Thursday, November 30, 2006

The Lachrymose Rose

Oh, the Lachrymose Rose
Falls down the stairs
As the most woes I can unfurl
Hurl themselves into the abyssmal curls and cue
Pearls in the stew never tasted so good
But the Lachrymose Rose knows now not to row if I had only one arm
But you hos know which sorta end I want your toes
And the Lachrymose Rose
Sews the story up and down, the left and right
As teh so-so’s of the narrative
Goes out the windows
So, you, Lachrymose Rose
Which end over end does the hyper-realism flow?
Do I should I when I leave my
Feats on the floor
And my headas on the ground
Are you a crane? No!
You’re the motherfuckin’ Lachyrmose Rose
Didn’t you know?
Whose toes don’t know where the hell to go?
Maybe where the winds ?
Maybe where the oceans ?
Maybe where the yardmen ?
I mean, who really does ?
Beautiful bird buzz as teh bee who was here should have fluttereed his wings to scare off the buttered-up flies
Who skin the daffodils of their virginity
Cynically trying to see the horizon for what it’s worth.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The Type of...

Like learning how to make fire for the first time.
Like the dumb kid who looks both ways and still gets hit
Understated phenomenons
Understate, understand, undersit
A hyper-realism that needs to relax
And to sound smarter
A free-floating signifier that needs to get ahold of itself
Wishful thinking will only help you down a well
When the sun pokes itself head like a gerbil out its tube.
[There’s food here to eat.]
The kind of guy who carries a coin pouch.
The kind of clothes that you have to air out daily.
The kind of dinner that needs to be crusted on the ridge of the plate with a 30-watt bulb
The type of irony that really shouldn’t be commented on since it turns it into not-irony
Squinting so hard you fall asleep
Like a young girl adjusting the dial on the radio
[Where’re the buttons?]
The type of guy who makes it easy to throw a potted plant at.
The kind of box that is used to hold memories since you were six years old and realized that you will not remember everything forever
The type of grass that never gets any respect from either its owners or its neighbor.
The type of happiness that pervades everywhere since it costs the least to produce and, thus, is sold to everyone without much thought put into it.
The type of whether [sic] that allows for relief on some days and bad hair on others.
The type of girl who cries.
The type of sore throat that makes you realize you have no memory of the night before.
The type of handshake that makes you want to curl up your hand and shake your head whenever asked a question.
The type of
She’s the type of girl you’d see riding her bike on a brisk autumn day with a short, pleated skirt, tall boots, a cabbie hat, and a cigarette in her mouth. You know, the type of girl you want to marry right then and there just for the sheer irony of it all.
The kind of wall that begs to be put out of its misery.
The kind of net that hates its job yet is hated by everyone it encounters.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Tengo un imagen

Tengo el imagen de un hombre caminando a través del bosque y está hablando con sí mismo. Es una personificación del remordimiento y él tiene la intención de serlo. Lo que importa en esta imagen es el hecho de que él no sabe que la tierra está sorda. Como el resto de la gente, ese hombre quiere lamentar sobre su situación y lo hace. El problema es que lo que él piensa que está allí siempre para escuchar nuestros sollozos, en realidad, no puede sustentarnos. El hombre camina sin darse cuenta de que el bosque no tiene las facultades de albergar ese tipo de imperfección.

A propugnar la razón, en el fin, se resultará en una vista del mundo que es irracional y distorcionada que no pueda sustenar ningnas entidades de vida.

Creo que me voy a empezar escribir una vez cada semana.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

My best friends

Twisted steel
Fire logs and white ashes
Punching a wall
Driving next to an 18-wheeler
Face to face
Tree barks
Sidewalk with blood
Scraped palms
Let’s take a walk.
I’m leaving.
You’re not my friend.
Why would you do that.
I’m sorry.
Why would you do that.
I’m sorry.
Don’t talk to me.
The ink won’t ever come out of this shirt.
I can’t change my past
I would’ve been better
I love you but I forget what I want.
I can’t believe you would do that.
What were you thinking.
I was-not.
Why didn’t you tell me.
I for-got.
You hate me, right.
Yes but I can’t stop breathing.
Glass on the floor
Bloody socks.
I’m not irascible. I’m not erasable either.
I let you all down: you’re my family now.
I have no one else.
A rotting pomegranate.
How could you have let this happen.
Bowing my head forward in order to close my eyes properly
You think I don’t care but I do.
My mistakes can be added onto a list and turned into a carcass of a mule splayed across a piano. [crazy allusion]
This doesn’t help my loneliness.
I don’t want to pretend anymore anymore.
Time will help.
Distance always helps.
Let’s take a walk.
Heat. Friction. Drama.
Friends ‘til the end.
The end of our friendship.
I know the right answer. I just pushed the wrong button.
You know what you did. Try not to be too much of a douchebag to admit to your mistakes.
Friends don’t lie to each other.
But I’m not your friend.
You pretended like you were.
It’s because I’m weak.
Why didn’t you just tell me.
I for-got.
Rusted nails on a chalkboard.
Why are you weak.
Because I’m a failure.
I do nothing but fail.
A burnt plastic bag that melts in the fire. It floats until it lands on my skin. The burn hurts. I can’t get the plastic off now.

Enough. Enough now.

