I can hear the silence buzzing in my ears. It’s a horrible sound. The last words I told her still echo in my head and I slowly feel stupid after I say them. We’re I’m in habit of telling her certain things, sweet things, I suppose, but it all depends on taste. I told her Sweet dreams as we were hanging up. She replied in the same manner.
“Always and only of…” and I held that upward inflection. What was she supposed to say? What was I supposed to say? In the past it would be followed by a you, but now what? Always and only of what we had before all this mess came into our lives? Before the urge to live a new life, a single life? There wasn’t anything I wanted to hear at that moment but I was longing for the you - the me. She always had dreams of me, didn’t she? At least the sweetest ones were of me, right? They were always of her, mostly, usually.
She just said goodnight again. I accepted it because I had done something that I didn’t want to do. This, what we have now, is all that I can expect. I shouldn’t expect more. I wish I could.
Philosopher and I were at Hastings on Friday and I saw this book. Religion has very rarely been a method for me to heal - it hasn’t been one since I was a kid and naive enough to believe that the world was created in only seven days in only a thousand handful of years ago. But Buddhism seems to come more natural to me than any other. I always said if I would allow myself to be naive and believe in something, Buddhism would be my religion.
I should’ve bought it, but I didn’t. Instead I opted for something else - a Soduku book that Jyg and I could share. Something we could do together and prove that two people can be friends despite the break up.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That last time I told her that we were still together and things were going well - well enough to stick it through. And the urge for affection is greatly needed. I’m sick and tired of being the bum friend, the writer with a dream. The person who doesn’t drive because of some inane fears. All these things were fine and perfect when I was a kid, but I’m in the real world now, aren’t I? And the more I start to self-analyze myself, the more I’m convinced that nothing short of an asylum is for me. Somewhere I can be locked up and forgotten.
Or perhaps, I’m just reading into all the shitty thoughts I’ve been having.
When my Abuelo Corona died in the sixth grade, it was cold. His Rosary was set for Super Bowl Sunday, which in those days used to be in January. I remember hearing the news from my grandmother on my mother’s side. My grandfather, the last one I had - because, really, we only get two - was now meeting the other one in Heaven. I sat in bed for a little while to digest the news. It was strange, really. Only three grades ago I was at my grandfather’s (Mom’s dad) funeral. Now was the time to bury my father’s father.
I put on my scuffed shoes and went outside into the back yard, which is much different now. Up against a fence, rusted over, was a cactus patch. The thorns struck out like quills. With pluckers, I took a few out and stuffed in them in my shirt pocket. I brushed the cold soft earth from my knees and stared at the patch. They towered above me, the cacti. And they been allowed to live, they probably would have surpassed me in height forever. I pulled a thorn out and smelled it, making sure not to let the sharp part prick me any. After my brief inspection, I stuck it in my mouth and let it dangle there. It made me feel strong - why? I don’t know.
“Mijo,” his voice sounded familiar. He’d call me that all his life and would continue it to this very day. “Mijo.”
Most sons would rejoice over this. I didn’t. It felt strange and fake. I wasn’t his son more than I was anyone’s son other than my mother’s. She had been the one who raised me. Who taught me wrong from right. Who said men never run away. And yet, he did.
I turned on a heel and looked at him. My face had been puffy from crying earlier. My eyes reddened. I wasn’t his son and he wasn’t my father, ‘apa, or whatever you want to call him. He was just the man who decided only to pop into my life whenever it convenience him. I spat the thorn from my mouth and allowed him to hug me. His clothing smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, father’s cologne. His hugs were awkward. There was hardly any emotion in them. His hands, used to sooth me by disheveling my hair, were rough and dry. Oil stained with crud in the finger tips. This, I believe, is why I don’t hug. The emotion’s hardly there.
He asked if I was doing fine. He asked if I was doing well. I answered. Lied. I didn’t want him to know that I had been born broken. That there were thoughts up in my head that weren’t supposed to be there. That I only did the things I did - the reason I read and wrote so much was to escape the world I was never meant for. Instead, I muttered a fine and explained my reason for being outside. The thorns, you see, brought comfort later on when I was alone and two or three were sticking into my flesh. The rush of ecstasy that flowed through me was almost orgasmic. I longed for it. It was my embittered medicine.
