tells everyone. shes pretty, in her early thirties with short dark hair and big, excited eyes that always seemed to be opened as wide as they can be. shes not too tall, and is rather thin, but with generous hips, such as her lineage offered.

i met her a few weeks ago while i was bartending. she came and sat at the end of the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. she crossed her legs, lady like, on the stool, and quietly observed the room while it filled up with the late night thursday crowd. i didnt talk to her much, i usually let a new customer breathe a bit before i strike up conversation, but it wasnt long before someone sat next to her and she began chatting them up in her innocent "im new here and just want to make friends" way.

it was a guy that sat next to her that night, someone i knew, a good looking fellow who was waiting for a date to show. rosa, once he sat down, introduced herself with her small, thin hand extended in greeting. he took it and looked her in the eye and smiled. well this works, he thought, a pretty girl introducing herself to me. not bad.

before she got up to sit at another stool which wrapped around the other end of the bar, she had given him her number and made him promise to call. then he gave her his number and confirmed the promise. i watched the whole thing go down from the corner of my eye, so when he relayed the interaction to me later i just nodded my head, already knowing. my barback that night got the same treatment. she introduced herself to him, her huge eyes batting and her full lips pouting, her legs still crossed and her wine glass still half full, and explained how she was new to the country and was eager to meet new friends. then gave him her number and made him promise to call, and took his to confirm the promise. you should take me dancing, she said, with her head cocked so that she looked up at him, making her eyes even larger, and he agreed that yes, he should.

i found the situations slightly strange —its not often a pretty girl offers herself up like that— but wrote it off as cultural differences and an enthusiasm for attention on her part. for some reason i kept my distance from her though, i have an aversion towards being seduced (it makes me feel vulnerable), and thought whatever game she was playing id prefer not to partake in. that and, for some reason alarm bells went off in my head when she was around. there was something slightly off about her anxious approach towards people. pretty people, ive learned —and make no mistake she is pretty— dont have to show such longing for companionship. she seemed to be a little too eager for notice. for some reason it didnt add up.

then last night rosa came in again, and sat down at the bar next to a girl i slightly know. she was alone as always, her wide eyes scanning the room and her thin legs crossed in her stool, and a conversation was struck up between the two, and a new friend was made.

they left together later that night. i didnt think anything of it. they paid the tab and tipped me well and were out the door, slightly drunk, arm in arm as if they'd known each other forever. i didnt know where they were going and didnt much care. two girls out on the town, perhaps heading to another bar to meet some guys with unfamiliar faces. have fun ladies, good luck with that.

then in the tail end of the night, while i was out front smoking a cigarette and the bar was mostly empty and the barback was starting his closing duties, the girl i slightly know rode back up on her bike.

hey, she said, did you know that girl i was talking to?

slightly, i answered, but not too well.

she sighed and blew her bangs from her face. is she a little crazy? she asked

i laughed. i little, i suppose. why?

i think she just tried to give me a drugged drink, she replied soberly.

i gasped quietly and smiled because it was the only thing i could think to do after getting that information. the girl then went on to explain to me how rosa offered her a glass of water repeatedly, holding the glass to her face so that she drank THAT water. and no matter how many times she casually declined, rosa kept offering it. pushing it on her. desperate for her to take a sip. a sip of that water, no other water.

the girl began to feel more uncomfortable than she already did, her discomfort initially being because she had been coerced to go up into rosa's apartment, and before she could say anything rosa had offered to "put something more comfortable on," and retreated to her bedroom before materializing with the glass of water in hand. the girl, a very sane one by my own assessment, began to almost panic when she realized that she was being somewhat preyed upon. without waiting for an answer, the girl hastily readied herself, made a thousand excuses on why she had to leave, and headed for the exit. as she was walking down the hall, a burning fear tickling the edges of her skin, rosa called after her.

hey i forgot to get your number, she yelled.

i dont have a pen, the girl lied.

oh, ok just call my phone and ill save it, rosa held the phone in her hand and patiently, with a smile on her face and her large eyes beaming at her.

oh, ok, the girl pulled out her phone and, by the graces of god, it was dead. sorry, she shrugged, i guess we'll have to just see each other around.

rosa smiled. we will, she said.

thats when the girl road her bike back to the bar to ask me what i thought of her. if perhaps maybe she was being dileriously paranoid. if perhaps those were false alarms ringing in her head. but i confirmed it. no, rosa was a little off.

i knew she was weird, but i didnt think she was ax murderer weird, i joked.

the girl, looking off into the dark night sky, didnt smile.

beaches

2010-08-12T12:33:00.004-04:00

in the summer of 1987 i went to the beach almost every day. it was me and Dion usually, but sometimes his two cousins would come with us (they lived in the richmond district, just a few blocks from the coast). the water was always cold, and we would challenge each other to just run towards it and dive under one of the small, cresting waves that broke close to the shore, promising that the initial shock would dissipate by the time we emerged from the water. this was only half true, you could get used to the chill quicker by diving straight in, but it took more than just that one first dive to do it. it took two or three, and time spent wading in the strong, salty sea, before your body finally calmed and the goose pimples settled. it was more common for us to slowly walk into it, first allowing our ankles to adjust to the temperature, then our shins, then our thighs, and finally our waist, before we would take the plunge into the curling surf.

once inside though, we would splash around for hours, searching the ocean floor with our hands and feet, catching the breaking waves with our bodies, and battling with the undercurrent. the northern pacific is a beastly body of water, unforgivably murky in areas with a merciless tow beneath. sometimes we would get pummeled by a wave and find ourselves violently rolling along the sandy floor and then, after coming up for a panic of air, being dragged back out to sea by the strength of the waters bottom pull. but this was a danger we were aware of and ignored. just another element of the fun.

when i became a teenager i would still go to the beach but at this point it wasnt the water i looked to for excitement. it was where friends and i would gather for isolation, away from the prying eyes of the law. we would bring stolen alcohol in our book bags and try to find mischief in hushed laughter and illegal bonfires. girls were involved then, and the strongest undertow was our hormonal urges. we would go at night, when nothing else but the homeless and their hidden tents or similar, makeshift teen parties occupied the beach. sometimes we would see couples watching the moon glow above the rising tide, finding romance in its lunar reflection, and we would sit and stare at them, whispering quietly to each other, waiting in hopes that they would have sex.

it wasnt until my first trip to san diego that i found out ocean water could be warm and inviting. it was there, in my early twenties, that i fell in love with the cleansing effect of a quick dip in the sea. i was staying at a house directly across the street from the beach and would wake early in the morning, still half drunk and sweating out chemicals from the night before, then lean as i walked to the ocean. i would dive straight into the water, dolphin kicking a few yards beneath the waves, before i emerged fully wake, ready for another day. i wouldnt even bring a towel with me, nor would i wear a shirt. the sun would dry me off. id simply surface from the water and walk towards my slippers. after sliding them on i would stand and watch the epic movements of the water, the surfers riding along the rolling white caps, the waves deep into the horizon, breaking with the currents. i would take a few breaths, inhaling the wet, salty air, and appreciate just where i was in life at that particular moment.

when i went to hawaii the water was unimaginable. the beach culture was so deeply ingrained with the land that it was hard to separate the people from the sand. every road led to the ocean, most every action brought you to the beach. the water was so warm and clear and filled with beauty you would have thought it was made by man, solely for vacations. i spent almost every waking hour, nights as well, in the water. you would wake and go to the water, then eat and go back to the water, then have a few drinks and go back to the water. there was no dangerous undercurrent, no hesitancy before diving in. i went skinny dipping at midnight and there was romance and adventure beading up from every pore. the water was like a womb. i never wanted to leave it.

now it is 2010 and im in front of my computer and im half a month late on rent and the hot gray sky is falling down on brooklyn and all i want is to escape. i want to go to a beach and look out onto the horizon and see the earth curve away. i want to feel the celestial glow of a warm quiet night. i want to be far far away, watching as the planet rises up to swallow the sinking sun.

vids

2010-08-10T13:12:00.005-04:00

i, like most other people that spend their day in front of a computer, stay well aware of all the internet memes that become weekly obsessions for the short attention span set. and like most people, i probably only get 75% of them, where as the others go over my head. sometimes they are too geeky or video game oriented, and because i am neither fifteen years old nor very smart nor do i play video games, these memes bore me. sometimes i get the meme, but i dont understand why they are so funny, or why they have caught the attention of so many people. sometimes the meme is so simple it baffles me how it could generate so many different variations. and sometimes the memes are just plain cruel. depended on how funny these are determines if i like them.

some memes are just phrases that seem to catch on for any number of reasons, and although these are good [and some, like "all your base are belong to us," or "do not want," become ingrained with the internet lexicon so thoroughly that many people who use it dont even know its origin], these, although some can be fun and even funny, arent really my cups of tea. they usually start on a forum of sorts, most likely as innocent replies to a post, and mutate into catch phrases that sound funnier and more meaningful when said entirely out of context. some phrases are just one word ["FAIL"] that transcend every element of internet communication, from chat logs to emails to videos to pictures, and out into the real world, where people use them in everyday situations.

but my favorite memes involve some sort of visual element, be it a video or a picture. and today i think i just want to post a few videos of memes i like. so without further adieu [is that how you spell that?] here are a few vids:

this is my favorite "people unwittingly dancing to dubstep" video

this is my favorite "do they mean to be so racist?" video

this is my favorite "sports history thats so awesome i cant believe it" video

this is my favorite "double rainbow all the way" parody video [current fav]

and finally, this is my favorite "wierd clip that my friend alex made" video

i know, they were random and most didnt even qualify as memes, but i was bored and wanted to write so there ya go.

day off

2010-08-07T15:07:00.004-04:00

ive been lazy all day. this is neither abnormal nor a thing of shame, just a fact im stating. a way to start a post. i thought long and hard about what my first sentence to this post would be. i wondered where it would take me, what explorations it would lead to. i could have written many different things. almost anything, really.

-montana fishburne, aka Chippy d, really should have planned the release to her porno a little better.

-the ice cream trucks in my neighborhood have more on their agenda than a sweet, frozen treat.

-i cant remember the last time i heard a new electronic song.

-im looking to get a new job.

but i decided to write the first thing that came to my head, which was a simple statement declaring my current laziness. its strange that after all that thinking (and i had been planning to write all morning and afternoon, it was the gentle undercurrent of every thought, every action, and every decision of this, august 7th, 2010) that was the best i could come up with. but i realized at some point in the day that the longer i thought of what to write, the less actual writing i was going to do.

see, i had this notion that i had to write a particular thing. that the first sentence would have to lead to a cute little story, a meaningful musing, or a surreal idea fleshed into a series of well articulated paragraphs. there were things i knew i didnt want to write about (which, in the end, is only going to prevent me from writing. should not all subjects be open to consideration? why feel something is beneath my words, it surely isnt beneath my thoughts. if something is worthy of even my faintest concern, than how can it not be worthy enough to write a few sentences about. especially in this black bin of insignificance i call a blog?). and there were things i thought i did want to write about (though these were vague aims, i had no concrete ideas, no sneaking suspicions, no slight inspirations or arguments to make. i simply had dim ambitions that exceeded my accepted capacity). but in the end there was nothing in me to come out. nothing inside that i could be proud of.

all day ive been surfing the internet and thinking half heartedly about life. the big blur of time and age that contiues moving on regardless of my own agenda. and i have stayed in my pajamas, a pair of shorts and no shirt, and instinctually, without much thought at all, clicked on my mouse. the hours have passed, the clock almost mocking me, and the feeling that there is nothing new and will never be anything new has settled into my gut without my even noticing. i cant tell if it is laziness, exhaustion, or just a general ennui, and the truth is i dont really care.

so i decided that if i was going to write i was just going to write. it didnt matter. i do it now only because its something i feel i have to do, because if i dont then i have nothing. its the last shred of spirit left in me. the very aspiration of one day becoming a writer is the only thing that keeps me going. once thats gone i might as well just get a job working for the city and count the beer cans until im dead. it doesnt matter either way, which is probably why ive been so lazy all day.

on the quiet streets of suburban new york

2010-08-06T13:16:00.004-04:00

there are some strange characters out there.

a friend was telling me about a guy from his neighborhood from when he was just a kid in high school. they called the guy Dirty D. its not clear on whether or not Dirty D actually lived in the neighborhood, but its known he would lurk around a particular corner that opened into a quiet cul de sac, standing near his expensive luxury sedan in a business suit with hands in his pockets. not many people paid attention to him, he was quite unassuming in his privileged attire, but Dirty D had, what i like to call, unreasonable desires.

the first person to ever encounter Dirty D, to ever really interact with him, was this kid named Wally. Wally, like most other tweens in the neighborhood, was simply riding his bike around when he came across him. he was alone at the time, and the conversation he had with Dirty D has been lost over the years to other, more memorable exchanges, but what my friend does remember is what Wally told him when he met up with the rest of his friends.