Thursday, November 23, 2006


Oh, Time, with your arms that circle around my head
And will until I am dead.
What is it I said?
I look at your face and all I see in the wind flow by.
And the whens go dry
Oh lovely arms which tell mw what I need to do.
The numbers that I count go around and around my head.
And they go around and around your face.
Lovely hands taht point to what I need to do.
Arms that embrace my wrists and try to hang onto me
How much time goes by as I gaze into your face.
But I don't notice the time fly by
As we stand still together.
Mark the hours so that we can find out way back home.
Since it's so difficult to notice what's around me when the time is on my watch.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

The Moment Before You Realize

There’s this moment right before you kick open a door that is the most terrifying moment of your life. It usually repeats itself over and over again. Despite all the training and all of the parameters taken to ensure your safety, you’re still stuck in front of a door, which you have no idea what’s behind. The procedure kinda goes like this to get to that point.
You hold your assault rifle with two hands, stuffed into your shoulder like there’s no tomorrow, but not so much that you’re leaning forward onto your gun. Your arms have to be tense but they can’t be straining themselves since you won’t have any energy to use them, if the situation arises. Both elbows have to be out in order to provide balance for the stance you’re in. The trigger elbow has to be at a 90 to the ground. The arm holding onto the barrel has to be at a 45 to the ground. Your cheek should be plastered against the butt stock. Your head should move where the gun moves. There’s no equivocating about this. If you have your gun in your arms, everywhere you look should be where the gun is pointed.
When standing with the rifle in your hand, you have to be in a stance where your feet are shoulder-length apart. If your trigger hand is your right then your left foot should be about a foot in front of the other one. That’s a stance that should be hard to push you over with just a light force.
When you’re moving around, the stance must be maintained in order to keep you ready for anything. The thing that must happen is that you actually end up walking on your heels with your toes curled up, but when you step, you’re running every part of the sole of your boots on the ground. You step in a shuffle almost, but you make sure that you never trip on anything. It is very difficult for the first month to adapt to that type of movement, but it’ll save your life when you have to storm a house full of gunmen.
When you’re storming a house, you need to have to right strategy before you begin any sort of movement. Precision and coordination are key to pulling of a good attack on a house full of armed gunmen.
The best manner in which to clear a house with suspected terrorists inside of it is to go from the top to the bottom, a trickle-down methodology if you please. It goes like this. You enter the adjacent house in the middle of the night. I prefer using four and four if the two adjacent houses are at level with the target building. Before the break of day, you jump onto the roof with 6 men and 2 men on the neighbor’s roof to keep look-out for any snipers or more gunmen who would enter through the roof entrance. We have 3 people down on the ground, making sure to detain anyone who decides to run for it.
You work your way down, clearing each room. The idea is to make sure that the man behind you is double-checking what you just did. Repetition, my friends, the sole manner in which we all survive. This proves to be a very valuable asset when you get into hairy situations where thinking is less common. Only reactions are important at those times when it’s the most important to think. These reactions sorta feign thinking since the body’s mechanisms will respond in a manner that has been so well directed that it will take over what thinking should be doing.
Shooting indoors tends to be difficult since there’s so much smoke and so little space in which to move. Exacerbate this little fact with the idea that you have to fire onto people who are below you. Space will become a huge foe to you. Misdirection proves to be a good way to save yourself time and injury.
People are split when it comes to whether charging down the stairs is better than charging up stairs. The problem with charging down the stairs is that if one man is hit, it’s really hard to get him out of the line of fire since it’s not so easy to drag a 250 lbs. man up a flight of stairs. Charging up the stairs is way trickier than going down since you’re left exposed and without a vantage point. The devil seems to be breathing down your neck when you’re moving up a flight of stairs that possibly could have gun barrels on the other side.
Despite these two schools, the movement down the stairs is the preferred manner since that is a major component of the top-down approach of clearing a house. The top-down seems to be a better way of attacking a house since it leads to less ferocity, on the part of the enemy, in contrast to the alternative.
So when a group of people with guns decides that they do not want to leave the locale in which they have settled, they try to measure all of the ways in which they can escape or compromise. It’s human nature to do that. Continuing onward. With an approach from the ground floor upwards to the top floor and possibly the roof, the men with guns will advance up the stairs, holding ground until they eventually lose it due to our sheer firepower. This loss of ground will push these men until they are at the top level of the house, with no escape. The thing to imagine is a rat on a ship. They will scrape and claw their way to some sort of legitimacy. This usually will result in the death of all the men involved. This end result is not very advantageous to those who want to capture these men and ask them questions.
Now contrast the situation from before with the approach I enjoy utilizing whenever possible. To go from the top to the ground is essentially the reverse of what occurs in the bottom-up situation. People will hold ground and then lose it. The end result has the remaining group of men stuck on the ground floor of the house they’ve been entering and exiting for the past 3 months (let’s just assume). They are hiding behind the boxes they’ve been walking by the for the past 3 months. The kitchen that they use to grill the goat meat they eat every Tuesday night is right behind them. They are shooting up at Americans right next to the spot on the wall where they lay all their guns, which leaves a bunch of scrapes and indentions in the wall.
Imagine that you’re in this situation. What would you do? If you’re anything like the majority, you’ll just put down your guns and walk out the door. And it happens almost every time.

How’d I start writing about this?