Three years later, my grandmother (Mom’s mom) died. I stood outside, again in the cold, at looked at the cactus patch. The thorns seemed smaller than I remembered, but I went to work anyway, plucking out only a few. The pain didn’t do what it normally did. It didn’t bring me the joy it has those three years ago. In fact, it only brought me a miserable sense of hatred.
I don’t cause pain to myself anymore because pain doesn’t work. Though now, I wish that cactus patch was still in the backyard.
I hate Full House and because ABC Family feels they have to torture me with it, I feel the need to do the same to you. At least with that little post there.
However, as I recall, I used to have the biggest crush on Jodie Sweetin growing up. I think I was hooked to the show because of her. Now, I can’t even stand the show and the little girl I adored as a child makes me want to blow my brains out. I suppose it’s not her fault. She never grew up and I did. Now that I think about it this whole post seems wrong.
Because you know, all meth addicts are bored when they started, right? I’m not a big fan of the drug, but I am amazed by how quickly it will deteriorate your life and your body.
Back to the original topic - I think the real reason I can’t stand Full House is because I can’t stand the Olsen twins and feel if that show never existed they would have never been so fucking adorable nor would they be around to this day.
Blah, forget it.
Yesterday was Philosopher’s little girl’s birthday. She three now and I’m in awe, just as I am with the other Munchkins in my life. You never feel as old until there’s a child in your life and I have several with another one on his way in July.
I could return to memory lane about the day she was born and how Philosopher vanished and we went to her house the next day with the Spock shirt because we wanted to know what’s up, but I won’t. Too tired and my mind is on no writing mode.
I just want someone to say to me oh, oh, oh, oh
I’ll always be there when you wake yea, yea
Ya know I’d like to keep my cheeks dry today, hey
So stay with me and I’ll have it made
And I don’t understand why I sleep all day
And I start to complain that there’s no rain
This is an edit to my original post. I’m not sure why this music video didn’t come to mind when I first made the post. It was only brought to my attention with a friend of mine (Monica from EMO) posted it on Myspace in response to this blog.
My house has been invaded by bees. And none of them are Jerry and Matthew. Several of them decided that nature was calling and broke through the bathroom window and started investigating, inspecting, searching, for a new house and how to use the toilet.
Sadly Mom was in there when they broke in, and many a bee’s life was taken. The bathtub is littered with little bee bodies, some of which still twitch as the Raid slowly kills them.
And paranoid me, my first thought was Killer Bees! I so hoped on to the internet to find out what killer bees look like and if they are known to flock around a bathroom window like that. This is what I found:
If you see honey bees now, you will probably see AHBs once they move into the area. If you don’t notice honey bees now, you are not likely to see AHBs. The most common sighting is to see a swarm of bees as they look for a new home, either flying about or resting on a tree branch or railing.
Africanized honey bees are less discriminating than other honey bees when it comes to nesting sites. They will build nests in the ground, in cavities in trees or buildings, under bridges, and in utility boxes if they can find a hole through which to enter. To keep swarms from taking up residence in a building or utility box, seal cracks and holes or cover them with small gauge wire mesh. (source)
But no actual photograph of what a killer bee looks like compared to a normal honey bee. So I started flipping through the pictures. Meanwhile, the buzzing had died down. Killer bees, however, are known to be territorial. They tend to attack anything that comes near their home, so I assumed they do the same considering both my mother and myself were too close for confront, both for the bees and for ourselves. Not one bee decided to come out and sting us. Instead, they buzzed on by and one of them whispered something antisemitic to me.
My worst nightmare was becoming real right before my eyes. The bees, it seemed, had finally organized and were ready to go on strike. I began to imagine swarms of bees gathering on the streets, holding little bee protest signs and marching (buzzing?) down the streets. Banners would go up in public places. The elections this year will be based on the fair treatment of bees - something that Bee Movie scared me with. So what will happen to us?