"there is this guy - you know the guy that you always see in the suit - i talked to him. he said he'd give me fifty bucks if i peed on his head, and twenty bucks for my socks."

my friend and his other friends didnt really believe Wally at the time, it seemed not only ridiculous, but the sheer perversion of the act was something they had yet to discover in life [these were suburban kids, sex was still foreign to them, and fetishes had hardly made a blip on their hormonal radar] but like any fourteen year old boy, he was curious. they all were.

so Wally, my friend, and another friend, all went to the edge of the cul de sac, where the man in the suit always stood with his hands in his pockets, and approached him about the proposition. to their surprise [and Wally's smug glee] the man confirmed the story. he would pay them fifty bucks each to pee on the back of his head, and give twenty dollars for the socks on their feet. the dirtier the better, he added. to sweeten the deal, he would have packs of clean socks in his trunk to trade with the socks they were parting with. thick, white, sports socks, just how they liked.

aware of, yet willfully ignoring, the strange sexual perversion of the act, the boys agreed to the transaction. according to my friend, they would go to the spot where Dirty D lurked once or twice a week, each making a little over a hundred dollars [and getting new socks] for their "work." seeing as how they werent even old enough to legally have a job, this was a small fortune to collect.

im not sure how long this went on, but eventually other kids in the neighborhood found out. this makes sense, as any kid with a hundred dollars on his person at any given time and always sporting a clean, white, new pair of socks, is going to raise suspicions amongst his peers. that and as a boy going through puberty, any excuse to brag or tell a story is taken advantage of immediately. soon though, forty kids or so were circling the area where Dirty D lurked, and, judging by his fine suits and fancy car, Dirty D wasnt a stupid man, so he stopped coming around. the Dirty D era quickly ended, the kids had killed it.

my friend is much older now, but he suspects that Dirty D just changed neighborhoods. and now there is a new generation of children sporting new socks and emptying their bladders on the back of Dirty D's head. i suspect this is probably true.

anyway, that is the legend of Dirty D

day of rest

2010-08-05T13:31:00.003-04:00

sunday was a miserable day at the bar. barely any asses in the stools, and those that were were too familiar. quiet and slightly brooding, nothing new to say, so saying nothing. they sat and stared at their drinks, slowly nursing them to near completion before raising a hand or nodding their head for a refill. every so often they would look up to me, searching for a solution in my eyes, an answer to the dull ennui that brought them there, but i had nothing. i only stared back from behind my own muted gloom.

i paced behind the bar tired and hungover. a customer would come in and id greet them with a forced cheer and they would smile weakly then sit near the door, as if they wanted an easy exit. they needed not to worry about me though, i wasnt trying to engage them. i was shut off for the day, running on autopilot. from the moment i walked in i knew the day was a wash. no joy to be had or money to be made. it was just a matter of counting the hours until i could close.

i had one or two beers towards the end of the night. by habit more than thirst. when last call came i only had to lean across the bar and explain the situation to a couple sitting near the window. i didnt have to lower the volume on the stereo or scream it three times to ensure everyone heard. i just needed to quietly let these two people know where we were in the night, and alert them that the end of things was around the corner. i barely raised my voice to tell them. i spoke in a slow and reasonable tone, as if i was divulging a small historical fact about the neighborhood, one that not many people knew.

change is gonna come

2010-07-25T15:08:00.003-04:00

im broke, and have bills that will need to be paid and bills that should have been paid and debts lurking in the shadows waiting for just the right moment to spring out at me. it is a tricky combination of things —that i have been in worse financial shape, that i know others that are in more difficult situations than i, that this is simply the american way— that prevents me from getting overwhelmed with worry about it. i have a job, so i know that money, even if it is meager, will be coming in. i have friends that, if my back were against the wall, wouldnt let me suffer too greatly. and i have part ownership in a company that, even if we couldnt afford it, has reserves for me to dip into if worse came to worse. all this keeps my head on straight. all this keeps me somewhat sane.

this still doesnt mean i am comfortable.

every penny counted and not a dollar saved. i buy cheaper beer and eat deli sandwiches for dinner. ive limited my stool time at the bars. i watch movies on television instead of going to the theater.

ive never been to concerned with fashion so my tattered threads have more than sufficed. i dont smoke much weed anymore so its not like im aching for a hit of green. music comes free to me, and i have plenty of books to read. but entertainment, regardless of my economic situation, has always been hard to come by.

i wonder if its time for change. if perhaps my job has gotten to small for me. if maybe i need to go out and find bigger and better things. i have talent, intelligence, and experience in a variety of fields. ive held myself back, waiting for the right job to come along, but this passive approach towards things may be what is holding me down.

what does a man that is about to turn 35 do when he decides its time to change careers. especially when he already has three, and is too deeply involved with two of them to let it go.

but also, what does a man do when he is about to turn 35 and has three jobs yet is still broke?

i need to reevaluate my life.

my five minutes is up.

five more minutes

2010-07-23T04:04:00.004-04:00

I never write at night anymore. I just can’t ever bring myself to do it. I sit down and I put my fingers on the keys but I cant press down on any one letter. It is as if I'm afraid to. As if I’m doing something wrong. Like cheating on a lover. or taking a drug I've said id never do again.

I have my theories why—

(one being that I’ve never had a singular voice. I’ve never had a strong argument. I go all over the place, and I began to wonder just who I was and just what I was saying with all this. I have this feeling that if I’m writing with no meaning than I’m wasting my time, my life, my breathing. That I’m an exercise without purpose. I have this feeling that if what I’m passionate about has no focus, then I’m doomed. I’m a wandering vessel, meandering aimlessly.

And at one point I thought I got on a roll. I thought I had figured something out about how I wrote and what I wrote and what I wanted to write. I produced a series of stories, and parts of a story, that all a certain satisfactory quality to them. They had a tone to them, a style. So I decided that I would designate all my writing to writing like that. But then that stopped me from writing whatever I wanted. Which stopped me from writing almost altogether, especially at night.)

—but I don’t know if they’re true or not. Or maybe my theories, of which there is more than one, are all true. This still doesn’t get me writing at night again, does it?

Oh well, guess ill continue trying during the day.

five minutes

2010-07-22T14:13:00.002-04:00

i hate working. i dont know what i hate more about it, the actual work part or the having work to do part. i guess the having work to do part, the work itself is just a process. once im involved with the work i just do it, but its the getting started and the KNOWING i need to get started that bothers me.

i need to start playing the lottery more.

no. no. that would just be an exercise in disappointment. the futility of hope clouding my realities. ill never win the lotto. just like ill never die in a plane crash. im not that lucky. im not that special.

the work im doing now - well, the work im supposed to be doing now - isnt so hard. im supposed to be writing. im supposed to be communicating with others. im supposed to be active.

im just so lazy. im trying to get myself into a routine. im trying to create a pattern in which i am happy to do work.

but its hard. so hard.

i much prefer being distracted. i much prefer the surprise of non entertainment. the tedium of reading meaningless articles on the internet. of laughing at silly pictures. of having mundane conversations.

i cant rely on anyone to ease this. and the fact that its all on me makes everything even more difficult. i cant even write nothing, musings and ponderings, for twenty minutes anymore. i write for five minutes and then i get bored with it all.

welp, five minutes are up.

pushing it down

2010-07-21T15:40:00.004-04:00

im dumbing myself down. or at least it seems that way.

i avoid movies with heavy themes. if there isnt shit blowing up or people farting or super heroes and lasers i dont have any interest in it.

i listen to the most popular music and without paying attention i nod my head along.

i read books, but not as many as i once did. i mostly read magazines these days.

i watch television, but mostly only standup and sitcoms, perhaps the occasional reality show. i dont have the patience to invest in any hour long dramas. they are never good anyway.

i let work distract me. and when im not working i let other things distract me.

i dont write. i collect new music.

i need a new routine.

barflys

2010-07-20T21:10:00.003-04:00

we only see each other during the happy hours. this, even when we are sad.

and with us are only memories and these memories go untold. the images of them faint and vague like reflections in a foggy mirror. the whiskey film at the bottom of a glass. the past left to haunt us and the comfort of our ghost. we swallow.

and there we were like young children carving our names into the canvas of the bar. pristine teeth and bloody gums and smiles that stretched from coast to coast. stories of drinks and the drinks that had drinks and the ink on the papers we refuse to throw away. the sentences that said everything and the looks behind them. the rounds the rounds the rounds.

and the impressions left upon us. stark and vivid.

and the sensations still linger like a surprise from yesterday.

bored and unaccomplished

2010-07-19T16:18:00.003-04:00

in the morning i wake up with beads of sweat crawling down my shoulders from my neck and face. the sun is boiling above nostrand avenue and the air is suspended in a grip of heat. i get up and rub my eyes with my fist and then blink a few times and yawn. one of the kitties jumps from the bed and walks to a shadow and lays down lazily. it is another day and another start to it.

at my desk i fire up my computer and sit in my leather office chair and a thick wet cloud of summer surrounds me. i open up my email and survey whats new and decide nothing is important and delete it all. i check my friend list and wonder who i want to chat with and wonder who wants to chat with me. there is a mutual vague interest between me and a few people so i open up a couple windows with a greeting of sorts. i dont have anything interesting to say. neither, it seems, do they.

i get up and i make coffee and feed the cats, who circle my feet in the kitchen with a slow, unaffectionate distance. when i open the fridge the cool air seems to lure one of them in and he jumps into the bottom rack, which is empty, like the rest of my fridge, and sniffs along the corners and rubs the edges of the crisper box with his face. for a moment i am jealous of him. of his size and the comforts of his luxurious life. of the ease in which he lives and breathes. sleeping when he wants and eating when he wants and demanding all he needs and getting every bit of it. now, in the merciless haze of summer he is in the coolness of my fridge and he is rubbing his face on things, making them his, and im staring at him bitter and tired and he isnt paying any attention to me at all.

i grab him by the skin at the back of his neck and pull him out and he falls to the floor and walks two steps then lays down casually. my other cat sits on the top of the garbage can staring curiously from me to him, a slight impatience in her wide eyes, waiting for the food to come. i pull two cans from the cupboard and open them up and spoon the contents into their bowls. chunks of fake beef and turkey in a syrupy gravy sauce. they eat with a greedy silence.

i sit back down at my desk with a cup of coffee in my hand. i roll a cigarette and think of the day. of all that it will bring. my head goes blank and my eyes glaze over and in a dream like state i let the sounds and the heat and the blur of the city wash over me.

coast to coast

2010-07-15T13:55:00.003-04:00

trip was great. california shit, and because She showed up two days after i did, in black and pink airwalks and her hair let down and her sister and her camera and her accent in tow, i did some touristy stuff i never do and rarely ever did. a visit to the art institute to see a diego rivera mural that covered the entire wall of a church, lychee martinis on the embarcadero, the view of golden gate bridge from a designated lookout point. we got drunk in the mission and i had a friend get us some cocaine and we went to the bathroom in twos and threes and did bumps off her hairclip while getting hypnotized by the graffiti. i took her to the get burritos on valencia and solicited on haight. we got stuck in traffic and listened to bay area hip hop on the radio.

i didnt plan on her being there, it just happened that way, but it turned out ok in the end.

before She got there though, i agreed to meet an ex girlfriend. one from high school. she reached out to me on facebook, married and with three kids, and wanted to hang while i was in town. we met at a bar and ended up at another. she told me she was still in love with me and it was because i left her that she'd been trapped in a miserable marriage for thirteen years. she said she fell in love with being in love, and grew desperate and latched on to the first guy that wanted her.

i stared at her blankly and sipped my jim beam and swigged my blue moon.

she told me i should have fought for her. that i should have wanted her more. she said that she didnt leave me and that i didnt leave her, but that we began to drift and i allowed it and that ultimately, because i was arrogant and self absorbed and had a short narrow focus on my future and my life, that i let her go. i let her go. that is the reason we arent together. that is the reason she is so sad.

then she tries to tell me that i dont understand what its like to be fought for because my mother never fought for me. that this is why i let her go. because i had never experienced what it felt like to be wanted so bad that a person would do anything to have me, so couldnt really appreciate it.

at this i put my drink down and stared at her. my mother did fight for me, i said, tooth and nail, always pulling me back into her life. but it was a mistake. she never should have. i was better off without her.

she said nothing to this and then slid closer to me and purred, i dont want to fight. after that i had a few more drinks and we continued on with some small talk, but i knew then and there that it was the last time id ever see her again.

that was the only hiccup. the rest of the trip was fab.