Oh yeah, I was charged $3.14 for a Snicker’s bar and some gum at CVS. It brought back the memory of when I got back from Iraq with a 5,000 Dinar note, which I received after a day’s of working on a school outside Najaf. The mayor gave each soldier a 5,000 Dinar as part of a gesture of gratitude. I kept that bill with the engraving of a desert fortress during my entire tour. I told myself I’d get rid of it as soon as I got back.
When I went to the currency exchange place in the airport, I got it exchanged for what it was worth: $3.14. The place had to take out 2 dollars as a transaction fee, so I was left with $1.14. I just stood there, and as I walked away, I tried to buy a bag of popcorn from a vendor in Terminal B, but I didn’t have enough, so I just dug into my pocket and paid for the remaining amount I owed the vendor.
It wasn’t the first time I felt like that, though.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

A simple story really

My friend was driving home (drunk off his ass) past a swamp one night, and swerves because there's an alligator lying in the road. He decides he's lived in north Florida for years and never wrestled an alligator. Here's his chance.
So he gets out of the truck, wrestles with it for a few minutes, eventually gets it on the ground and not moving. Well, then he headsback to his truck, gets duct tape, and wraps the alligator in it. After finishing that duct tape job, he picks the thing up, sticks it in his tool box, and drives home.
The next morning he wakes up, covered in bruises and cuts. He says to himself "What the fuck. I have a fuckin' alligator in my toolbox." So he goes out to his truck, opens the box, and sees a radial tire tread wrapped in duct tape. (Those are the big semi tires, reinforced with wire mesh, which means that those cuts won't heal for a while).

Monday, November 13, 2006

The 7 Sins of Memory

1. Sin of Transcience.
2. Sin of Absent-mindedmness
3. Sin of Block
4. Sin of Misattribution
5. Sin of Suggestability
6. Sin of Bias
7. Sin of Persistence.

Now repent.....

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Revision to The Poker Face

So what I was really trying to do with that Poker Face narrative was that I was trying to get to this acting thing. That’s where I was supposed to go after the poker introduction had finished, but since this is all just ex tempore, you’ll have to excuse me for forgetting about my original direction and intention. So if you noticed that the gang-bangin’, kleptomaniac narrative seemed a little forced. It was. I was tired too. I apologize for any misgivings I may have caused in my readers.

It was around this timelast year that I had been acting as Lysander in a Midsummer’s Night Dream. The thing was that when I was instructed to let go just a little bit, I forgot how far I was supposed to go into the rabbit’s hole. I just kept forgetting who I was. It’s like mixing with the wrong crowd over and over again. You think you’re fine and you’re in control, but the surroundings and all the contrived lines seem to get in the way. So with the people I was dealing with it was very difficult to separate actors from their roles. Hermia and Demetrius were no different from Katy Preston and Peter Cooper. Sometimes I forgot that I wasn’t in love with Katy and that I didn’t hate Peter. It’s truly quite troublesome to have an utter vehemence toward someone who you can rationally see is completely innocent. Everything you’ve made up is in your head.
The oddest thing is that with all of my insomnia and the different postmodern readings I had been doing around that time, it’s really easy to start slipping into a hybridity that fuses both the real and imaginary. This instance was no different.
I would stand on stage dressed in the clothes and I was forget that I was me, and then I’d start to believe all the girls dressed provocatively were really fairies. The acting world I had temporarily entered was new to me, and the new feelings I was experiencing were difficult for me to bear.
So what ends up happening is that I wake up in the middle of the afternoons sometimes in a cold sweat and I’m wondering why I’m in a room when I should be in a forest or in the Duke’s palace. Nothing is as it seems and I’m confused. I’d wake up and thing about Derrida or Franz Fanon or Octavio Paz or Guillermo Gómez-Peña. There are so many more that would roll through my head and throw my mind into a swirl of cacophony and hot air.
That’s what the poker narrative was supposed to go. I was used to lying to other people. In the past, I could weave better than an old lady on a reservation, but now, it’s getting more and more difficult to stand and lie to others. It makes me fidget to just stand there and pretend that the anxiety doesn’t hurt. But it does.
But why was I was shaking then when I won the game?

Friday, November 10, 2006

The Poker Face

So I was playing poker yesterday and I bluffed really big on a hand that had a heavy hitter involved. It was heads-up and he’s aggressive whenever he’s playing. If he’s got something, it doesn’t change his game. Nahesh wins big as much as he loses big. Essentially, he’s the perfect guy to slow roll, but he’ll catch on after a while.
I had been doing just that: slow rolling Nahesh until he would figure out that I’d only call his big bets if I had something. Then, once I had Nahesh on tilt, I would start bluffing a little more, until he figured out that I figured him out.
So what ends up happening is that I bet 75, my normal big bet for the night, and Nahesh raises me 100. After that raise, I re-raise with an ALL-IN. This is before the river (the 5th and last card to be turned over during Texas Hold ‘Em) has been shown, so he still doesn’t know what he completely has.
I just stare at Nahesh. I feel that I emanated the adjective “smug” in that instance, or at least I hope I did. Smug would lead to a usurpation of confidence on his part.
It was a long 4 minutes since I had a pair of 5’s. There was a Jack of Spades on the board, a Queen of Diamonds, and a 10 of Spades. Usually I don’t start bettin’ heavy with an Ace/5 off suit hand, but I wanted to see how much I could milk Nahesh for, so I decided this was the time to test my skills at poker.
I’m just waiting for Nahesh to make a decision and I’m stone cold. It’s almost as if nothing can keep me from winning. Then Nahesh makes him move: he folds. In the pot was about 400, so the killing was nice. I rake my newfound treasure into my area and start stacking the chips into stacks of ten. As I have to look down at my chips and start stacking them up, my hands are shaking.
In my head at the particular moment: what the fuck is this shit about?