I caught myself wanting the bees to be killer because that I could handle. These things, not so much. So I continued my search for the bee look online because I had to figure out if these were regular or Africanized. Commandeering one of the twitchers from the bathroom sink, I started comparing its small body to that of large photographs of killer bees. Then it struck me: I’m looking in the Internet and not in a book. Most things online are controlled by know nothings, such as myself, passing their idiocy as factual evidence. So I gave up, but not until after I found the picture that helped me distinguish the difference between a killer bee and a regular one.
You see, there are two physical differences between the two types of bees. The twitcher didn’t have either of these qualities so I crushed its head and disposed of its body. The photo is posted below.
I have been having this ongoing dream where I’m killing myself after killing some unknown person. I think my mental health is on a decline and I don’t trust myself around pills, plastic bags, razors, knives, anything that I can use to end myself. I hate being this weak. And while I’ve become kind of recluse by force, I’m thinking of going to this event on Saturday. I’m not sure how I’ll get there - this is where new friends should come in play. Sadly, I can’t make new friends because I lack that ability and chance. I’m not sure. I want to go because it’s something I’ve never done before, but am I only doing it because Jyg is living a new life without me? And what’s with this jealousy? Suddenly I’m looking at photos of her in short skirts and thinking that other guys are ogling her like they would a slut. My emotions are rampant. Something has snapped.
The fates are vicious and they’re cruel
You learn too late you’ve used
Two wishes
Like a fool
And then you’re someone you are not
And Junction City ain’t the spot
Remember Mrs. Lot and when she turned around
And if you’ve got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town
I think this sick city is eating me alive. I’m sure it is. It’s like a putrid cancer that latches to our minds/souls and sucks them drive. We are prisoners of our own private hell. Those of us who do go north wind up in Austin, where we just pollute it without ignorance and apathy. We are a horde of emotional vampires, or zombies, pick your choice. We won’t stop until everyone is just like us. And as long as I’ve known myself, I’ve known there are about two people in this world that I’ve met - the black holes and those of us who get sucked into their world. I’m afraid I’m becoming to believe I’m a dying star.
And soon I will devour everything there is to devour. And I’m sure that things will get better as they say, but when the only person who has ever made you felt normal no longer wants to deal with the shit that your life comes in store, then you feel that the rest of the world is worthless. And now I’m thinking what the point of living this life is because I can’t see it any longer.
I damned her earlier. I damned her for her confusion. Damned her for her drinking. Damned her for her friends. Damned her for all things that have befallen on me by her. And yet I cannot hate her, throw her out. I’m her slave, I’ve realized. The pathetic dog who waits around. I’ve hated the weak my whole life and now I’m one of them and I hate myself for it. If I could, I cut the very heart out of my chest and lay on the ground so that the world may stomp on it.
You think that luck has left you there
But maybe there’s nothing
Up in the sky but air
And there’s no mystical design
No cosmic lover preassigned
There’s nothing you can find
That cannot be found
’cause, with all the changes you’ve been through
It seems the stranger’s always you
Alone again in some new
Wicked little town
So what now? I’m not humanisticly suicidal, just off the wire, I suppose. For five years, I was balanced and now I’m like that circus act. One man upon a unicycle with a table upon his hand, glasses towering high and trying to stay balanced. Because when those glasses fall and shatter, I’m not sure what I am capable of doing.
They all deserve to die.
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because in all of the whole human race
Mrs. Lovett, there are two kinds of men and only two
There’s the one staying put in his proper place
And the one with his foot in the other one’s face
Look at me, Mrs Lovett, look at you.
No, we all deserve to die
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief
For the rest of us death will be a relief
We all deserve to die.
My father, the man who never had a role in my life, the stranger in the crowd, a phantom of a man, was an alcoholic and, so, by natural psychology, I am at risk of being one. I don’t drink. Never have and I don’t want to. It’s the only goal in my life that I’ve the pleasure to announce I’ve kept. When I was a teen, I never wanted to drink illegally. As an adult, I am the sober man at the party, the loner, the unfunny one, lifeless and devoted to his sobriety. It shocks people to find this out. I’m sure some of you are staring at the screen with uplifted eyebrow questioning my honesty. In fact, the only alcohol I’ve consumed is always a part of a recipe, and never out of a bottle.