She and i went to my moms and sat by the pool and baked in the sun and i read a book and she did too. i took her there not to meet my mother but because its so out of the way we would have no other option but to relax. uncontrollable laziness. we drank coffee every morning and then beer by noon. ate a lot of fatty foods and watched a bad horror movie and had muffled sex so my mother wouldnt hear. in the early evening the temperature would drop and we would drink wine from a front lawn patio and watch the sky as it bled and bruised into night.

so this was my trip. now im back. the streets are dripping in heat. i cant tell if its good to be home or not.

calls of the contest

2010-06-27T14:38:00.003-04:00

i wouldnt say i have world cup fever, per se. perhaps i had a world cup 24 hour virus during the first week of round one. maybe the world cup runs after the first USA match. but not a fever. i have watched a few matches, only the later games, and enjoyed the spirit of the sport. but aside from the USA, i cant say i have any obligatory allegiance to a particular club. i do hope that mexico wins, based solely on the fact that im from california and growing up not only was one of my best friends mexican, but i do dearly love burritos. of course, being black, i try to root for the african teams. but when they inevitably get eliminated there is hardly any sense of loss in my heart. i go on unaffected. such is the nature of contest.

but what i have taken close note of, is the way the referees call the games. on multiple occasions i have seen a team robbed of a goal or a goal that should have been reversed get counted on the scoreboard. it seems that, unlike most other sports i watch, there is no conferring between refs to ensure a score, a foul, or a call is justly deserved. if the ref makes a call, the call stands, and sometimes this call will remain a mystery, as the refs themselves, protected by the lords of FIFA, dont have to justify their decisions.

in an early USA match, a goal was scored by an american striker but the score wasnt added because the ref called a foul. who the ref called the foul on remains a mystery, as the replays clearly showed no foul was committed by an american player (and in fact, a foul was clearly committed by a player of the opposing team), but no matter how much the american team protested, or how emphatically the question was posed just WHO the foul was on, the ref stayed mum. not only would he not engage the players in a discussion on what, who, and why the foul was called, he wouldnt even entertain the idea of explaining his decision. as the FIFA rules state, he has no obligation to reveal who the foul was on, and as the clock kept running, the american players had to eventually concede to the fact that they, as well as the commentators, the spectators, and the world viewership, would never know just why that goal didnt count.

earlier today, with the score 2-1 in favor of germany, an english player kicked a sweet 20 yarder into the goal. it should have tied the game and the two teams should have went into the half with the match tied 2-2. but because the ball hit the top post and bounced into the goal, the ref called that it didnt count. this, even though on review, the ball very clearly bounced at least a yard and a half into the net. now, this replay is shown on a screen at the stadium, and repeated multiple times on television, but once the ref made his call, it stood. there was no backing out of it. england went into the half down by one goal, and with their second half strategy reflecting this deficit, they were eliminated from the cup. bitter and dejected, a stink is sure to rise on their london shores upon return.

and now, watching the argentina and mexico match, the first goal was scored by argentina. when the replay was shown, it was obvious the argentinian player was offsides. decidedly by two yards or more, yet the goal counted. the mexican players, deservedly frustrated and protesting the goal, pleaded with the ref to look up at the screen, at the replay, so he could see with his own eyes what the rest of the world saw. the ref refused. he held his whistle in his mouth, he threatened to pull out his yellow card, he ordered the players back onto the field. now im not going to say that argentina wont eventually win, and that that unfortunate goal will be the deciding factor, but at some point, you have to wonder if there is such thing as justice in the sport of futbol. even if argentina go on to win 6-0, the dark cloud of that non-call will hang above the history of this match.

but i suppose in many ways this reflects life. there are no replays in life. no make up calls when you suffer the fate of a bad decision. no refs confer to deliberate whether an action you made, or an action against you, was fair or not. time doesnt stop so judges can study a replay and determine what is reasonable and what isnt. once it happens it has happened and we have to live with the fate of things. we cant pick the wrong lover then say, "oh wait, that person misrepresented themselves to me, i want a do-over." we cant trip into a crosswalk, get plowed by a car, and then have time rewind so we can attempt to cross the street again, this time without any slips-ups. we cant take back the things we said. we rarely have a chance to say the things we didnt get to say.

so in that respect, i suppose the sport differs from most others. we have to live with the decisions that have been made, and the consequences that befall them. hopefully in the end we can consider the contest fair and just, and that the final score reflects the efforts that were made. its a shame things dont work out, but we have to face things as they are given to us. cest la vie. onward and upward.

Golden Age

2010-06-24T01:26:00.003-04:00

I get this feeling that everything is rushing at me. My boss at the bar, with her text hissing into my phone every morning. The deadlines I set for myself in order to practice my craft and the dull buzz I hear when I sit down to write. The dumb television shows and magazine articles I read while half asleep and taking a shit. The electric bill the cable bill my rent and my drinking habit. My heart spidering out in new directions and the bleeding insects caught in its web. The collapse of old industry and the frightening rise of another. The threat of success and the lure of failure. The fearless cowardice and all the pride attached to it.

All this rushing at me as I pay for two sangrias at a bar on 4th avenue. And she takes hers and puts it to her smiling mouth and her lips embrace the straw and on the flat screen above her head Germany scores a goal against Ghana in the world cup. Her eyes never leave mine and I feel my phone vibrating alive in my pocket. The bartender mentions a trivia night and I say yeah I'm thinking of starting one where I work and ask him how his is going and he says its stellar and I take a mental note of this.

We are in line at dmv and she’s cracking wise about people in the waiting area and I'm filling out a license renewal form and security guards stand in front of a hanging flat screen showing the early matches highlights. England and USA advance in their group and the guards groan at the Ghana/Germany score. When I get up to the counter the lady ask if I want to take a new picture for my license. I stammer out that ill do whatever is easiest and she says that wasn’t what she asked. I say no and laugh nervously at how slow I can be and she paperclips a paper to my form and tells me to move to the waiting area and ill hear my number called.

I'm sitting at home and this rushing has hit a wall. Or perhaps it was just too much all at once and like a stopped up colon I'm paralyzed by it. The TV is on and my computer is on and I'm chatting and reading and worrying and my cats are sprawled out on the floor begging I turn on the ac and a beer bottle is expiring before me and a single dollar bill in on my desk and I'm afraid to touch it. I have to wake up early and be at work early. I have a deadline on the horizon that I've made no strides to meet. I’ve got tense muscles in my shoulders and neck. My shirt sticks to my skin and my forearms are slick and shiny. I want to sleep but I cant. I couldn’t if I tried.

forced entry #223

2010-06-22T16:51:00.004-04:00

i got on the train at 14th street, had walked there from 23rd down 7th avenue. the station was so hot the walls were sweating and the dull buzzing from the lights got muffled in the humidity. people stood along the platform shifting in their damp clothes, looking down the tunnel every so often, searching for oncoming subway lights, the relief of an air-conditioned car. i walked to the front and waited while leaning on a beam that was covered in cracked, eroded paint that chipped and fell in the heat. like sunburned skin peeling away. it finally arrived and with it a barreling wind that blasted through the station like hot breath. i got in the car and found a seat and opened up my book.

the first thing i notice is that there was no ac. the second is that the floor near my seat is sticky. the third is that there is no ac.

i take a deep breath and let my shoulders slump and scoot further into the corner. at the next stop two women get on and one sits down next to me, beckoning her friend to sit next to her. the one next to me is large and wearing brown stretch pants and a huge tshirt that hangs in folds over her belly. her friend is wearing jeans and a jean jacket and her shirt sparkles pink beneath it. the hips on the one next to me push me further in the corner but i dont mind, i like the cushiony feeling of them against my leg.

she begins to fall asleep and her head lolls from side to side with the swaying train. her friend remains awake and looks at all the advertisements lining the car. i can see beads of sweat on the sleeping woman and her eyes fluttering and i wonder if she is having a dream and if so of what. is it hot in her dream? is she thinner? the train stops and she opens her eyes and slowly looks around then lets her head fall limp again and her eyes close and the dream resumes.

when i get to my stop and get off the train people rush by me to get on. i overhear one person say, shit there aint no ac on in here, and it makes me wonder why no one else seemed to notice before. as i walk up the stairs and the train begins to speed away i take another look into the car and see the large, slumbering woman. her eyes were still closed. i hoped she was still dreaming.

yummy in my tummy

2010-06-16T22:32:00.002-04:00

there are two of them. one of them is in an aluminum bowl with a cardboard lid and the other one is in ten by ten styrofome box. i havent opened either, but im assuming one is filled with pasta and the other with buffalo wings. i will open one, but which one i havent determined yet. they both taste so good. i cant eat them both. i just dont have the capacity.

im at war with warm food.

*UPDATE: i opted to open the wings first. it was a good decision.

forced entry #415

2010-06-16T19:14:00.002-04:00

i have a friend whos birthday is today. he's turning thirty six years. in some context, that's pretty old. but in others, hes still a kid. its funny, as the years go by and we grow in age, we are simultaneously reminded of how old we are getting, and how young we still are.

when i refer to people in their mid twenties, i do it in a fashion that suggest they are still infantile in many ways, that supposes they have much to learn, and that there is still an innocence about them that, if they are smart, they will treasure and not take for granted. at the same time, when i was in my mid twenties i felt mortality begin to close in upon me, the suffocation of adulthood had begun to settle, and i assumed a weariness that has yet to go away.

now im closing in on my mid thirties and the sensation of time falling away too quickly always leaves me in a panic. i wake up with this sick sense of urgency that i never felt before. the feeling of unaccomplishment pervades in me. i have to get things done. if i dont it will be too late.

my friend though, he has other ideas about life. another year comes and goes and he maintains the slow, steady pace he has been on since i met him in high school. he still lives with his mother. he still brags about the things he will accomplish, the dreams that are never quite in his reach, the goals he hopes he'll eventually achieve. for work, he owns a small, insignificant car detailing business, which he inherited from his brother ten years ago, and proceeded to squander as the decade wore on. what was once a two thousand dollar a week business now maybe nets him fifteen hundred dollars a month. he commutes to the city from the suburbs, every night, to meet with his friends and drink cheap beer while hitting on women who are getting increasingly too young for him. hes been doing this since we were sixteen.

i tell him to move from his mothers place. i plead with him to escape [thats what it would be, an escape]. he agrees that he should, but then goes over the list of reasons why there is no way he can. he explains how he needs to save money for a place. how he ruined the little bit of credit he had when he was younger, so its difficult to find a place of his own. how his small number of clients are all over the bridge or through the tunnel, not far from his mothers place, deep in the dull streets of suburbia. he says he cant find anyone who he would want to live with, then goes over the failed attempts hes made at finding a place with friends he COULD tolerate [all those friends eventually found places on their own, hes the only one that remained defeated in the ventures]. finally he admits that, at this stage in his life, the prospect of moving out and onto his own, is a profoundly frightening pursuit.

i agree, it must be.

i wonder sometimes if its too late for him to move. that he is so deeply settled into this rut, that it would be harder work to get out of it than it would be to just go on as it is. hes let his childhood firmly wrap itself around his entire life. his security blanket is attached to his skin. he goes no where without it, he cant. he is a shining example of a person in arrested development.

oh well, this just came to me as i sat down at the old computer. i dont fault the guy for it. maybe id do the same thing if i could. happy birthday bro, i hope you never see this post.

bad code

2010-05-31T13:57:00.003-04:00

im not very savvy when it comes to the internet. i can surf it pretty well, and i have no problem navigating its many pages and sites, but doing something like, say, building a webpage or adding fancy images to this here blog are beyond me.

thats why i no longer have links to my favorite sites on the sidebar of this page.

i was fussing around with the html of my site —i forget what it was i was trying to do. perhaps change the comments format or the overall font, or maybe trying to add a clever picture to my header— and i changed some things in the html then hit "save changes" instead of previewing it first. when i looked at the changes i had saved i realized that i had erased all my links. in a minor panic i attempted to revert back to the original format but by then it was too late. and i have no idea what it was i had put, or where i had put it, that allowed me to add links to my page.

when i first started this site a friend of mine, who had encouraged me to do it because back then blogs were all the rage, gave me the html code from which to link my friends. from there i would just copy and paste it, changing the web addresses and names to reflect the correct page. but i dont remember what that code was and, maybe because im too lazy or maybe because im ashamed, i havent asked my friend who how to do it again.