Back in the day, I was not as such a fully considerate young man as you see today. I was a little more on the immoral, if you please. It’s not that it’s my fault. I mean, my parents were too busy to stick to their guns about teaching me the right ways of dealing with problems. They weren’t bad parents at all; they were just so busy trying to keep the household afloat that I sometimes fell through the cracks. Hey, everybody’s human.
It started when I was about 6 or 7. My best friend Limael dared me to an action figure from Toys ‘R Us. Although I thought it would hurt me, the literal action did nothing to physically affect my body. I was done for after that. I got into the bad habit of stealing from my friends’ houses. That lasted until I stole a Johnny Fallitori’s brother’s Pog Slammer. I got the shit kicked out of me, so I decided to stop stealing from my friends. That only led to me stealing more from strangers.
I ended up in juvie at the age of 13. It was a B&E that just went completely wrong. I just lost my composure when I was there. It really wasn’t my idea but I did agree to go along with it. Anyway, I got the shit kicked out of me because I was wearing glasses while I was in detention. My parents came in and believed the shit I dished out to them. I maintained my innocence, and my naiveté. Kids are little shits when they wanna be.
The judge was nice enough about community service though. I was on house arrest for the next 6 months. The other judges were not as forgiving. They were attentive for the first 2 months, and then the attention started to slip. Life started to get in the way. By the end of those 6 months, I was back to my old ways, but I had gotten smarter about the way I went about sneaking around my parents. I became such a good liar, that by the end of middle school, I couldn’t even remember what was true and what was false.

See the thing is that man is an evolving species. It’s always that little drip in the faucet that makes our water bill double was it was before. It’s leaving the porch light on for most of the day that makes the energy bill go up by the end of the month. The slight act of not picking up your heels ruins the nice shoes that you bought; now you have to buy new ones. It’s a series of compromises that leads us to where we end up. I ended up at the end of a gun with the series of my compromises.
It wasn’t my fault, really. It was just a series of bad coincidences that lead to my run-in with a bunch of hard-hittin’ thugs on the Northeast side of Houston. My group of friends and I thought it’d be a good idea to crash a house party that was going on around Tidwell and Mesa Rd. With a bunch of misunderstandings and provocations, my rowdy crowd and I were involved in a fight with a group of Mexicans who did not agree with our removal of herbal and narcotic items from their friend’s house.
The self-appointed leader of our group started insulting the self-appointed leader of that group. Someone pulled a gun on him. I jumped in the way of the gun. I started talking. Explaining myself. It was a bunch of bullshit, really. Just the kind of shit that comes out when you’re trying to keep the dam from bursting, with the use of just one finger. The gun just got closer to me the more I talked, but it started to fidget when it was about a foot away from me. I snatched it out of his hand as if it were nothing. Now I have a gun, and I’m pointing it at a bunch of strangers, with resolve.
“So this is how it ends for y’all. Sad. But we’re leaving now. We don’t want to fight, but we’re sorry for whatever thing we’ve done that offended you. Sorry.”
And it was as easy as that. And to be honest, I didn’t think twice about having a gun pointed at my face.

Fast forward through the rest of high school, part of college, and all the shit that I’ve gone through in-between. Apparently when you’re trying to act like a grown-up, you’re not allowed to be as immoral of a person, which leads me to where I am today.
Like I said, life is a series of compromises. My compromises, though, have been the ones where you decide to let the guy into your lane during rush-house traffic. The ones where you save the last bit of soda for your girlfriend to drink since she gets really thirsting after eating the popcorn. The ones where you stay late after a party’s over and help your friend clean up: not even your real good friend, just an acquaintance who seems nice.
Actions like these get you to a point of respectability. You start to believe yourself, and you begin to think that the world’s not as bad of a place as you’ve made it out to be for the last 20 years of your life. Which gets us back to the poker game. Now, although I feel like I’m still not part of that world of good, well-intentioned people who feel sad after seeing a car wreck or those who give blankets to homeless people sleeping outside their apartment steps, I do think that I can get to the point where I can convince myself I’m one of those people.
Even if I never get there, I’m confident enough that I’ll start to believe my own lie about myself.

But why the hell was I shaking?