This probably puts a lot of people who have read my stories to question them. All my characters drink. They hang out at bars and grow drunk, hating society, becoming shadow men incapable of loving. They drink to regain a certain ease with themselves. To become happier than they have ever been. But it is fiction. The accounts of the characters are neither myself or anyone I know.
And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered “How can you do this to me?”
I lost my cousin to his addiction to alcohol. New Year’s Eve 2003 I went to bed. I woke up in 2004 to hear from my mother my cousin was dead. The medics said he didn’t feel pain. That his neck was snapped the moment he collided with the object he crashed into. The wreck was so bad that his legs had to be amputated. He was cremated, his ashes somewhere, forgotten.
At times, I still find myself thinking he’s not dead. I never saw a body. Never seen the evidence of his death. When I see a chubby guy with a scruff beard, I still think he’s around. I think it’s the guilt of knowing that I was the one that expressed that he wasn’t welcomed in my mother’s home anymore. I wonder if things would be different had I not said that. Would he still be alive?
When Teddy died in 2001, I think I was a little distraught. No one I knew had ever died before, not a friend and never someone my own age. I was in my BCIS class when the announcement that Teddy had not made it. He’d been in a coma for some time and was struggling to live through. I think that was the first funeral I ever attended where I felt this coldness growing in me. From that moment on, I never wanted to be associated with the substance.
I canceled all my friends who were drunks. I promised never to grow to close to them. So when I found out my girlfriend at the time favored the drink, I was distraught. Despite the fact that we probably weren’t made for each other, the one thing that was a constant for me was her passion for the drink. I didn’t want to stand around and watch someone fall into that trap, confusing alcohol for happiness.
Addiction’s held you back
But you don’t care
Cause you’re on a high again
And it’s not fair
Consuming alcohol
While I gotta drive
Take a hit from the drugs you stole
And try to survive
Since your life was over
You haven’t yet been sober
You have held me back so long
Everything you do is wrong
My brother, the middle child, named after my father, following in his footsteps, is also an alcoholic. I’ve seen him in and out of the system since I was a kid. And while I love my brother, I have absolute no respect for him. He’s wasting his life on the bottle. He’s a rotting mess. It depresses me that I don’t know how to talk to him, or what I can say to make this disease leave his body.
And the saddest part of the story is that my brother is painfully aware of his condition but refuses to do anything about it. Alcoholism, like all addictions, is an ongoing battle between the alcoholic and the substance. I’m sure my brother feels like he’s losing his, which was made clear to me when he asked me to kick his ass if he was ever a bad father - he told me this at 7:00 am as he and his friend were still up drinking from the night before. I told him I didn’t have the time and I’ll deal with him after school.
You are one of God’s mistakes.
You crying, tragic waste of skin.
I’m well aware of how it aches,
And you still won’t let me in.
Now I’m breaking down your door,
To try and save your swollen face.
No, I don’t like you anymore
You lying, trying waste of space.
Now I sit here and stare at this screen thinking how I came to this point. After swearing never to care about people who might be headed down the path of a bad addiction, I find myself compelled to take care of a certain person. As I told this person, I don’t want to be up at night fearing that the phone call will be someone telling me of their death. I worry enough about my brother, I don’t need to worry more about someone else.
I just hope that this person seeks comfort in something else instead of drink. That drinking shouldn’t be for the buzz. This, of all things, is now bringing me closer the edge than I have before.
I tried to help you once
Against my own advice
I saw you going down
But you never realized
That you’re drowning in the water
So I offered you my hand
Compassions in my nature
Tonight is our last stand
I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And our scars remind us that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel
FESTIBA was yesterday, Saturday, considering it’s still Sunday here in my part of the world. I was a little happy to be around, but regret I didn’t take anything for the reading. Emmy Perez asked if I was there to read; I replied saying that I was only there for leisure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about things lately. Now the Men’s Resource Center gig, I’m thinking that I should rethink the Peace Corps. I know it sounds like I’m backing out, but it’s not. If I can help out my own community, then I can feel accomplished. The only thing it lacks is the travel to the far off lands. However, I’ll be finding myself in Indiana next month. I suppose Gringolandia is a far off land.