Snooze tried to help at some point, and i think i tried her tricks, but apparently they didnt work. it could be that i was doing it wrong, it wouldnt be the first time, but i gave up after one feeble attempt.

now i wish i could link the people and pages i like. not for the traffic but because i like to share. there arent many but those that there are mean most. if anyone knows how to link friend on blogger, help a brother out. that is, if anyone actually read this trite anymore...

snap shot

2010-05-25T17:45:00.004-04:00

i was on a swing. it was black rubber and hung above a sandbox. i was swinging back and forth, extending my legs out on the upswing and bending them back while going back down. when at the height i would be beaming and at the same time repressing the ache to jump out and beyond, and on the way down i would breath a sigh of relief that the ache was no longer there and at the same time anticipate the ache swelling up again upon ascension. while moving my legs, i made the motions hesitantly, because i am so tall and it felt awkward moving them in such a way, ugly, retarded, especially when my feet kicked up sand at the bottom of the stroke. but i pretended i didnt notice, or at least i pretended no one else noticed.

it was me, jimmy, aaron, and two girls whose name i forget. the girls were sitting on the wooden jungle gym. one was at the bottom of the slide, the other was at the top of the apparatus, in a domed area surrounded in colored plastic windows. i could see spontaneous sparks igniting inside the plastic windows dull reflection, exposing the colors they were made from. green and red and blue, the top a dirty yellow witches hat. aaron and jimmy sat at the edges of the sandbox and jimmy was making patterns in the sand with his foot and aaron was staring down and jimmy's foot and no one was saying anything.

it was a summer warm morning still black with night. the air was thick in cricket chirps, boredom and shyness. the girl on the slide lit a cigarette and asked what we were going to do, but we all knew that there was no answer to that. there, in the quiet lunacy of youth, we were to do exactly what we were doing.

nothing

2010-05-18T15:41:00.004-04:00

in the past i would dj every day. i called it practice because thats what it was. i'd spend at least two hours a day standing behind the decks, trying to perfect my craft. organizing records i thought would sound good together. putting together sets that i hoped would translate the meaning behind the melodies. i relished in the process, completely consumed by the notes i could possibly create. i wont say i ever reached perfection, but i got pretty good.

it wasnt the end result i am most impressed with today, but the discipline of it all that i displayed back then. without fail i would, every day, close my bedroom door, pick out about an hour and a half of records [usually inspired by new ones i got and curious on how they blended with the old ones i already had] and —always hitting record before i began — make yet another attempt at creating the best set id ever done.

this was my life for a good ten years, with a few minor hiatus's to have my heart broken or get lost in drugs. i cant say whether or not i wanted to become the best dj in san francisco, or if i wanted to be adored for my skills behind the "ones and twos," or if i wanted to become a minor celebrity on the club circuit, or if i wanted to evolve into a full fledged musician of sorts. i only knew i wanted to be able to speak with music. i knew i wanted to be able to take the sounds in my head and make them actually come out of speakers. it was a lofty goal, but a reasonably modest one by my standards. i didnt want to be the best dj. but i wanted to become a great dj.

and in some ways, i did.

by the end of my stay in san francisco i was djing regularly at all the big clubs in the city, and most of the small ones too. i was rarely recognized on the street, but when i played people came to hear me and the sound that i tried to create. it was a satisfying feeling; i wasnt completely accomplished in what i wanted to achieve, but i had gotten into the dirt of my desires. i had dug into my future and planted my seeds.

then i got bored with it all.

it wasnt the art of djing i got bored with, but the music i was djing. so when i moved to new york i began to dj a completely different style, mixing all kinds of genres except the one that inspired me to dj in the first place. this worked for a while, though i never got to the status i had when i was living in san francisco. i even reverted back to djing house —the initial style of music i djed in san francisco— every now and again, only to impress the dancefloor even more with my experience with the genre. but it wasnt the same.

eventually i decided to focus on writing, something id been doing for years even before i wanted to become a dj. this led me back to school, and turned my goals a different color. instead of trying to succeed in a field that was uncertain in music, i decided to succeed in a field that was uncertain in words. i stopped djing as regularly as before. i stopped buying new music. and finally, when i moved into my own place, i lent my friend my turntables, so that even if i wanted to, i couldnt practice at will.

now im involved in sentences and phrases. words attached and detached from meaning. now i work in meter and rhythm, but not the kind i worked in before. i cant go out and buy new words to inspire a new story. i cant peruse crates of sentences in hopes that they become a pillar to a new set. its all on me now, in my head. and sometimes my head is blank.

like today.

i have nothing inside me. no stories no poems no phrases no nothing.

party crashers

2010-05-11T16:10:00.003-04:00

im going to a bar. its always a bar. this one id never been to before and it is the last night its open so i feel obligated to attend its final rounds. as if the importance of that particular institution cant be ignored. like the shuttering of its doors is the end of something special. but i never went there and to be honest, never planned to go. its only the desperate feeling that id be missing out on something that urges me to make the trek. truth is, if it closed then it would be just another thing that came and went and id go on fine and the world would continue its steady rotations. no need to mourn the ghost never known.

i get to the bar and there is a friend and she is standing among a thick crowd of loud people all huddled in a mass outside the bar doors. She is on her phone. many are on their phone. talking to friends or family in persuasive voices, trying to convince the rest of the world that there is no where else they should be. it is a warm night and cars are out and these pleading voices rise in the air. my friend is texting and when i walk up her face is disgusted and she nods to the bar, packed wall to wall with people drunk in mournful celebration, and sneers.

do you even want to go in? she ask.

yes.

we walk in and squeeze through the thick, boisterous patrons, all slurping on their drinks and screaming at each other and throwing their heads back in laughter and muttering excuse me when their elbows bump a passing person. the bartender is drunk but still trying to take care of as many people as possible, spilling shots on the bar and slamming beer bottles and letting the suds rise and fall down the sides of their necks, calculating totals and getting them wrong and shoving the change in his overflowing tip cup. we order a couple beers and a whiskey. i take them in my hand and scan the place for a space to fill.

lets go sit and that booth with those people, she says, pointing to booth with a guy sitting in it alone, clearly waiting for someone else. he has glassy eyes and long, almost spiritual hair, and he is staring ahead patiently, the empty glass in front of him waiting to be replenished.

we scoot towards the booth and she leans in and says something to him i cant hear and he nods his head and moves some half full pints to the far side of the table, ushering us in. we sit down and i nod to him and he just slowly blinks his eyes in return. no one says anything for a moment, the confused din of a thousand conversations speaks for all of us. then finally she introduces herself, then me, and he extends his hand over the table and tells us his name. upon hearing it i ask him to repeat it just once more.

Gattica, he says.

it takes everything in my power not to ask if he's from the future. but then just as soon as it interested me, his unique name is a thing of the past. he goes on to explain he is an indian, even offering that its the feather kind, not dot. she pinches me under the table at this bold definition and we share a quiet laugh at his expense.

his girlfriend comes to the booth and sits on the side opposite of us. she is wearing a red tanktop and has tattoos covering both her pale arms and a large one on her chest that reaches up to her neck. she tells us her name but the noisy confusion that surrounds us steals the sound coming from her mouth. we smile and reach over the table and shake her hand. then there is a brief quiet at the booth that no one cares to address. we all sip our beers. i finish my whiskey. finally Gattica speaks.

who's got the weed?

the question seems to come shooting from my teenage past. me and my friend look at one another then shrug. i explain i dont have any on me and that these days, because im so busy, i rarely get to smoke as often. i cant tell if i said that to appear cool to him or if it was because it is the truth. he seems to dismiss it all together then launches into a rant about how he can hardly function with out smoking at least four to five joints a day. that it keeps him even. i nod slowly in understanding and grunt because i really have nothing else to say on the matter. he goes on to give us an oral history of his smoking habits, how often he does smoke and how much it means to him. i cant gather weather or not it is because of some religious, native american thing, or because hes a typical, american stoner. i lean towards the former, as it doesnt seem he has any passion other than smoking weed and being stoned and living for that unfortunate identity. i finish my beer and she finishes hers.

i turn to her. do you want to get more drinks, or leave? she shrugs, but behind that shrug is a plea to make our exit.

Gattica and his tattooed girlfriend speak to each other in whispers and it occurs to me that i dont belong there at at. that it is not my scene and that i was trying to be part of something i would never be accepted to. im a party crasher. i grab her hand under the table and squeeze it and look towards the door. she takes the hint and slides up from the booth.

it was nice meeting you guys, she lies.

you too, they lie back.

we shove are way to the exit and into the warm night air. it is early enough for cars to still be rumbling down the streets in long, illuminated processions. the crowd still huddles outside, waiting to get in.

well, im never going back there again, she says.

you cant, i say, ever.

another commercial break

2010-05-05T23:29:00.004-04:00

i found myself thinking about the white castle burger candle today. its a scented candle that smells like white castle burgers, if the name confused you.

i cant tell if its a brilliant new high in marketing, or an invasion of the senses by a fast food chain. i suppose maybe its both.

i mean, those that would buy a candle, that was scented like a white castle burger, are probably white castles target market demographic. so it makes perfect sense. except now instead of white castle having to wait until surge in hunger strikes or a tv advert inspires them, white castle is right there in their living room, teasing their olfactory system with the help of some wax and fire.

i, personally, feel sick even thinking about it. serious, i am slightly ill just considering the idea that the independent smell of white castle burgers exist.

and its not that i havent indulged in the gorging of five too many tiny, nearly pill like white castle burgers in one sitting myself; on multiple occasions i have, in fact. im not ashamed of it. but the inevitable consequences of these particular lapses always outweigh the pleasure of the experience. the unease that follows the meal just cant be forgotten.

at least for a while, until the alcohol and weed even the scales again.

but i cant say im not curious to actually smell it myself.

i cant imagine that anyone buying a white castle burger scented candle is thin. they have to be fat. and if they arent, then soon they will be. its inevitable. what else would a white castle burger lover not be able to resist, other than the smell of white castle burgers? if a person dies from a heart attack, because they bought white castle burger scented candles and was subtly URGED to go out and buy white castle burgers because the aroma of them just made thought of going without them any longer UNBEARABLE, would the spouse be able to sue?

another one of them

2010-03-30T18:12:00.004-04:00

the name of her wont come to me right now and i suppose, when i think of it, that this is fitting. i knew her when i went to catholic school in second grade. we all had to wear uniforms that the school sold us. the boys wore light blue shirts with navy blue pants and they came folded and wrapped in plastic. the girls wore pleated plaid skirts and the same light blue shirts as we did. there was an insignia on the breast pocket and i would finger it absentmindedly while thinking of the things you think of at age seven. toys on a saturday out of earshot of my grandparents. sugar cereals getting soggy in sugar milk. weeds growing up from cracks in the sidewalk. all the etc's of innocence and youth.

i noticed her one afternoon as we all filed in line to go back into class after recess. she had light brown skin and straight hair pulled back in a pony tail that revealed a face sweeter than all the sugar cereals in a summer of saturdays. she had legs that struck up from her socks like long sticks of cinnamon. and arms that were smooth and thin and seemed to absorb all the sunlight. at least thats how i remember her, but some memories are like melodies you cant place but just run through your head. this is how the past becomes legend. how legend becomes myth.

i spoke to her. trying to flirt before i knew what flirting was. i made jokes and poked fun of how she pulled her socks so far up. i smiled at her a lot and tried to get her to smile back. at recess i would lurk around her and her friend and make a fool of myself in attempts to get her to laugh. id get crushed under her reactions. when she wouldnt look id get disappointed. when she would laugh id feel the day worth every breath.

i began to walk her home, it was only slightly out of my way. her towering apartment building only a few blocks from the curvy brick street i lived down. i would dance around her nervously, like a curious dragonfly around the foliage of a lake. she would smirk and watch me dance and with her large eyes follow me slyly. i never stopped moving or speaking for fear that in the space between she would realize who she was with and ask herself why she was with them. we never held hands and we never hugged, we never let our skin touch. i just tried to make her laugh and she smiled and giggled and said very little back.

on a day that followed a snow storm, when the streets were a light blanket of snow, i walked her home again. it had been a few weeks and we had fallen into the habit. she would sometimes even wait for me after school, but i was rarely late to the exit gates and usually stood there waiting for her. where she lived was a straight walk down the street the led from the schools entrance. if you stood in the right place at the right time you could see her towers cast its looming shadow towards the playground.

that day, midway to her house, i realized i had forgotten my backpack on a bench. i asked her to go back with me but she refused, saying her parents wanted her home right after school and if she was late even a little she would get into trouble. i didnt ask her twice because i didnt want her to refuse me again. it was cold and evening was approaching fast so i just said goodbye and ran back alone.

i got to the corner across the street from the entrance and looked both ways before i crossed. i dont know how i missed it, perhaps i wasnt thinking. perhaps i was looking as a routine but not really paying attention to what i looked at. my mind swam in the colors of her. all i could think of was the following day after school and walking her home and making her smile. even the sound of tires screeching on the pavement didnt pull me from my trance. even the car horn blaring was a distant alarm never meant for me.

i didnt feel it hit me but i remember flying through the air and the grey sky above me whooshing by in a dreary blur. i remember lying there crying and i remember a woman looking over me and she looked like she was crying too, which made me cry even harder. i dont remember the pain but i remember not wanting to move. the commotion of concern. the screams for an ambulance.

i was in the hospital overnight as the doctors ran test. they said i had a few bad bruises and a couple minor fractures but that i was a strong kid and would be ok. they said i should be more careful. they said i was lucky.

the day after i returned from the hospital i stayed home from school again. i didnt want to but my grandmother thought it was best. one of the kids from my class brought me a card all the kids had made telling me to get better and wishing me the best. i searched for her name to see what she had written but it must not have been much, because i cant remember if she even signed the card now.