Wednesday, November 8, 2006

Reportaje #4

La locura y lo sensorial del surrealismo

El movimiento del surrealismo se engendró de la “locura” mundial que los artistas españoles experimentaba durante la modernización entera de todos su entorno. Lo que es aparente del surrealismo es la idea que los artistas querían liberarse las mentes para lograr una realidad más verdadera y menos inventada. La noción que el surrealismo era un ciclo de re-creación mental es un rasgo más sutil. Este ciclo tiene dos partes: destrucción y luego re-creación. Esta desintegración de las facultades mentales está encontrada en lo irracional que exponía en el arte. La re-creación está hallada en la manera en que los artistas expresaban su arte, con un contenido sensorial lleno de imágenes y conexiones subconscientes. Este pensamiento que los surrealistas mantenía un ciclo constante de destruir-construir puede ser explicado con dos obras surrealistas de unas modalidades diferentes: en el cortometraje Un chien andalou y la pintura de Salvador Dalí.
Sin leer ningún análisis sobre Un chien andalou, es obvio al espectador que “all narrative sense, all logical association” está excluido. La película comienza con la conmoción cuando Buñuel taja un ojo de una señorita. La serie de escenas con Batcheff y Mareuil le dejan al espectador en un estado de incredulidad, y durante el resto de la película, no puede recuperarse. También hay trozos de comprensión en las acciones de los personajes de la película, pero esas chispas de entendimiento se van cuando . En distorcionar y socavar la lógica del proceso mental, Un chien Andalou lo logra con su propósito de mostrar un sueño en forma de un filme. Todo lo de que el espectador tiene a sí mismo es lo sensorial en la película. La caja de madera con rajos, las hormigas en la palma del Batcheff, y el cadáver de un burro encima de un piano son imágenes le queda con el espectador por que una historia sin explicación solamente tiene los objetos que la construye para darle un valor.
A pensar en la pintura de Dalí, el rechazo de la realidad de que somos acostumbrados es el tema obvio a través de sus obras. En Metamorfosis del narcissus, Dalí pinta un paisaje en el trasfondo pero no da un significado al enfoque del primer plano. La mano saliendo del agua está conectada otra a la orilla. La gente pequeña en el trasfondo, el animal canino, y la tabla de ajedrez con un estatua no tienen un conexión y esta falta de composición es el rasgo de la pintura de Dalí que nos confunden. Lo que me fija importante en esta obra es las hormigas que están andando al pulgar de la mano en la orilla. Estas hormigas también aparece Un chien andalou y la repitición no es una consecuencia. En The Ghost of Vermeer of Delft Which Can Be Used As a Table, el cuadro no tiene un significado que no es dado por el título. El resto del cuadro solo el imagen de un jester con una pierna extendida para hacer una mesa. El trasfondo, como lo anterior, es un paisaje sin distorción pero el objeto del primer plano no tiene una coherencia.
La destrucción y la construcción del proceso mental son intrínsicas a la expresión de un surrealista. Este curso puede ser visto como la propia metamorfosis de un artista surrealista. El uso de las imágenes como el base de expresión se funde en la noción que los artistas querían rechazar la realidad que usualmente experimentamos. Este ciclo intrísico demuestra el deseo subconsciente del artista en transformarse en algo nuevo.

Tuesday, November 7, 2006

Crazy dream, huh?

So I had this dream the Sunday night and it was really tripping me out. Because it’s such an oddity that I remember my dreams, I’ve decided to recount it back to you so that you can gain the experience and the enjoyment that I had from it.


