Sunday, March 28, 2010

Clearness On An Eastheld Sun

Monday, March 15, 2010

Open eyes. A yellow wall. The same wall which just hours before was an audience to one of my morbidly creative meditations on death and bringing my own end. Now it was ready for a performance of a different perspective. In the morning cold, on a stage of pillows and bedsheets, I saw something clear. Recumbent though I was, I had now a better view. The faint streetlight of the night before was replaced by fervent sunlight, eager to break through the heavy cloth curtain guarding my room from the brightness of a possible better day. A slip in the curtain gave way for light to shine through and onto the wall. Open eyes. A yellow wall.

Why? Why break my head over one man's meth-driven ruin? The noose around my neck tightened by his disregard. His total loss and complete negligence of the chaos he created was so calamitous that it became a flood that spilled viciously over to what I had held for him. My care turned into a concern and from a concern, into a burden. No man walks away from the wrong he has done. Bobby has done wrong and continues to walk uncuffed, untouched and more importantly, uncaring. Was I to shoulder the broken face of a man who has hustled this entire family for their care, their pity? It's what I did. It's something I decided I will no longer do.

I have been loud these past few weeks. You can call it care. There are many strangers out there breaking the lives of others but you don't see my words roll on about them. Bobby - who just so happens to hold the same last name as I - was natural as someone to give a shit about*. As of that morning and that yellow wall, it no longer exists. Clarity was found with that sun in the east. For his detached, heartless, unconcerned pseudo-livelihood, I return my care no longer. He is as strange to I as the many people I don't give a fuck about. As I who have searched for my own demise, I instead kill a pestering negativity that put the gun to my head. He is as good as dead to me. Bobby who? I don't know him.

Proof of my newfound stance will come in the following weeks where he is sure to make an appearance. We'll see what happens. May this be the last of the disheveled disgrace. I hope to no longer commit any words in his name.



*As for family and automatic respect, that's another entry to be discussed on its own. Two-word summary: "uhh, no."

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Drive-Out

Sunday, March 14, 2010
Evening

I dressed up, brooding. To say the circumstances which lead me to this night-out were stressful is an understatement. Cheerless was the tie I wore. Grief lined the the brim of my fedora. The manner in which I dressed myself was deliberate and aching. The mirror saw sullen movements of buttons buttoned, cuffs straightened, and a collar made proper. It looked like I was heading to a funeral. At the wake was my dignity in a paltry coffin, matching a life lived in inadequacies - added, multiplied, to the umpteenth power. No kind words marked this passing. No good memory manifested and stood forth. For it was I alone at the sorrow ceremony of this post-sun hour.

I stepped outside the door, neither sneaking or flaunting my exit. The night was cold so a coat was brought along and tossed onto the front passenger seat of the BMW. I started up the engine with the "vroom!" signaling the beginning of what I hoped would be better times. I headed out towards where people would be. The Eastridge Mall. In both the state of closing and closed, I arrived much too late. Remnants of the pretty girls who had walked there just hours ago took form now as empty benches and car park spaces. I saw one pony-tailed beaut enter her Honda and drive away, never to be seen again - such is my typical association with woman. That bare one would have to do to hold me out for the night. Drawn metal gates and "Closed" signs commingled rather well with the silence in that wide open space. Hunch-shouldered customers with dreary faces made their relieved final purchases. Two aunt-looking woman sat by their coffee, conversing in what was bought and what could have been bought. Hooligans clad in black street-wear continued their toughwalk, albeit with a little less swagger; even for troublemakers, it was too late. Not wanting to be the victimized fedora'd fool jumped by desperate wannabe gangsters, I made my way out soon after seeing them. What little I did see there did help. To see faces apart from the ones I despised was like being fed ice cream after eating shit all day.

Music played throughout the night drive. What first went up was some Placebo. I only recently discovered them and have grown fond of their sound and aesthetic. It takes juevos to stand out as a nancy boy. People like David Bowie and Brian Molko have shown great Rock n'Roll need not be limited to in-your-face assholes. That dude wearing the make-up might just surprise you. But I digress. I find it hard to drive without music playing. The monotony of the pedal/wheel hustle can only be tolerated with the familiarity of a song I enjoy. As the night went on, from the mall to elsewhere, I switched over to a reliable playlist titled Lepcke. With that I rolled off onto 101 and exited out into the Capitol Expessway.

I'm familiar with this road. And what destination lies at the other side of it - The Capitol Drive-In. There are days in the week where the grounds of the drive-in gets used for a flea market. Often I have gone in the morning to walk and peek at the wares laid out on blankets and portable tables, the car-trunk sellers eager to get rid of what they no longer want in return for money much wanted. Even if you don't buy anything, the walk in the sunrise chill is nice. All the while, "towering behemoths" a.k.a. "drive-in screens" watch over the locals, guarding their right to sell something over or under-priced, depending on who you are. Those screens always did fascinate me. To see them at night would be grand. So that's where I found myself, with stars out and the sunless cold definitely set in place.