when i got back to school some kids made a fuss but most didnt. children are self absorbed creatures that dont know the meaning of worry until they have experienced significant loss. we were too young to have such unfortunate wisdom in us yet. she was distant but i pretended not to notice. after school i lurked behind but didnt wait at the gates. i could see as she met another guy and as he began walking her in the direction of her home. i could see as he danced around her and as she followed him slyly with her eyes. i could see his backpack was loose and he kept shrugging it up onto his shoulders.

close call

2010-03-18T14:49:00.002-04:00

i woke up today unsettled. not for any particular reason, at least not one thats front and center on my mind, but unsettled nonetheless. there was something wrong, some invisible defect to the day. i was groggy and i made my coffee and i let the feeling linger and spread in me, hoping it would reveal some origin that i could then untangle. but it didnt.

so i sat at the computer and my eyes were half open and i checked my email and said hi to people online. the sensation was still in me, like a slow acting poison, but i tried to ignore it, hoping it would pass. i made as if the day was just as pleasant as it appeared. the sky clear and blue and cloudless. the sun charming the streets with a delicate warm. i sipped my coffee. i smoked a cigarette. the feeling stayed. i wondered why.

in an attempt to produce something of the day i decided to do some homework. my head was still filled in the hanging smoke of long nights past. i sipped more coffee. i wondered what was wrong. i searched for my backpack.

i searched for my backpack.

i searched for my backpack.

i couldnt find it.

the feeling inside began to gel, to coagulate into something real, something you could touch. i let the panic lurk in the deeper distances of me. my backpack had to be somewhere. i look under the couch. under the bed. in closets. everywhere i know it isnt. my house is not that large. you can not hide many things in my house.

i couldnt find it. i sat and let my mind go over the recent history of my week. i was here with it i was there with it i walked everywhere with it i felt it on my shoulders still. i rarely go anywhere without it. where could it be?

i call a friend maybe i left it at their house. i know i didnt but i still call. then i think more. harder. slowly and more deliberately.

the bar. i was at a bar. i was drinking tall pints of high alcohol content beer that came in strange shaped glasses that make it seem as if youre a scientist celebrating a great discovery. i had a few shots of whiskey and i put it all on my credit card. i was smiling and my nerves were faint shadows on the day. i felt good. i had my backpack on the floor. i had my elbows on the bar. i had another shot before i left. i tipped the bartender well. i always do.

its been two days since. i hadnt wore my backpack yesterday because i didnt plan on doing work and i wanted to hear the sounds of the city, the buzz of the subway, the din of traffic, so i didnt wear my ipod.

it must be at the bar. it has to be.

i call them. no answer. i call again. no answer.

i do chores around the house and the poison is spreading in me. a slow acting virus climbing up towards my throat. i call the bar again. no answer. i never lose my backpack. ever. its part of me. it holds everything i hold. physically and metaphysically. it holds my hopes and my hopes are on the sheets of paper that are in my backpack. what am i without my hopes.

i try the bar again. someone answers.

"hi, i think i left a backpack there on tuesday nigh-"

"what color is it?"

"its dark black and gray, its a swiss army backp-"

"yeah, we got it. its here. its safe."

"thank you god. thank you god."

for that, i drink a beer. i sigh a sigh i will remember for years to come.

when

2010-03-11T15:08:00.002-05:00

it is the kind of day that begs you to be outside. the windows are open and and the shades pulled up. clothes are thinner and layers have been shed. an almost unfamiliar happiness begins to ripen with in us. people stroll slowly down the avenue and stare into the trees. searching for the promise of spring; the comfort of bloom. but nothing is growing yet. not yet. its coming though.

bad posture

2010-03-10T19:19:00.007-05:00

I am sitting on a red chair that I inherited from an old friend. It is a cramped little thing of delicate aesthetic that used to swivel but swivels no more. It hurts my back after I sit in it for long. But I sit in it for hours, so I guess I'm asking for it. I keep saying I should get a new one. It’s on my list. An ergonomic one with a tall back that reclines and has nice soft, thick cushion layer on top a sturdy back support. But I never do, for a variety of reasons.

I get up to stretch and go to the store across the street. As I reach the corner a young couple kisses good-bye and she smiles up at him and you can see that all her heart is in that smile and the beat of traffic seems to stop between their eyes. For a moment I'm overwhelmed and hypnotized by it. Then she begins to walk away from him still looking back and his hand lingers on her arm for a breath. They part and he looks forward into the street and she looks down at the ground, still smiling, walking ahead.

I walk into the store and there are a few men talking with one another, packed in the front while an older woman stands thinly behind in one of the aisles. The men are all wearing heavy dark coats, unfooled by the balmy day. The woman is in tight pants and a small top with a light jacket that doesn’t reach her waist. She is shy and frail and I think probably looks older than she really is. The skin on her face hangs unevenly. One of the men interrupts what he’s saying to usher me forward in line. He is not ready to purchase just yet, he is still conversing. I buy a beer and a pack of cigarettes. The man who let me forward in line is asking his friend why, if he didn’t have any weed, he is buying all that candy. The friend is muttering and the man is asking what? As I leave I nod at the man and he nods back and then I glance at the woman and she stares hollowly.

I am sitting on my chair and my friend is talking to me about the situations that surround us. I am drinking my beer and smoking a cigarette and mostly listening to him. He has this idea that the universe has a history of bad patterns, as if the veins of reality were filled with gloom. He is telling me that everything is meant to be defective. It’s never going to work out in the end. That only a very select few of us are every really happy, and the rest of us just suffer through a series of painful trials in hopes to maybe have a brief spell of enlightenment before we die. I told him he was in a bad mood and I stubbed out my cigarette, then i shifted in my seat a little because my back began to ache.

one of them

2010-03-06T19:29:00.005-05:00

i was young and at a nightclub in san francisco. it was a meat market and i didnt really belong there. it wasnt the sort of club i was fond of going to at that time. i was more into clubs where the music was the focal element, and the sex was just a consequence of things. at this club the sex was front and center, everyone had the same agenda. the music was just there for distraction.

i was standing at the bar and unconsciously sipping on a long island ice tea when i noticed her dancing there. she was in a black dress and her hair was up and her eyes were ice blue and her mouth was full and round. she had a piercing, a hoop in her bottom lip. she was dancing with her side facing me and her hips rhythmically thrusting forward and her eyes on my eyes and her bottom lip between her teeth. i stared back at her. when i left i had her phone number and she had mine.

a few days later i called in sick to work. i dont remember why, i guess i was just feeling under the weather that day. i hadnt talked to her —her name was sarah— and in a way i didnt plan to. she was gorgeous, out of my league. i was lucky to have even met her. i took it as an accomplishment that i even got her number, and filed it away for bragging rights. i never wanted to sully the experience. but she called. right there in the middle of the afternoon on a day that i happened to call in sick to work. it was like kismet. i was immediately smitten.

we began to hang out fairly regularly, which was maybe once or twice a week. we spoke on the phone every day. she lived across the bridge with her mother. i lived with roomates in the city. when we could manage it, she would come over and we would watch rented movies while drinking vodka cranberries. i would kiss her on the couch in between laughs. when we were both drunk enough i would fumble through nervous sex. i always tried my best, but im not sure i ever satisfied her.

she began talking about an old boyfriend from new york. his name would just pop up in the conversation more and more. she had partied fairly heavily with him, he was a drug dealer of sorts, and had seemed quite taken by his rebellious courage. i had partied a lot, and was quite proud of my battle wounds, but she said he took partying to another level. one i didnt even know. you wouldnt even want to know, she said.

i was a dj and was sometimes writing for a music magazine but it didnt seem very impressive to either of us. i hardly djed and wasnt very good at the time, and i never got paid for my writing. i was always broke. i would always fumble.

i had a friend who was a music producer and dj himself. he seemed nice and shy and introverted and we got along well enough. one day the three of us went to a concert. she drove. her and i had gone through a little spat, where i had gotten insecure for a bit and tried to ignore her to get attention, but she gave in and that night we all were in good spirits. i dont remember the show, who was playing or how well they played, i just drank my nerves away and toyed with her hands.

when she drove us home she dropped me off first. i was hurt and disappointed that she didnt want to come upstairs with me, but tried to play it off as if it didnt matter and said good bye smiling. the next day i called her but her mother said she wasnt home. i called my friend but he didnt answer the phone. the poison of jealousy infected me. i walked near his house looking for her car. i knew something was up. i didnt see her car so went home and called them both again. there was no answer on either end. my head was racing. i sat and stood and sat and buried my face in my palms and then sighed. i call her again and she didnt answer. there was a hollow fear and sadness inside me. it was growing dark. i called him once more and he finally picked up. i asked him if she was there. he said yes.

they both said they felt bad but i called her a whore and i scolded him for being a foul friend. me and her stopped speaking. me and him stayed friends for a little while but i never rid myself of the poison and it was never the same. eventually we stopped speaking too. he turned out to be a disagreeable person and there was a bitterness inside me that i could never let go of. cest la vie.

i only say this because a broken heart remains. it never goes away. and i hadnt posted in a long time.

rotting brain

2010-02-16T13:56:00.004-05:00

the streets are covered in the cold white of fallen sky. of the frozen ocean come back to blanket us. it is in this weather that we find comfort in solitude. wrapping ourselves in thick cotton and wool. heavy socks and oversized sweaters. small comforters and long underpants. building around us a soft warm womb from which to hide from the world.

it is in this weather that i try to find focus. without the distractions of life to bother me, i gather my thoughts and attempt to drive them forward. there are responsibilities i need to tend to, duties that must be done. i have work from school, i have work outside of school, i have work that is personal, work on myself.

but im having trouble finding the rhythm. my thoughts are scattered all about. i am a mess of emotions, a confusion of ideas. even typing these sentences is a trying task.

lately ive been trying to watch movies, but i cant seem to finish them. some of them i cant even start. this is a frustrating development, because not only do i love watching movies, but i like to pride myself with having the patience to sit through a good, thought provoking feature when its presented to me.

but i cant even sit through a normal 90 minute spectacle these days, let alone a slow moving, dialog driven piece that leaves the viewer with something to chew on. i would think that a movie which is meant solely to be a visual experience, a flick that is designed to entertain the eyes and less the mind, would be an easy thing to take in. i mean, such movies dont ask for your undivided attention, youre hardly even required to follow the plot. yet, i get two thirds through them and somehow lose concentration, or maybe it is interest i lose; but by the time the credits are rolling my mind is somewhere else. ive missed the end and i hardly care.

what does this mean, i ask myself. is there too much in my head i am trying to ignore, and to sit and attempt to focus on something longer than an hour become too much to bear? are their situations swirling inside that ive chosen to evade? are my classic attempts to escape no longer effective?

on this day, as the city is suffocated in cold, i once again attempt to find focus. i eschew the quick cuts of modern living. i dismiss the insignificant flashes that infest our attention. i plan to get things done. i plan to surrender to my womb. i am dressed for it. my intent is in the right place. i am moving forward today. i am moving forward.

forced entry #370 - dull morning

2010-02-12T13:21:00.003-05:00

i only have 20 minutes to write and usually twenty minutes isnt enough time to write anything of note but fortunately i have nothing to say so i guess ill just meander along and impart nothing.

on thursday night i work until late. i get home at about 3am. it takes me about three hours to unwind and finally close my eyes, so usually by the time i get to sleep the sun is rising and the day has begin for most. this wouldnt be any such burden if i didnt have to be back to work at 3pm the following day. which means by the time i wake up i have to start getting ready to leave again.

it is friday.

last night was a typical evening. i got home at my usual time and had a beer and ate a bit , then laid on the couch and let the drone of sitcoms lull me to sleep. i woke up in the same position and moved to the bed and by then the sky was beaming and traffic had begun to roar down the avenue. sophie climbed into the bed with me and gently clawed at my am until i petted her. she likes to get under the covers and hide from miles, her motor running hot and her soft fur against my naked belly. i stroked her as much as i could before the second wave of exhaustion overwhelmed me and i nodded back to sleep.

i woke up and was immediately challenged by all that i need to accomplish today. of course i only have an hour or two before i have to get ready for work, so i had to plan a strategy accordingly. the house is a mess but there is no time to worry about that. i have to write a recommendation letter for an old professor of mine trying to gain tenure ship but my brain isnt working that clearly yet. there were a few emails i needed to write, one or two may get achieved, we'll see. first i made coffee. then i filled the kitties bowls with food. then i sat down at the computer. what should i do first.

i guess ill force an entry into the ole blog.

Forced Entry #22: dreams - that which i do not want

2010-02-11T14:47:00.004-05:00

Oh yeah and those weird dreams, which have been leaving themselves exposed even after I wake up. Revealing the strange scenes of sleep that I still don’t understand.

Last night I had two. The first one I had while I was passed out on the couch. This was strange because in the dream I was on the couch and waking up, so when I actually woke up it took me a moment to realize I was no longer in that surreal space between consciousnesses. That rarely happens. Usually when I wake from a particularly vivid dream I'm am jarred by the reality of my surroundings. This time it was different.