I’m walking down Greenbriar from the freeway headed toward Rice. It’s in the middle of the afternoon but there’s no one really driving up and down the road.
For some reason, I’m feeling like as if my life is very put upon. The task of having to walk this far distance to get to the University seems to be a huge burden that I have to carry (Fuck you, Rudyard). It’s almost as if I’m supposed to be retrieving my truck from Rice or my truck had given out on me while it was parked in front of my town home-apartment thing at Richmond and Hazard.
The time is going by slowly, and so am I. There seems to be no end in sight, when all of a sudden I find myself on the passenger side outside of a white enfeebled-geriatric-veteran-in-a-wheel-c
hair/terrorist-bomber-hating-his-current-lot-in-life/catering-company/religious-youth-group-field-trip van (most probably a Ford E-Series van) talking to the guy in the passenger seat while he tells me that he thinks he can solve my predicament. The only thing is that I’ll have to do him a favor so that I can get the ride to where I need to get. I obliged to meet the terms of his offer.
Next, I’m sitting in the backseat of this white van with un-tinted windows all around me. Slowly but surely, without me realizing it, the van starts picking up more people who are walking along the road. It’s as if the entire route the two guys are taking is part of a limo service that has designated stops for all of its passengers.
Fast forward.
The scene is where all of the people in the van and then about double that number are standing in line in a small room. The line we’re in is that of a cafeteria line, but it isn’t a cafeteria. It seems like how a ball bearing distributor would keep their office area. The room is square with 10-foot and then white ceiling tiles. The floor is as immaculate as a private clinic that won’t accept two-thirds of the insurance policies out on the market.
Contrast this with the image of a morning soup line for hobos, except everyone is as young and clean-cut as I am. As we move through the line, the servers fit the description of an upper-middle class volunteer worker. They are happy to be there, unlike the cafeteria server image used earlier, and they are copious with their locutions and their portions. At the end of the line there is a cashier who just stamps my hand with a green stick attached to a line.
Since there is no place to eat inside (due to space limitations and the absence of tables, chairs, etc.), I walk outside to eat. Upon exiting, the bright sun shines down on me. It’s bright yet cool outside. I look around and there’s nothing in the parking lot outside this building, not even the white van that brought us. The building is a huge square with no windows. The only glass on the outside is a glass-paned door, an item so common in the convenience stores peppered throughout Houston.
For as far as I can see, I look around and there’s just grass. The building has about 20 spots for parking, but it’s only available on one side of the building. There is grass around the other 3 sides. The concrete in the parking lot looks new and rarely warped by time. The grass is manicured, not over-grown as would be expected from such a remote locale with little occupancy. The grass as far as I can see is so well kempt, that it’s as if it were cut by a person who cuts grass for a living every few days. As I scan the horizons, I see a huge building in the distance.
As I’m facing this one-story building, to my right about a mile away there is a huge white warehouse with a huge parking lot and many light-posts. The sign on the building says Wal-Mart. It makes sense. The odd thing that I notice is that there’s no one parked at the Wal-Mart. It’s as if it’s one from Canada or something. Not a soul is in the Wal-Mart, nor is there anyone parked outside or whizzing by. It’s just the group of us kids eating our free food outside of the white building, content as a light bulb is to be switched off.
Fast forward.
The only thing that I can surmise is that I’ve done the favor, the one which I had obliged to upon first accepting a ride and food.
I’m now with my girlfriend, Ami, and I’ve convinced her that we should investigate this group, who obviously are not well-intentioned if they can operate like this. She doesn’t really care, but decides to go along, partially because she doesn’t believe all of the fantastic stories that came along with this experience. We drive to where I had received my food.
Fast forward.
We pull up in my truck and we look around the white building. Ami is now starting to believe the incredible tale I has related to her before. Apparently, I had saved a small hand-towel that they had given us to use as a napkin with our food. The tag on the hand-towel said “Wal-Mart” plus the address of the Wal-Mart where it was produced. The address was not the one that was over yonder but right where Ami and I were standing.
This odd discrepancy (probably due to the fact that the group had not identified themselves with Sam Walton’s organization) filled me with a sense of purpose and resolve. I decided I was going to stop whatever illegal/wrong activity that that group had been engaged in. The thing that was not on my nor Ami’s side was the fact that we did not have anything to fight with. Adding to that, we did not have anything at all to wear; we were both naked. Despite this clear oversight, I still wanted to find out what this shady group was doing, and put a stop to it if they were doing something wrong.
The door that was of glass is now a steel door with no peephole or keyhole. I just back up to get a running start at the door. Ami is waiting by the door 3 feet away and giving me a path to the slam into the door. “Ami, get ready. We’re going to be getting into some shit.” And then I just started running as fast as I could. When I got to the door, I just put my left shoulder into it (oddly enough), and the door just popped open, taking the frame and the door latch with it.
Instead of the room for the serving food, the hallways is just a stairway descending down about 80 steps. I rush down the stairs since I still had inertia to get over. I end up in an underground room that leads to a more open room, reminding me of my Wickshire house. We look around and we don’t see anyone, but we hear something coming from upstairs. The noise is a low murmur and then sporadic rises in volume.
There is a single stairway that goes up 5 steps and then there’s a landing. This stairway is split into two by a banister running from the first floor to the landing. If you’re on the left side of the banister, you go 90 degress to your left and go up a lot of steps until you hit another landing and then turn to the left again. If you’re on the right side, it’s the same thing except flipped.
We look around and then there’s a Glock 19. There’s a laser sight on top of the slide. I tell Ami, “What’d I tell you? Something’s wrong with these people”. We start creeping around, still naked but now armed with a 17 round handgun, and I turn the corner around the right stairwell. There is a bed through the doors and a hallway that leads to he left. I see two skinny nude, Caucasian hairy guys going at it in a king-size bed. They have automatic rifles leaning up against the wall. Something wrong is going on.
I’m scared enough, so I start to aim. They stop doing what they’re doing and they just look at me, dazed. I fire at both of them. There’s no sound, but they both fall to the ground with these red blotches on their skin. Ami and me scurry down the hallway, which just went underneath the stairway and we’re on the left side of the left stairwell.
We stand there and I tell Ami to follow me. I drop the Glock, and go back to the room where the two gay lovers were just slain and I pick up an AK-47-looking assault rifle. I walk upstairs to right stairwell where that noise was coming from originally. We curl upstairs to the right without encountering anyone. As we get to the 2nd floor, the noise turns into a movie. The other periodic noise that raises the volume is laughter and chatter. I walk into a room where everyone’s back is turned and watching a movie. There’re about 40 people watching this movie. They’re sitting on couches, in recliners, in love seats, in folding chairs, and they were all naked.
I just take aim at the screen and then let loose into the crowd. I grab Ami and start running downstairs. We get to the first floor and then I notice that the left stairway has a trap door that is sorta like storage space in a car for the spare tire. I put Ami in there and tell her not to leave until it’s over.
I’m still naked.
I wait around this corner of a wall that turns into the kitchen. I have a straight line-of-sight to the stairway. I wait with the right half my body exposed around the corner of the wall , holding the gun in my right hand ready to get a shot onto the stairway, which is ahead of me.
A crowd of 30 people is all descending down the stairway like a wave coming up onto the beach: each step is in coordination. The crazy thing is that, in the crowd, there are the kids with whom I had shared a meal, all of them with their guns pointed at me.
I look into the kitchen and there’s a door that is ahead of me. I hear footsteps. The door slams open. I turn my gun and fire into whatever’s bursting through. Two shots. Two bodies fall. I now have two guns: a .357 in the right hand and an assault rifle in the left. The mass of people on my right are just waiting, as are the people on my left. I have a pillar between my two extended arms, all weapons at human beings, no more than 15 feet away from each other.