The drive-in sits on the side of an overpass. Knowing this, as I drove over, I immediately looked through my right window. I didn't want suspense. I kicked that shit right out. I wanted to see massive screens lit up. And they were. And they were magnificent. Joy tipped me on my shoulder. I couldn't grasp it but I felt it there. Concrete misery went liquid, still existing but less hindering. I could enjoy something now, however faint. "If you have the money" murmured in my mind as I rolled the BMW into the parking lot. I didn't have the money to watch the movies that shined on the screens in front of me but I was there and was convinced it was better than from whence I came. I parked in a very dark area on the farside of the lot, away from the popcorn and dialogue. There was an entryway as a point of payment and I didn't get anywhere near that. I had no speaker to transmit what was said onscreen. Silence and the stars was what I had. The sunroof was open. I looked up and it framed the dipper constellation perfectly. Which one? I didn't know. I smirked.

The surrounding area was a bit creepy. The trees that stood behind me stood as if held there with guns to their heads. It was their job to block the view of would-be watchers from the other parking lot which hosted your run-of-the-mill indoor movie theater. That area was well lit. You couldn't say the same for where I sat. The few streetlights on the farside spilled a filthy yellow onto barren spots edging the lot where there was absolutely nothing of interest. Everything else that was dark didn't fare any better. In the quiet I sat as other cars, leaving or arriving, roamed around. Their headlights cut through the evening air like menacing swords of light. Occasionally they would glare through my car windows, piercing through, threatening to reveal my drive-in bum status. My paranoia was active, indeed, especially at those moments.

It was cold. I grabbed the coat on the passenger side and turned it into a makeshift blanket. The screens directly in front of me played Brooklyn's Finest and She's Out of My League. Progressively out of view were Alice in Wonderland, Remember Me and Green Zone, which was blocked by a graffittied U-Haul truck. Matt Damon's noggin' kept popping out the side with a rifle in his hand. There were also two other screens which I just couldn't see. She's Out of My League was a movie of personal interest. Simply put, losers don't get girls. Hot ones sit beside never. Movies are but fantasies and oh loser I didn't mind having that flash in silence before me. As a fan of Training Day, I watched Brooklyn's Finest astutely. People's lips moved. They were in a city. There was a little police brutality too, I think. One scene between Don Cheadle and Wesley Snipes was particularly interesting. The setting was an urban riverside. Snipes looked very serious and told Cheadle how goddamn good a Snickers candy bar is. Cheadle did not agree and said the Mars bar was pretty damn good but was only sold in England. Then one of them mentioned Butterfingers but it was struck down because the orange bits stick to your molars. That scene between them went on for a good 8 minutes. Strange . At least that's what I heard.

I don't don't know how long I was out there. I minimized movement and kept the lights down to keep away from suspicion. My seat was reclined. From there I could easily see how people get their rocks off whether in the backseat or somewhere upfront. There's plenty of space for whatever sweaty mess people like to get into. Not long after the Snickers scene ended, a black, lifted pick-up truck was creeping in the vast darkness behind me. Its headlights were off and slowly it went along until . . . it stopped behind the BMW. Shit. Situated just off to the right, I positioned the side-view mirror to try to get a glimpse of who was inside. No luck. More empty then the shadows on this lot, nothing was more devoid of light than that truck cabin. Why did it decide to place itself there? Paranoia, paranoia. It might be security, I thought. Who needs a nightstick when your truck can run over cars? Maybe it's a serial killer - an unbalanced fiend who comes out to the empty lot to eat the eyes of Hollywood watching, Hamilton-less people.

I drove out of there. I like my eyes. I was 7 Washingtons short of $10 but even if I did have it, Enter text here.Mr. Empty Cabin over there would not have accepted it and I wouldn't need my glasses anymore.

The dipper no longer sat over my open roof. I drove onto Old Monterey road. There is a pizza place there, a local joint that sits across and can be seen from the drive-in. It always looks so inviting and for years now I've been telling myself I'll go have a slice. As I passed by it I thought of it fondly. Insecurity peekabooed and pinched me on the face.

"No money, idiot."

Ow.

"You're fat, ugly and should not be seen."

Ugh.

"There will be strangers there."

Awe shoot.