In the dream I woke from sleep to the sound of rustling in my bedroom. My bedroom is separated by my living room by two French doors, so I only had to lift my head to see from where this sound came from. What I saw should have stricken me with fear and paranoia, but instead I was only annoyed and slightly bored with the scene.

It was a man dressed in Middle Eastern garb [a long black robe, the hood of which was over his head, and a scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face, revealing only wide, frightened eyes]. He had been rummaging through my closet and in his hand were two hangers holding full outfits. I jumped up from the couch and walked over to him, an angry determination in my steps, and grabbed the clothes from his hands and threw them onto my bed. He cowered where he stood as I scolded him for his attempts at thievery. He said nothing the whole time, and I had no intention of letting him plea his case. Grabbing him by the arm, like a parent does an unruly child, I escorted him to the front door, which was slightly ajar. Just as we reached it another man, Middle Eastern as well but without the hood and scarf covering up his identity, walked up to the door, confused, presumably, by his thieving friends lack of haste in the robbery. Him too, I scolded on the ethics of theft, and I threw the first one out the door, making sure his body not only blacked the second mans entrance, but pushed him back as well. When they were both behind the locked door I went back into the bedroom to assess what was missing. Nothing was.

After a moment I walked into the hallway of my building. The men were gone. I suppose my aim was to alert the superintendent of these trespassers, but although the stairwells had a few stragglers climbing along them [i've no idea why they were awake, it was deep into the morning] the super was nowhere to be found. I stopped one resident and warned him of the burglars, giving him physical descriptions and also briefing him on my own experience. From the alarmed look on his face he took the caution to heart. We looked gravely around us, up and down the hallway, then bade each other farewell and wished one another luck. It was then that I awoke.

The second dream is harder to describe, as it was less linear and more surreal than the first.

I was in Northern California with my brother. I don’t know the purpose of our visit, possibly to visit our mother, but I recall he looked as if the whole venture was a burden. His face wore an impatient boredom. We were on a bus and he sat in front of me reclined in his seat with his eyes closed. When the bus stopped we were at a mall and I shook him to get his attention so we could exit. The strange thing about this was I don’t think this was our stop, but I had the impression we should get off. Maybe I figured it was something to do and would somehow make him more agreeable. I'm not sure.

We walked into the mall, which was modern and open air, and immediately I suggested we go get something to eat. With a grunt he agreed and I pointed to an upper level Spanish diner that, in the strange logic of dreams, I knew very well and whose food I was positive we’d enjoy. Like many restaurants in malls, there were no doors to the establishment, and we just walked into the dimly lit dining area, which was sparsely populated; just a few tables with single patrons picking at their plates. The walls were unseemly shades of brown and yellow. All the waitresses were in their 40's, but had that warm, buxom look that middle aged latinas can have after a child or two; small, protruding bellies and childrearing hips, big attractive smiles and long, dark, slightly curly hair that fell down to the middle of their shoulders. They had a middle age beauty and sex appeal about them. With warm smiles and large, heaving bosoms behind the aprons that they wore.

Will, still not in a completely pleasant mood, but not as bad as he once was, went up to the counter and ordered a typical plate. Tamales or tacos or burritos or something. I decided to be more adventurous, so I ordered the special.

Now this is where it gets weird.

My waitress, and attractive, motherly woman flashed me a huge smile, thoroughly pleased that I had ordered the special. She grabbed a bowl and began filling it with rice and beans and a dark, chunky sauce. Then, still beaming, she took off one shoe and sock. I stood staring, confused but interested on what was to happen. That’s when she took a large meat cleaver from the counter top and proceeded to chop off her foot from the ankle. Without so much as a grimace on her face, she gently placed the foot in the bowl with the rest of the food. Then she covered it with shredded cheese and, hopping around the kitchen, shoved it all into the oven.

She turned to me and nodded, that smile still wide on her face, and her eyes pleading with me for some semblance of appreciation. I realized she couldn’t speak English, and shyly gave her a smile and nodded back to her. This placated her some and she turned back to the kitchen and opened the oven and pulled out my bowl, which by then had steam rising from the bubbling cheese and sauce. I was appalled, but I didn’t want to look disgusted because she seemed so happy that I had ordered the special. She hopped around the kitchen [I could see behind the counter] and then placed my meal on a tray and slid it towards me.

I took it to our table, my stomach in knots for obvious reasons, and ate with my back towards her. I knew she was watching. I slyly took the foot, which had been cooked and browned in the oven, and placed it on the side of the bowl - myself on the verge of puking – and Will just sort of stared at me. Half his eyes filled with humor and the other with a sick disgust. I picked at the rice, not eating any, then took my bowl and tray and threw it all in the trash. I turned and waved good-bye as we exited and the footless woman, standing there and hopping to maintain balance, waved back, the smile on her face wide with a sickly pride.

Not long after that I woke up, as you can imagine, breakfast was not on the menu this morning.

cold

2010-02-11T11:43:00.003-05:00

i am on the couch and covered in two blankets and dusk is approaching and the white falls heavily outside. the house is warm but a brisk thread swirls throughout like a chill reminder of what we are in. a blizzard. i suck up mucous and swallow in pain and shift beneath the covers in a weak attempt to find comfort. on the television is footage of neighboring cities covered in snow. cars are stuck in no parking zones. frustrated residents shovel their sidewalks. the reporter is bundled in thick threads and his gloved hand grips the microphone and his eyes flutter and he says this is the worst weve seen in a while. the newscasters in the studio gasp and moan and wish him good luck out there. they are in their normal suits, their make up unperturbed. the flip papers on their desk and move along to the next story.

all the schools are closed. mine included.

i shift again and feel aches in my lower back and behind my knees and the covers get tangled in my feet and i throw them off, trying to breathe. my mouth is dry and my head throbs. i wonder what sort of medicine is in my bathroom. i do not have the energy to check.

a cat climbs onto the couch and nuzzles near my feet, i dont know which and dont look up to find out. my phone vibrates but i dont reach to see who is calling. my eyes open and close slowly. on the television is an advertisement suggesting i visit california. i shift again and find no comfort.

the ill body remains restless. the hours pass by with no event. the snow continues to fall. i think of the things id rather be doing. i think of the things i should be doing. my eyes open and close slowly. an ache shudders from my head down to my shins. i do not move.

forced entry #412 i think the first memory of my grandfather

2010-02-01T22:00:00.004-05:00

One time I was driving from Colorado to New Jersey with my grandfather. We were in one of those big luxury cruisers he liked to drive. Lincolns and Cadillac’s and Buick sedans. Huge, long, V8 engine gas-guzzlers with tons of trunk space and plenty of legroom. He had a hundred of them if he had one. Anyway, I was six years old at the time. He was taking me from Denver to Newark, to live with him and my grandmother. The circumstances of why I was going I could only now speculate. The memories I have are those of a very young child's, the truth in them is questionable. I can only tell you what I know, from the impressions that were left upon me.

We were thundering down huge empty stretches of highway. Somewhere in the middle of America with nothing but open plains on either side of us. I would get restless and fiddle with the electric window controls, creating sounds in different pitches by rolling the window up and down and letting air blast into the car in a melody of whistles. Or toy with the controls to the radio or climb from the front seat to the back then back to the front again chasing some imaginary gremlin. Every few hundred miles he would tell me to settle down or threaten to pull over ands stop the car. He never said what would happen if the car stopped, but I was keen enough to know I didn’t want to find out.

Most of the trip my he sat in the drivers seat chewing on his cigar, sliding the unlit butt from one side of his mouth to the other in wise silence. Every so often he would turn on the radio to get a traffic or weather report, but aside from that he didn’t want much noise.

He told me to count the mile markers and see how high I could go. I think I made it to seventy-five before I fell asleep. He was a clever man.

In Kansas or Missouri we were chased by a storm. Off into the distant emptiness I saw as lightning cracked through the horizon. Thin bolts striking down across the plains just a few miles from us. I stared in wonder as the heavens broke before me, filled with a confusion of fear and awe. My grandfather grunted at the darkening sky and turned on the headlights. Then he grunted again and turned on the windshield wipers.

I watched as the storm caught up to us and the first raindrops began touching upon the window. Dark gray clouds flickering with anxious charges loomed above. The rain began to pelt the roof first gently and then with increasing violence. Soon we were being pummeled by the sky. The windshield wipers swept furiously but couldn’t catch up with the rush of water pouring down from overhead. I grew hypnotized by the headlights beaming by us in a blur. My grandfather adjusted his Stetson and tried to get a report on the radio. There was nothing but static and the static sounded like the rain and all beyond us was what we heard. The white noise of the storm.

We slept in the car one night. At dusk he pulled into a truck stop and he gave me a blanket and I curled up in the back seat while he lay down in the front. When I woke up we were already on the road with the rural sprawl of Indiana or Ohio or West Virginia on either side of us. We stopped at a diner and had eggs and bacon and he asked me if I liked living with my aunt in Denver and I didn’t know how to answer that so I just shrugged. He didn’t ask anything after that. Like I said, he was a clever man. we just finished our eggs and left.

back to the books

2010-01-30T11:51:00.003-05:00

my first day of class is today.

i woke up earlier than i have been. partly because i am a little nervous and partly because i passed out before 3am last night. my vacation is over. there will be no more lazy days for me, not in the next few months, at least.

the class today is Social and Political Philosophy. i'm not sure what this entails or what we are supposed to be learning, but the name of the class piqued my interest so i signed up for it. i know taking a class on saturday is absurd to most people but my real weekend is during everyone elses work week so it suits my schedule.

not like i need to justify anything to you...

its a shame i never got to finish my book over vacation. i never got to complete my revisions. i never made that new playlist. i never saw that friend or that other friend. but cest la vie, maybe in the summer.

im curious what sort of books we'll be assigned. im also curious what kind of classmates i will have. what other kind of person takes a course such as this on a saturday? will the class be big or small? does the very nature of the course invite pompous assholes or curious intellectuals? in that same line of questioning, what will the professor be like? will it be a man or a woman? how serious do they take this course? how serious will i take this course, for that matter?

hopefully all these questions will be answered by about 4:30 this afternoon. and thus my school semester has begun.

forced entry #386

2010-01-29T13:00:00.003-05:00

the hours between thursday night and friday morning seem to be shorter than the rest. i work until late at the bar, pulling down the gate at about 3am, then brave the cold on the way home unless im lucky enough to score a ride.

when i get home i am greeted by the cats at the door. they scamper around my feet as i make my way through the darkness of the hallway, then disperse once i enter the living room, tearing off in their own directions to individually gain my affections. sophie runs to a cardboard box and begins ripping at it with her claws. Her fur puffs into spikes and her tail juts straight up in excitement. Miles goes to the couch and, in a furious display of his feline prowess, grips and scratches at it, pulling himself along the top edge from corner to corner in short, deliberate rips. i walk to over to each one and stroke their head and back. then take off my bag and coat.

because it's so cold i immediately put on a big sweater. i have a huge yellow one i wear around the house as a pajama uniform with black sweats. then i go to the computer desk because that is where i smoke and unwind. i fire up the ole pute and roll myself a smoke and take a deep breath and exhale. while the cigarette is burning i usually go to the fridge and grab a bottle of beer. this beer will last me most of the night, if not ill open one more and not finish it until morning.

then i roll a spliff. i smoke it and i think of the day. the hours fall away. i type a few sentences and read a few more. the sun remains hidden behind the atlantic sea but the black of night turns slowly to blue. i meander on the web until i cant anymore. then i lay down on the couch.

often i wake on teh couch with miles and sophie cuddled all around me. the tv will be on and the day will be pouring into the room. it will be seven or eight in the morning and ill make the decision then whether or not to get up and go to bed. if i work the next day, like i do on friday, i go to bed, if not then it depends on my comfort and where the kitties are placed around me. last night i went to bed. it was eight am.

i woke at around noon and the house was bitter cold and i made my way to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. again i get familiar with my computer desk, check my email, say hi to some people on line. by the time i am fully awake it is time for me to get in the shower and go to work. i hardly even have time to read, let alone try to write.

back on the grind

2010-01-28T13:48:00.002-05:00

i just had five days off in a row. the days were slothful and largely without any event. i planned on working on personal things. doing some writing, reading, perhaps catching up on my more serious movies. but instead i did nothing.

it isnt that i didnt accomplish much on my days off [the final days before i return to school, and my hours are all assigned some task and the days ahead are all fraught with deadlines] but more so that i planned to accomplish so much, and failed at accomplishing anything. had i not betrayed this promis to myself then i would be ok with my laziness. hell, i embrace my laziness and feel i deserve it. but if i say i want to do something i want to be able to do it. at least TRY to do it.

but i didnt. well, i didnt completely fuck off my days, there were a few brief surges in discipline, where i pulled out the ole computer and typed a few sentences here and there. deleted a few others. rearranged a couple more. but for the most part, i sat around chatting with friends, sporadically watching porno, and toiling around on lamebook. i did not read my book. i did not watch the oscar winning drama sitting on my coffeetable. i did not finish all the re-edits i was supposed to do. i did not write anything new.

i did though, drink a lot of beer, smoke a shit ton of cigarettes, and catch up on old reruns of sitcoms ive previously seen. i cuddled with my cats a lot. i saw a couple friends. i took long showers. i slept in.

at night - like clockwork- i would make a pledge to wake up the next morning and write a few words. whatever words came to my head. just to exercise my mind a bit. and every morning -like clockwork - i would roll out of bed and meander to the computer and, while sipping my coffee and taking the first nicotine drags of the day, stare at the screen hoping something in it would push me to write. but nothing ever did. so i just leafed through the wires.

now my mini vacatin is over and i am left with nothing to prove it ever happened. i start school saturday and work tonight and the next. im done with time that is easy and free, now i am thrust into the routine of performance. every minute counts. every new moment another chore. and i havent even stretched yet.

brain fart

2010-01-25T20:48:00.003-05:00

you ever heard that dirty lullaby,it, or some variation thereof, is written on bathroom stall walls stretching across north america:

here i sit
broken hearted
thought i'd shit
but instead i farted

this is the exact sentiment i feel when i sit down at the computer to write these days.

shortcuts

2010-01-16T20:10:00.003-05:00

There was one day we tried to get into all of them. Every single porno store in San Francisco, or at least in the small concentration downtown. We were both about ten years old then; it was summer. My mother was working at the time, so she was gone all day while I had no school. I don’t think Dion’s mother was working, but she would be gone too. We had been building towards this. Everyday we grew more familiar with the streets. There were shortcuts we learned. Small alleyways that cut between buildings. They would have dumpsters in them covered in graffiti and filled with treasure.