The jovial chef of the cafeteria food, at the head of the group going down the stairs starts talking.
“Mr. [deleted for Governmental purposes], you should have taken the money and run. What are you doing here? As you can tell, you have no idea what is going on. If you only knew who you were messing with, you’d drop your weapons and walk away. There’d be no recompense needed on our behalf. That’s my only advice to you. If you don’t take it, you’re a goddamn fool.”
“I don’t’ know what I’m doing. I just know I have to stop you.”
“You’re going to die.”
“Better this than kicking myself later for having been a coward.”
“There’s a difference between cowardice and stupidity.”
“I guess I haven’t learned that yet.”
“You’re just young. You always think you’re right about everything you think. Ideas, my boy: the cause and solution for all life’s problems.”
“Fuck you. Leave this place. And I won’t kill you.”
“Well… if you’re gonna act like that then…”
I just start firing into the group on my left and try to hit as many people on my right. I duck and all that stuff. It’s only a couple of seconds, but the left side of the group coming through the kitchen door are all gone. The ones on the right are still firing.
I’m now on the ground with bullet holes. The jovial chef is standing a few feet away from me with one wound on his left. I’m just riddled with bullets. He tells me that I got close, but I would never win since I was just that stupid to think I could be one man against so many. He pulls back the hammer and takes aim. He fires.


We both jerk our bodies. I don’t feel anything.
[Did he die? Did I die? Did we both die?]
I'm in Ami's apartment, facing the wall and laying in her bed.


See, what I’ve done here is that I’ve destroyed the pleasure of the dream. What you’ve just read was not my dream but my own shitty version of what I thought I saw and what it was supposed to mean. I gave significance, elaboration, emphasis, and adjectives where I saw fit and, thus, ruined the whole precept of trying to tell you about my dream. The problem with this account is that I have destroyed the juice of what makes the dream so great: the spontaneity.

I guess I’ll work on that. Apologies all around.
The problem is, though, that you fell for it. You work on that

Sunday, November 5, 2006

The Inkwell (I like this metaphor)

I’d hate to bleed so much but it’s unavoidable if I want to grow. I’ll shed off my old skin only to gain a new one. The bleeding itself is not what’s good but the pain associated with the blood that is now strewn onto the floor and onto the gauze pad. People try to keep me from bleeding but I still have to find my own little piece of heaven even if I’m by myself.
This sharp edge slides along the street and it always does what I say it must. Never do I cross the street or ever do I try to think.
Sometimes I bleed when I’m angry, when I’m sad, or when I’m happy. My mood does not make me bleed it’s my body that wants to bleed.
The pain involved in showing others that you’ve bled once in your life is so excruciating that I sometimes wish I could just stop and withdraw.
No one wants anyone to see what he’s bled. The memories are far too anguishing and contorting to allow such a revelation. I didn’t mean to bleed all over this gauze.
There’s nothing else to catch all this blood. Sorry, but I think that my blood means something to me. I see what I have inside of me, and I’m surprised. Everyone else will gaze upon my blood and see something disgusting or revilesome.
Sorry. It’s not supposed to be that way, but I’m just wishing that you see what’s the cause of the red that is soaked and dried on this gauze.

Saturday, November 4, 2006

The Singing Face

So yeah, I was just thinking of the face that we make when we sing. There’re teeth and wrinkles. There’s awkward movements of the head.

So I was singing today at the bank and I suddenly thought about that face that we all make when we sing. I was singing and I cringed my nose up to my eyes in order to display a certain amount of emotion to demonstrate the articulation of the song through the voice of Nelly Furtado or Adam Levine.
Then there’s the slow movement when we’re trying to hold a note for more than half a beat. And then there’s the movement of the eyes and the lips that circumnavigate the map of our complexion. There’s the head jerking or the back and forth. It’s all very interesting once you start to realize how powerful it is to hear a song and recite the verses as if they came from a prayer. I’m kinda curious about that face. It’s like that moment in the spotlight that we all hope for.
Instead of having that moment where we are in our rooms by ourselves, we have no privacy or ability to belt out a tune. In lieu of the hand motions and the closed eyes, we have our little space for only a couple of seconds when no one’s looking. We’ll look out the window overlooking the parking lot, or we’ll be facing the wall as we place a folder on the counter.
That second and a half that we take on some other persona. It’s actually quite interesting cuz if we were gonna have someone witness that moment of solitude, we’d be embarrassed. Like if Joel Goodson had his parents walk in on him, the rest of the movie probably would’ve been a little different.
How does the song have that much power over us where we can disconnect from ourselves and assume control over some other person’s life? We take over their work as we decided to sing it. It’s like reading poetry out-loud: you bring it to life. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of air molecules quivering like a puppy of Halloween decoration

I remember when I used to do the rap/hip-hip circuits around St. Louis and the Chicagoland area, the rhythm was such an integral part of the people’s lifestyle. Like even when they were talking, there was a meter that they used that they were unaware of. I used to have to record them so they would actually believe me when I told them that they had a beat to their normal everyday speech.
What I did was that I would records the conversation on my digital recorder and then play some tracks over their discourse until I found the right type of meter. I was curious about the music, the pure movement is what keeps our blood moving and it keep ourselves alive. For some groups of people, those that live for music, there’s a greater capacity to try and adapt oneself around the music we live by.
Finding this out made me think about how the patterns that arise in all of us prevail through all the differences we come across. It kind of reminded me of the Golden Ratio that I’ve heard so much about for the past 10 years. Obviously it’s been around longer than that, but I’ve only paid attention to it for the past 10 years. So when I was trying to figure out the truth behind all of these common speech patterns, I went to a universal pattern that occurs in nature all the time. I read up on the works of Plato, Euclid, Fibonacci, Pacioli, Kepler, Edouard Lucas, and Roger Penrose, but to no avail, I was unable to figure out at what beat the human body beats.
But how much else is there in a common beat to life? I was thinking about involving myself in the study of this for a long time. The Indian mathematician and astronomer Aryabhata and Zu Chongzhi, a Chinese mathematician and astronomer, were able to compute the early approximations of the number whenever they started to become fascinated with the number Π.