There’s a lot about me I haven’t discovered yet. Last night, I made a shocking discovery about myself. While I won’t get into detail, I’m not proud of myself at this moment, yet I really don’t feel all too shitty about it.
I stopped reading Ten Little Indians because life got in the way. I put the book down and haven’t really paid my fullest attention. I’m sure, being consumed by The L Word didn’t help much either. I love the show.
No offense to my female readers, but I think I’ve become the woman in the break up. The stereotype who mopes all day and doesn’t do much but self-pity. I don’t like it one bit. I wish I can be the mechanical person I was five years prior when I ripped J******’s heart out and felt nothing but this sudden uneasiness of absolute void.
I’m not asking not to feel, I’m just asking what I should do in order to make sure that whatever happens to me, I’m not alone.
As you all know, yesterday was my 25th birthday and I think I accomplished it rather well. Considering my brother (the middle child) didn’t call me, put me off a bit. No matter our feud with each other, we never failed to act like family when it comes to these “special” days. I love my family, and I don’t think I say that enough. I’m hoping to arrange something on Saturday so I can tell my entire family my plans for my future. I also want to discuss another thing I’ve been bottling up inside. I hope to tell my niece as well. If anyone needs to know about the difficult life on the path I’ve chose for myself, it should be her of all people.
Mother took me out for lunch. We ate at this Chinese place and I told her about the Peace Corps. She told me she wanted to do it as a kid. I saw that flame in her eye I once saw when I was a child. It was the same flame she had when she tried to go out for GED but succumbed to defeat. I’ve always wanted to be there for my mother in the way she was there for hers. I don’t think I’m strong enough though. A lot of my friends have seen my relationship with my mother is a lot stronger than they ever had with theirs. My mother’s been like a best friend to me in my youth. She still is in many ways. I know she wants me to grow up and let me go because all good mothers want that. But I can’t help but to feel that she can’t stand to face the fact that if I’m gone, that would leave not only the void of her son, but her friend as well.
I always had this plan that if I left for something like this, then Jyg would be around to pick up my slack. Now that it’s over between us, I don’t expect her to ever do that for me. Those who know me well should know I’m crying at this moment as I write. For those who don’t, I’ve learned to let go of my social stigma and allow myself the emotions most men bury inside themselves, or numb with alcohol. But now I wonder what’s going to happen when I’m gone? Sure she has the Kid and my nieces and nephews, my brothers, my grandmother, my aunt, etc. But who’ll be here when I’m gone? Who’ll make sure she keeps her appointments? I know I’m putting myself way ahead of what’s happening. I may not even be able to join. But that’s the problem I face with all my paths.
Because I feel indebted to Susie Bright for introducing me to this wonderful world of (sexual) freedom - and possibly a world where a 58 year old (Catholic) mother can buy her 25 year old (Agnostic) son a book of “smut” with good conscience, knowing that she raised him both as a woman’s civil rights activist and an out spoke liberal humanitarian, though he’s too lazy to actually go out there and riot, but does support them in every medium possible through his writing and his art (ahem, meaning writing) - I shall read her story, “Story of OBirthday Party” first. Miss Bright, if you’re reading this, thank you.
Now now, let’s not give her all the fanfare. There were several people who helped make it possible for her to accomplish along the way, and there were many others who did the same. American Erotica is no longer the smut that we so righteously condemned it to be, but an artistic expression that gives us a certain freedom of who we will fall in love with. That is why I hold Erotica at its most highest peak.
But yeah, you’re all still a little freaked about my mother buying me the book for my birthday and all that I just wrote was nonsense. It’s not Oedipal so get your fucking minds out of the smut (ahem, Freudian) gutter.
And for those of you who wished me a happy birthday (ahem, Philosopher) thank you so much.
So somewhere in the day between 1 p.m. and 5 p.m., my blog struck 2000 hits. I congratulate the person who was 2000 for helping me achieve something I’ve never before done in my last blogs in less time, as well.
Anyway, today, as some of you know, is my birthday. Feel free to comment about it. I need the encouragement on what I plan to do on this day or this Saturday.