There was one such alley that ran behind an X-rated movie theater and a strip club. In the dumpster there we found long beams of dead florescent light bulbs and had a fantastic sword fight with them which ended when one of the bulbs burst and a plume of poisonous white powder exploded all around us. We coughed and laughed wide-eyed and excited and waved our hands in front of us trying to catch our breaths. After that we took turns spearing the remaining bulbs into the air and watching them blast open against the walls and ground. Every so often a patron would exit the club or theater and we would try to sneak in to see what we could see.

One time we got into the movie theater. We snuck up into the front seats, which were emptier. There were a just few figures in the back and they were all still and unmoving in the darkness. The screen was large and the sound was loud but I could still hear small rustling behind me. I didn’t turn around to see what it was; we just stared ahead. The scene was of a woman at a funeral and she was talking to someone off screen. Dion let out a small hiss of disappointment when he saw her dress and I shared the sentiment quietly. I don’t know if we were sure then what exactly it was we wanted to see, but we knew it didn’t involve any clothes. Excitedly we waited for the scene to turn. I gripped the knees of my pants and fixed upon the screen. Before it was over a thin man in a red vest came over and bent down and whispered to us that we had to leave. We stared up at him and stammered and then looked back at the screen and then looked back up at him and stammered some more. He moved to the side and spread his arm out presenting to us the exit and we took one last look at the woman talking and I marveled at her cleavage one more time and then without protest we got up and left.

On another time we got into the strip club. This was a stroke of luck. On a whim I tried the door and it swung open letting a blast of blinding light in from behind me. I caught a glimpse of the seats which were set up like an auditoriums and in one not far from me a woman sat on a mans lap and she was in her underwear. She had her hand on his hand which was on her bare leg and she had her head in his neck and was whispering into his ear. I quickly closed the door and gasped and looked at Dion.

-What did you see? He asked impatiently.

-A naked lady, I said, she was sitting on a man and they were kissing.

-You lying, he said. But even though he was right I could tell he believed me.

We both opened the door again, this time he went in before me. We shut it behind us and moved discreetly along the shadows on the wall. Everything looked black and red and smelled it too. There was a naked woman on stage holding a pole and a rock and roll song was blaring. She had long natural brown hair and her tits were flat and saggy. There were other girls walking around talking to the men and I don’t think we expected that but at the same time I don’t think we knew what to expect at all. I just knew that we weren’t supposed to be in there and I wanted to see what we shouldn’t. We stood along the wall in the thick redblack trying to be hidden in the sounds and smells around us. A woman walking by looked down towards us with slow bored eyes then adjusted her bra and moved on. The husky wind of a sweet perfume followed her towards a man in the seats. I looked at Dion and he looked at me and from our eyes a noiseless screamed passed between us. Then a lady wearing long lingerie who wore caked on mascara and deep red lipstick yelled to us from the seat of a mans lap.

-HEY YOU KIDS GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!

We bolted from the door laughing and stumbling and leaving in our wake an explosion of sunlight. We stood at the end of the alley gasping and catching our breath. Beaming from the experience.

That wasn’t the last time I would visit that club but it was the last time I was ever in it with Dion. At the time we thirsted for more but weren’t ready for interaction yet. After that we stuck to mostly video stores.

As I said, one day we tried to sneak into them all, and we almost did. We were systematically ejected from most every open porn store in the downtown San Francisco area. All in the same day. In some stores we would immediately be ordered to leave. Hardly even catching a glimpse of the flesh covered walls and racks beyond the entryway. But in some stores we went unnoticed. The clerk would sit behind he counter, bored and oblivious, and we would peruse all the aisles, avoiding other patrons, gravitating towards the box covers with the most exaggerated women posing on them. We saw pictures of couples entwined together, sometimes one gender out numbering the other. Faces shocked into ecstasy and the uncomfortable grimace of penetration. Portraits of lust without romance. We let these images chip away at our innocence, twisting and perverting our ideas of temptation. This was what we thought they had held from us. This is what we believed we were never told.

2010-01-15T13:37:00.002-05:00

it is no secret that i am a lazy, procrastinating, paralyzed with worry type of individual. i begin every project —no matter the size— by jumping through mental hoops, going over psychological hurdles, painstakingly reassuring myself that not only will i complete the task, but i will achieve it with mistake free ease.

putting this sort of pressure on myself adds to the procrastinating bit in my nature.

i have about ten minutes before i have to get ready for work. there is nothing in my head and nothing in my gut and nothing on the tip of my tongue.

outside there is a blue sky with a gray horizon. on my desk is a mess of loose tobacco and ashes. there are empty envelopes and bills scattered about. a half drank beer and a half drank glass of water. a bottle of xanax tipped over. the wooden part of a burned stick of incense leaning from the window.

i ramble i ramble with nada on my mind. im searching for reasons and dont know if ive found any yet. i have to go to work i dont even know what else to say

forced entry #321: the shocking cat

2010-01-13T18:45:00.004-05:00

I'm being shocked by Miles. He is a long black ball of static electricity. His fur pops when I pet him. Its crackles as a drag my palm along all his curves and stretches. Small jolts snap between his nose and my forearm and he flinches back and stares queerly at me and I stare back with my own shrug and shiver. You can see it spark. A small shock from him to me. It's exciting and somewhat frightening at the same time.

i wonder if its me. Am i the one carrying these pent up charges of energy? i think back on my routine and don't find many strays or changes to it. not recently. it is the same, always the same. i have not acquired any new clothes. my couch is still made of the same fabric. my curtains and rug are the the same, non-static-electricity conducting material they have always been. so what is new? why the sudden shocks?

Ive been watching him to see what may have manifested in his daily methods, but he seems to be the same ole hooligan kitty he's always been. knocking over glasses of water. tearing at the toilet paper roll. bullying Sophie. getting into cabinets he shouldn't be anywhere near. he does have the habit of grinding his face along every surface he can, marking his own little territory in a territory hes forced to share, but that's nothing new. it cant be that, can it?

if so, there is no way i can stop it. I'll just have to accept that some day i may be on the wrong end of an electrical charge that will most likely stop my weak, nicotine and red meat filled heart. it would be fitting that miles, my black cat, were the cause of my demise. i love him so but he in many ways reminds me of myself. self absorbed, needy, long and dark and pretends not to care. always guilty; paws dirty in someway or another. doesn't realize his size sometimes. cant hide the truth on his face.

Sophie, on the other hand, is devoid of any such startling jolts. she is the same, fluffy, soft as a babies bottom, tabby shes always been. she still wakes me up in the morning, demanding i pet her under my covers. she still has that coy, aloof manner in which she begs for attention. she still remains delicate and fragile. and acts as if her bones are too brittle to be bothered with the world. she, like miles, has not changed much, save she doesn't shock me when i pet her.

i suppose it could be miles wildness trying to unleash itself from his small, furry frame. this apartment just isn't big enough for him. he needs to hunt. he needs to run. he needs to be free. sorry miles good buddy, you re a city cat, and i cant have you running these streets and coming home with kitty AIDS or some bullshit because you got mixed up in the wrong crowd. just tone it down buddy. and stay away from the left side of my chest.

forced entry #214

2010-01-07T14:40:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I meandered about the house in my pajamas. I wanted to do this or that, small accomplishments that may give the day some purpose, but I never got around to them. It just wasn’t in me to be productive.

I'm not sure why. I suppose my almost crippling laziness has something to do with it, but with no crucial obligations to fulfill, I would assume I could at least do something as small and insignificant as write 300 words or read some of the book I'm in the middle of.

Instead I read a bunch of articles regarding pop culture on line, and chatted with friends, then watched a bad movie. It is true that I had a playdate with her, but she canceled and I realized, after she canceled, that I had nothing better to do than just waste time on the internet.

Well, I had better things to do, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do them.

Nothing online taught me anything I didn’t already suspect or know. Just a bunch of gossip in the air. Judgments and opinions. Accusations and denials. I cant honestly say what I was searching for, only that I didn’t find it.

I guess I'm having another “whats it all mean, anyway?” moments.

Cest la vie.

new day

2010-01-05T19:49:00.001-05:00

I haven’t written in a while. Never mind posting on this blog. I think of it, but I don’t. Instead I sit in front of a blank page and consider all that is inside me and in man and in the world we have built for man. I contemplate how to articulate such thoughts but they are all vague and gray and deep down I don’t feel they mean anything and that actually writing them will reveal their abject insignificance. So I just surf the web instead.

I'm not going to promise myself things anymore. Resolutions and goals serve just to betray me. I will not commit to writing every day. I will not commit to exercising more. I will not commit to eating healthier. I will not commit to smoking with my window open, or drinking less, or any such ambition that will bring me down if I don’t break myself trying to achieve it. I want to do all these things, and eventually I will, but I will not burden myself with them.

Not now.

I will though, and in most respects I have, stop complaining about my life. The routines I’ve built for myself are, even if they sometimes cause me to step back and question why I exist at all, envious to most. I'm lucky. This I recognize. Life could be worse.

Not to say I'm going to be more positive. I'm unsure if I'm even capable of such a thing. But I will try to see things in a less bleak manner. Like I said, my life could be worse, and that frightening horizon of the future will always be steady in my sights, but there is something humorous about being alive for almost 35 years. That in itself is an accomplishment.

My cat is sitting on my lap and he is squeezing at my arm with his paws, his claws giving slow, gentle pokes at me while he purrs himself into a feline trance. It is nice. I can feel it.

food and a beer

2009-11-13T18:55:00.002-05:00

The lamp on my desk burns a low-wattage energy efficient bulb that barely cast a dim light across the keyboard. I don’t know if this saves me money or waste my time. I get up to turn on another lamp across from me, on a small bookshelf, one which has a reasonable amount of wattage and when on, brightens up the room in a pleasant yellow glow. I twist at its power switch and pause and look around, assessing the change the light has made. It is not too harsh, which is what I was afraid of. I feared it would burn into the quiet silence I had created. That it would conflict with the faint darkness of my small corner office. The little womb I had made. But it doesn’t. It warms the area a bit; a gentle shine hugs the room. I let this happen for a moment, and then I go back to my desk. Now I can write, I think.

But there is a hunger in me. And a thirst. I think of where I will go while staring at a blank word document. My window is open and a cold breeze pushes in and beneath my oversized sweater I feel chills upon my skin. It is cold out. I look outside my window and see car lights reflecting off the wet street. It rained earlier. In the reflections I see the noises of the city. The corner boys’ bullshitting in front of the bodega. The breaks wheezing under busses as they hit a red light. The neighbors calling to each other from across the street. A jetliner beating across the dark sky. I decide I need a beer and I need some food. I go to grab my jacket.

I catch one of the cats and lift him up and put my face next to his. His patience is thin and he pushes from me, annoyed. He lands on the couch and he sits and stares at me, into my eyes. Then he crawls from the couch to the floor and walks toward me and rubs his head along my shins and purrs. I put on my jacket and as I'm walking to the door he follows me and waits at my feet.

You aren’t going anywhere, I say to him.