How much else do we not pay attention to the other rhythms of our lives? Like in Chicago, I encountered some hard-hitting thugs, but I almost encountered a 5th-grade girl at a rich, white private school when I showed them my love for the beat. There was a common ground we found with my extreme fascination that they found refreshing. Apparently it was something they had not been exposed to. It’s odd though how they found my thoughts interesting yet I found their lives interesting. They had the intangibles that seemed intriguing but I was amazed by their tangible things: their music, their clothes, their speech, their smell even.
And then there’s the nod. It always comes down to a nod. It’s always that little movement that plays in my head. It always comes to a nod. I wish my neck didn’t’ move so straight all the time. As a result, I can never seem to keep up the beat for too long. If I can’t keep the beat for that long, I start to lose my rhythm. I wish I could just keep with it, but due to my horrible affliction, I can’t really maintain the effort needed to concentrate and execute the necessary beat.
I lack all those things that they have. I’ve recorded my own speech multiple times. The interesting thing I’ve encountered is that I haven’t found any beat to which my speech follows. I have a shitload of music, but I still can’t determine what the beat is that I’m looking for.
Where’s my beat? Where’s my pattern? Where’s the movement that defines me as a person?

Friday, November 3, 2006

The Artist is Tired

The artist is tired. The artist is tired of sitting. If he were driving, he’d be fine, but we’re not talking about driving; we’re talking about living.

The artist is not tired of living. The artist is tired of not living. Diving into literature and music and painting is great and all, but there is a point when you’re at the shallow end of the pool. Most artists will decide that the kiddie pool, the shallow end, and the deep end are all the same.

The diving board is just a diversion.
The slide is just a diversion.
The inflatable raft is just a diversion.

The artist doesn’t need diversions.

The artist realizes that they don’t need to be underwater to hold his breath. The artist leaves the swimming pool in order to swim somewhere else, just as long as there’s no water involved.

The artist is tired of waiting for something to happen, so the artist decides to take it upon himself to change the way he thinks since the books, the music, and the paintings he see are no longer worthy of his attention.

Thursday, November 2, 2006

Writing Without a Wistful Worry in the World

Only the echos in my mind are the true voices that I find. The sound rushing in from the back beats over and over and over again. I don't think but I see and when I see I collapse.
There's light.
There's noise.
I trip over my own tongue trying to think up something to say, but I can't so I just look down at the ground as if my toes held all the answers to all my problems. I tip over to see what's the matter with myself and I'm blinded by the darkness that rests upon thebereaved. Don't you want to look in on these people's problems? It's so much more interesting than having to pay attention to whatever I have to eat on my own plate.
I'm going to sail away from this portmanteau.
Maybe you'll find that this you just can't do
Since I tried by failed to climb Mt. Kathmandu.
I climb the steep slopes. Now I realize my love cuz I should go and then try to elope. Through the mist and the fog I try to not fall to the abyss and also get lost.
There are so many little gnomes romaing around the forest that I have a hard time attaining that slippery slope that we all want to slide down for fun.
There is no point at the top and there is no way to circumvent the gravity imposed upon us. I wish I could just see through the darkness in my room. Then I'd be able to figure out where to walk in order to step out this one that seems too small.

Wednesday, November 1, 2006

Common Spaces

In New York, it makes sense that they feel community because they share something common to everyone. No one is exempt from this community. As a result, they are united by this one thing found all over New York.
So when a group of people inhabit the same locale, there is a sort of unity that should form in order to facilitate better human interactions. Assuming humans are all we have, it is dire that we interact. A team that has a rival, i.e. any other team, will be between united by their vehemence to achieve the one goal of defeating the other team. A nation with an enemy attempting to exterminate them will have a patriotism instilled by that feeling of self-preservation. It will fortify the masses. Here, an enemy is shared. Other times, it is a church or town plaza that is shared. Streets and sidewalks are shared too, where people encounter each other as individuated groups of the collective.
In a big city like New York, they share so much that there's not much to individuate one from another. With iPods and all the new technology, it's easier for us to separate ourselves from the world. As more and more people are able to withdrawal within their communal area, then there is less ability to unite on a city-wide level.
So in the end (I've been stalling), after it's all said and done, New York City has an amazing unity and community in which they are still able to relate to each other (if only they sought to use that one thing as a stepping stone to start bridging the gap). In my view, it is the instanity of the city that unites all New Yorkers. All of the people, the buildings, the mechanization, the concrete, the pollution, the crime, and all the other problems inherent in massing so many people and their things together is what I believe makes New Yorkers think of themselves as different from everybody else.
It is the insanity of New York City that unites its people.