On my way back I passed by 2, maybe 3 fire stations. Why is that significant? I'm someone who gets familiar with areas by use of landmarks. They say that's a feminine trait. Burly dudes use street names as reference points, not the McDonalds that sits beside it. There were familiar roads. There were unfamiliar roads. As long as I headed east I knew I would be fine. I kept driving, first onto Tully, then South King and finally McKee. I fully intended to take the long way back to fight off the possibility of seeing his face still there with his borrowed bicycle sitting on the porch. Do you know how a man who can't stand on his own two feet gets by? On two wheels biking from family home to family home, avoiding his very own.

I returned to the house at 613 in dread. Each stop light bit, ripped and tore away the mirth that struggled so wretchedly to get back to me. The driveway was empty. So was the porch. I went into the house and upstairs into my room. I untied the cheerless. I took grief off of my mind but when I searched for sleep with my head on the pillow, I was exhausted, mentally drained by the day's troubles of duck and dollars. Guilt clashed with self-worth. Bad things happened and I played a part in it. Who the hell was I to do anything or feel anything? My miscarriage of a life was my own. I closed my eyes.

A gun.

A knife.

A rope.

These are methods for goodbye.

I was positively suicidal. This wasn't the first time.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Bitch of a Duck Run

"This will go good with the duck" dad said. "I'll go have Bobby buy the duck."

I'm here, aren't? What the fuck do I sit here for? To watch in dismay as Bobby gets a pat on the head for running piss-ant errands?! "Good boy, Baby Brother Bobby! As long as you go get the duck, you don't have to be responsible for your own fuck-ups."

"I'll go get the duck" I said defiantly.

The padre drunk stood wavering, a shaky tower dilapidated by alcohol & arthritis. He balanced himself with a hand on the counter of the kitchen stove.

His reply? "Then you go buy the duck . . . if you have the money."

I, a man of zero income, can own own up to my destitute meandering. I am the loser you laugh at to feel better about yourself. I am the one defeated, my pride buried long, long ago. I'm everything you don't want to be. The walking shame. The living embarrassment.

". . . if you have the money."

Ama.

What did you just say? To speak as though Bobby is a man of many riches, as if he does your food & beer runs out of his own pocket? It is he who bears his pockets empty. It is he who begs to keep the change. And yet you speak as though he is better than I, holding Bobby's proud flesh above my grave nigh.

Dad walked and wobbled away, unaware of the hurt he just caused. As he entered another room, my voice trailed on, echoing the pain I just felt. I sat angry. I sat wounded. In an attempt to deflect the verbal sword thrust into my fraction of dignity, I mouthed off to my brother beside me. But he cares not.

"Fuck this," I said, "I'll go buy that god damn duck."

Just then, Bobby entered the kitchen and searched for the key to the car. He was given the orders from dad. He searched desperately for that pat on the head. Irately, I stepped outside and asked dad if the duck is all he wanted. It was. As I headed toward the garage door, I told Bobby I'll get the duck. I asked him if he wanted anything else without waiting for an answer. I got in the car, started the engine. Bobby chased me and tried to hand off the money that came from Dad. It's too late for that. I sped out of the driveway, away from the hurt and away from the cause.

I may not have money, but I have something saved. What little I do have, I spend on the $16.33 worth of roasted, chopped duck. As a vegetarian, it's not even something I'll partake of. I was composed when I bought the duck. I was in such a mad hurry when I left the house that I ended up tying my boots at the Chinese restaurant off of Jackson & Mckee. The people behind the counter were nice. Anybody who isn't Bobby is somebody I'd rather see.

I went home less furious but still affected. I lifted the plastic bag of duck so that dad could clearly see it from the other room, through the multi-pane windowed slide door. I put it on the table. I go toward the other room and opened the slide door. Bobby is hiding, sitting on the floor, away from view. He knows what's up but like everything else in this world, he doesn't give a shit. But I made god damn sure he gave the duck money back to dad. Dad reached for his pocket, with few words, in an effort to pass the money to me.

I looked at him straight in the eyes and all I said was "No. No."

The damage was done. This bitch of a duck run.




I have no doubt in my mind that dad would sacrifice me to pull his brother Bobby up. If to the fire I must go, then at least I wouldn't see the fucker anymore.

I'm going to go away now. Take a little drive away from the mess that I see. I need a different view. Though I fear when I come back, HE will still be here. And he will be. As sure as the sun sets, he will be.

The cruelty that my mind absorbs is tiring. Bobby's broken face is all that it sees. The hole in the wall. The anger. It consumes me. To feel so much is not healthy. There are times when I just want to scream in his face. There are times when I just want to knock the fucker out. What I end up doing is write. Allow me the ill word. For without it, I would expire.