The door rattles in the wind of the hallway before I even unlock it. There is a gap between the doorjamb and the door, and it has a good half-inch to sway if the wind hits it just right. So all day it rattles, like ghost fighting to get in. the kitties sit in front of it, hunched low to the ground, waiting for it to open. Its sort of cute, but creepy at the same time. I’m always afraid they know something I don’t. One day a ghost might just get in.

I make sure I have money in my pocket and I open the door and close it and lock it behind me. I sit and stare at the bottom of it, at the gap on the floor beneath the door, to see if his shadow moves. But there is nothing, at least nothing I can see, so I walk downstairs and out into the street. He’ll be in the same spot when I get back, this I’m sure of.

In the bodega a teenager wearing jeans that hang below his butt cheeks is waiting for a sandwich from the guy at the deli. I huge woman stands in front of the beer coolers, her size taking up the entire aisle, talking in whispers on her self phone and flipping aimlessly through the energy drinks. I say excuse me and squeeze pass her and she doesn’t notice even though our bodies scrubbed against one another’s in the tiny space we were afforded. It was almost intimate. I grab a beer and go to the counter, the huge girl on her cell phone now standing in front of the register eyeing the impulse buy candies. The teenager with the sagging pants tells the deli guy to hurry up, and to make sure there is no mayonnaise. The deli guy grumbles something none of us can understand and the register guy shoves the huge girls crap into a paper bag and takes the cash he hands her. He looks at it and frowns.

I’ll get you that other dollar later tonight, that’s just all the cash I got on me. You know imma come back! she says. She says all this while slightly tilting her phone below her lips and covering the mouthpiece with her palm, as if to spare her caller the inconvenience of hearing this particularly unpleasant exchange. The register guy sighs and waves her away and she goes back to her conversation and walks out.

The deli guy comes around and lays a sandwich on the counter, right next to where I placed my beer. The teenager with the sagging pants cuts in front of me and wordlessly puts a five dollar bill on the counter, grabs his sandwich, and leaves. The register guy shrugs at me as if to say, you should have been quicker, what can I do?

I walk across the street with my beer in a brown bag and head into the Caribbean food spot across from my apartment. The wind picks up and the awning in front of the $0.99 store flaps loudly. The guy that stands in front of it nods at me as I walk by and into the food joint.

I’m behind a woman who looks to be of grandmother age, but is probably a great grandmother knowing these kids today. The surveys the buffet spread of island treats. Jerk chicken wings. Barbecue wings. Fried chicken. Oxtail. Red beans and rice. Cornbread. Chicken stew and stewed chicken. Candied yams. Plantains. She looks over each dish as if she has never seen them before, as if she is studying ancient art in a museum, and the pieces are fascinating yet confusing to her and she is filled with so many questions.

She orders five different things and after each one she repeats what it is to the line cook. That’s Oxtail. The line cook nods. Those are stewed vegetables with cabbage. The line cook nods. That’s three pieces of cornbread. The line cook nods.

When she –the line cook— finally comes to me, I order some jerk wings and a large macaroni and cheese. It is a quick and simple decision. She bags my order up; I pay her and leave.

When I get up my stairs and open my door there he still is, this time she’s with him. The kitties. Her tail raises and puffs up in excitement. He jumps on the nearest platform and looks at me expectantly. I pet them both. Letting my hand sweep across their bodies but concentrating mostly on the head and ears. I put my food down and I go back to my computer. Again I feel that the additional lamp truly satisfies the mood of the room. I stare at the blank document I left. I wonder what I'm going to write. I think of my first sentence:

slip of the tongue

2009-11-12T15:19:00.003-05:00

There are things said that can never be unsaid. This is a universal certainty, and we have all heard them or said them. We have all been the perpetrators and victims of them. And usually they aren’t lies, they are the truth.

Sometimes the truth needs to be told. We need to tell the truth to either be honest with ourselves, or honest with someone else. We need to get these burdens off our chest, the secrets that sit in our stomach. The guilt that presses against our heart.

But sometimes we need to keep them to ourselves. Some truths should just remain untold. Sometimes, instead of telling someone you are in love with them, you should just take a drag from your cigarette. Sometimes, instead of telling someone they aren’t ever going to measure up to their expectations, you should just buy them a pint of beer. Sometimes we should just let honesty fester inside us, because honesty isn’t always a good thing. Honesty is just a way to balance out the lies we live off of. And most times, it’s those lies that keep us going.

I try to be honest with myself, but like everyone else, I have to maintain my delusions in order to survive. I have to have these fanciful thoughts, these romantic aspirations, these beautiful reveries, in order to move ahead in life. Without them I have nothing to look forward to, nothing to fool myself with, nothing to keep me running. They are like the oil in my engine, and without them I might break down.

But recently I’ve been on an honesty kick. It’s worked for a while, but last night it bit me on the ass. I told a girl how I felt for her. That my heart, my delicate, brittle heart, was bursting for her. And this was the wrong thing to say.

Because we had more than just romantic notions for one another, we were close. We were friends. We talked all the time. We played scrabble on line. We made jokes. We got each other’s jokes. We like the same TV shows. We like quiet silences.

Last night I should have been quiet. Silent. We would have enjoyed that more.

But I'm on an honesty kick. And I had to get it off my chest. So I told her. I told her. And I don’t know where it will take us. If I have ruined everything or not. But I told her because it is how I feel and I would rather her know now then in five years in a sappy letter that begins with “how have you and the kids been getting along?”

So yeah, I fucked up. And I don’t think she feels the same way. At least not how I feel. So where is our friendship now?

I fill the void of her, unconsciously, with other women, with alcohol, with my studies and writing and any pharmaceuticals I can get my hands on. But when all is said and done, and I sit alone and the truths of the world begin to sink inside the hollowness of my gut, it wasn’t cigarette smoke that filled me up, it was her. So I told her.

And I shouldn’t have.

hole in the holidays

2009-11-08T13:35:00.002-05:00

It is hard to begin writing first thing in the morning. I’m not sure how writers do it. I heard Steven King would sit and write five pages every morning, that Emily Dickenson would take two hours every afternoon, and that the Great Russian writers would complete ten or more pages a day. I have to admire this.

But I wonder if this made them any better of writers, or if this just instilled in them a practice and discipline that prepared them to complete the novels they’d write, and we would read, to this very day. I do know that when I write regularly, every day or every night or even just when I find the time during the afternoon, that the words come easier when I actually do have to sit down and start or complete a piece of work that’s not just a meandering of thoughts and phrases.

Either way as I sit here this morning, with the heaviness of sleep still weighing on my bones and muscles, with my mind a swirl of half formed thoughts and my heart a blend of stillborn sensations, the only words I can think of typing are the words that ask, just why am I even typing right now?

Is this considered exercise? Is this considered practice? Is this the equivalent of waking up and running a five k every morning, in preparation to run a marathon someday? Is this the same as doing drills all week so that I may be ready for the big game on Sunday? I suppose I will never know, and the biggest benefit ill get from writing as much and as often as I can is that I will eventually acquire a body of pages that go nowhere and say nothing but have the words I’ve written and with that I will have the proof I tried.

Because truthfully, even though I have all the stories inside me, even though I have the experience and the desire for experience, that drives me and keep me breathing, the burden of documenting that which is in my heart and head sometimes paralyses my imagination and creativity, so instead I drink and sit and stare and then I sleep and wake up with the bitter dissatisfaction of an unaccomplished existence. I suppose that too, keeps me going. Because contentment means it’s all over.

We have the holidays coming up and once again I have no plans. My ex-girlfriend was supposed to come and stay with me for a week but I began to feel stressed and burdened by her visit, unsure if we were on the same page of the relationship, so I called and spoke to her and even though the conversation was painful (sometimes the truth hurts) it opened us up to a reality we were too naïve to face. Now she will only stay a few days and will be gone before thanksgiving. And once again I have no plans for the holidays.

I’m not whining or sad about it, but it does leave a void in my calendar on that particular day of celebration. I guess there are plenty of people that have no where to go during the holidays, and I suppose I will be invited to a few different dinners where I will only know a few of the people and pick at my plate and remain largely quiet the entire night. On the other hand, I could get a few drinks in me and become a source of jovial distraction, a meaningless clown full of nerves and old jokes. Commanding attention, sucking at the eyes of all those around me. But that doesn’t sound fun. It sounds sad and lonely, to tell the truth.

We’ll see. We’ll see. This aint nothing but a young adult life. And like everything else, it will pass.

strange dreams and plans

2009-11-05T14:08:00.003-05:00

Before I had the dream I had woken in the middle of the night. It was five am and the sky was still black. The only light came from the electric dim of streetlamps, faintly pressed against my windows. My eyes opened in a start, a crushing weight on my chest and heart. There was a confusion of feeling inside me. A sad stress and woe. I got up from the bed trying to figure out what it was that had woken me, and what it was I was feeling. I went to the couch and smoked a cigarette in the dark, a profound loneliness choking at my throat. Then I went to bed again, unsure if I would be able to sleep. I did. Then I had the dream.

I was in San Francisco in a large house. I wasn’t alone, there were five or six others, all my age give or take a few years. And there were two counselors, both with graying beards and smiles that hid a dark menace behind them. One of the counselors was an old English professor I had. The other a man I didn’t recognize.

It didn’t take me long to realize I was not just in a house, but an institution of sorts. And I wasn’t a guess or resident so much as I was an inmate. I figured this out not by asking questions but by observing how the others acted. They had the slow and delicate movements of one who is burdened by policies and regulations. Afraid to move freely for fear of breaking a rule. I don’t know why I was there or how I got there, I only knew that I needed to get out.

The house its self was humongous, a monster of four stories and filled with an uncountable number of rooms. It was surrounded by a large green lawn, at least two football fields length on every side. There were trees as well, and pockets of shrubbery. There was also a pond that had fish in it. I never saw this pond but I knew it was there. Tall white walls concealed us in.

The curious thing was that not only did I recognize my old professor as one of the counselors, but two of my fellow inmates were famous rappers. Ghostface and Method Man. There was another young man I never saw, and a couple more I didn’t know, and there was a girl. From what I gathered the girl had gone to law school and had done some service under the law as a public defender. This I learned from my fellow inmates when I inquired about her. She had not practiced that long before she was sent to the house, against her will of course, and I no one knew just why she was there.

She wore red sweatpants and a ponytail; she had olive skin and a pretty face that was hidden behind a shy quiet and a deathly fear of her surroundings. We never spoke, her and I, and only twice in the dream did I see her. Once as she sat rocking silently in a corner, and once as she was scurrying away like a frightened kitten.

At some point we must have gone on a field trip of sorts, because we wound up at a bar and in that bar I got into a fistfight. The fight itself I don’t recall, only that because of the fight I was arrested, and that at the police station I was let go —into the custody of the house— and given a court date from which to return. That’s when I got my plan.

I cant say how the plan came to me, dreams have blank spaces in them that the woken must fill themselves, but I was confident that it would work. I was going to escape. Here is how I would do it:

At the court date I would use the girl in the red sweatpants as my attorney. In the strange logic of dreams, I was sure she would be able to successfully defend me and I would be found not guilty. As I was exiting the courthouse I would make my getaway. My plan was simple, I would run. And I made a promise to myself to take the girl with me.

My plan was not without its flaws. There was the chance that the girl would not be able to get me off, not to mention the possibility that I would be caught while running away even if she did, but it was the only way I could see breaking free, so I had to give it a shot.

When I explained this plan to Ghostface and Method man, as we sat in small uncomfortable chairs in a recreation room that was large and empty and devoid of any actual recreation, they both breathed deep sighs and wished me the best. Ghostface in particular, was excited for me, and encouraged me to carry it out. He put his arm around my shoulder and led me to one of the many windows and he pointed out further than the lawn and beyond the tall white walls and into the city. He said, You gotta go for it son, you gotta go for your freedom.

Method Man just stared at the floor, stricken with apprehension and fear, and said, be careful man, it might not work.

It’ll work, I said.

The biggest hurdle would be convincing the girl to defend me. I could tell she was afraid to practice law, afraid to speak in front of a judge, afraid to disturb the order from which she was confined. It would take some encouragement. I would have to build up her confidence. But I was sure it could be done.

We had to take mandatory walks around the grounds, chaperoned by the counselors and dreaded by the inmates. We were told we had to appreciate nature, and all of us wanted to, but the circumstances prevented us from really enjoying the walks. We would circle the house, exploring the grass and the trees and the bushes along the wall, whispering to each other our complaints and trials. It was on one of these walks that Ghostface told me I should just run right then. Go for it, he said, now’s your chance. But I didn’t want to, I wanted the girl to defend me. I wanted to escape with her. I thought my plan was the only way.

It was then I woke. My dream never made it to the courthouse. I never figured out why we were all so afraid of the counselors. I never discovered what the punishment would be for breaking the rules. I never got to carry out my plan. And in the morning, as I climbed from bed again, I still felt that dread, that sadness and stress, the profound loneliness I had woken with just hours before. I do not know how to interpret dreams, so I didn’t try. But I remembered this one vividly, so decided to write it down.