Honor of the Dishonored

Your appearance, your vivid disgrace
Clad in the stink of a jean jacket, you arrive
I wake to yet another day of your broken face
Toothless and gumming
Gone because of all the harm you have caused
The harsh thought, in return
Sent to you, oh wicked
You are deserving
The great trespasser
Passing himself off as a man of respect but you have not
Trashed in the haze of your own high
You escape
But upon recovery
You expect an embrace?!
While you were away, asshole
You left lives shattered
To you the apologetic gesture, non-existent
Your game of pity, ever persistent
What respect is this?
For there are bums on streets
And there are bums like you
My respect goes to who?
The begger with the cardboard

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Memorandum

I am furious.

I let it out and send my fist forth.

There is now a hole in the wall.

That is where Bobby's face should be.


[note to self: when wanting to knock someone's block off, take it out on something that isn't as hollow as Bobby's head]

Friday, March 12, 2010

The Nuisance Sits

The nuisance apparent
The nuisance sits
Atop broken pieces of his own doing
Ruined
Heartless of the wreck committed
One son forsaken
By Pacific separated
He laughs
On high
So high
Affected by none
The disaster oblivious
Caring for no one
Self crowned
Proclaimed
King of What Mess?
The nuisance apparent
The nuisance sits

Lansford Hastings, Where Art Thou?

Don't pin the "world's best traveler" on me. Keep it away. Put that on somebody who isn't going to crack apocalyptic stress on your wagon. When exploring new territory, I have a terrible habit of making a wrong turn. It's an innocent move, just wanting to see where the other way goes but then the the view changes and not for the better. The sights are no longer interesting. The immediate area becomes empty. Imagine going to Las Vegas but instead of bright lights and busy streets, in its place is a labyrinth of dark, dingy alleyways. Familiarity is comforting, is it not? Even a view of Starbucks isn't so bad, for in that place life gathers, guaranteed. After getting lost for so long, chain restaurants embody oases in the desert barren. Ahh, the Golden Arches! Thanks for waving "hello" you freaky-looking clown. I would like some large fries, thank you.

Yes, I did walk empty in Vegas. A similar thing happened in Hawaii. But I was on foot in these past occasions and thus my connection with life was not hampered by a 4-wheeled enclosure. When you're stepping on the sidewalk, you can still hear the birds sing. A few nights ago I found myself behind the wheel of an inconvenient expedition. No, I didn't have to eat anybody's tits off but the fright certainly was there.

It was a night drive, a ride west. The street was at first well-lit and inviting. Interesting stores dotted both sides of the road, not just chains but local joints as well. A sushi place. An adult bookstore - they had a sale going on. What I found most provocative were the furniture stores. During the day they're great fun to be in, an enormous persistent living room where good families equals good furniture equals a splendid comfort for the mind. To see these at night are an even better treat. The big store windows gave a magnificent view. All the lamps were lit. Couches and beds and tables all sat in the glow of warm 40 watt light bulbs. The vision continued, of tender time spent with the family gathered around the fireplace, untouched by the cold moon. I wanted to walk in that store and simply sit. Then I got lost.

It all started at Santa Clara University, no less, a punch in the face of the stupidity that defines me. A college kid, I am not. That big-ass stone sign may as well have been a hammer to crush me and my feeble attempt to be a part of this world. The more I live outside this yellow room, the smaller I get, it seems. The streets became dark. The stores disappeared. The nothing became apparent. A business park lingered in the shadows with no lights in the windows, no life. The graveyard-shift grind of industry groaned on. Menacing silhouettes of towering, metallic structures threatened the sky; at the end of each stinking fist, never-ending smoke puffed and polluted, polluted and puffed. A streetlight flickered. It flickered off and did not return. I do not like this place.

I did find a way out but not without the feeling of dread. The drive back to east side was a relief. Still, I don't like driving. There was poem I heard before entering into prick's English class. (GATE, MAGNET, big brain types) It spoke of staying in the backseat because a person is afraid to take the charge of being upfront. I don't like being the driver. Call that whatever it is. I don't claim to know the better path, it's just a different one and like many things strange to us, it might get scary. Those poor Donners found that out freeze-dried and eaten. Should we adventure together, I implore you, please take the reins, or we might end up somewhere nowhere.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Who Are You to Talk?

"Hello, failure."

For me to be affected by Bobby's drug issue is in itself to be questioned. Why the strong response toward him? Because he is me. It is said often one person hates another because he see's himself in that other person. Bobby is the mirror of what I may become: drug addicted,uncaring, leeching off the lives of others, not able to stand on his own two feet. As I write this, I have never been employed, I am uneducated and foresee a life of solitary misery. For someone in my position to point out the deficiencies in another person is admittedly a giant hypocrisy. But still I do feel. Like a tea kettle, my pressure rises and these words are but a release. I do try and tread lightly on the hypocrisy that I walk on, a tight rope, no doubt. But I do feel. This blog permits me to release what keeps me bothered, uncensored. You are free to ignore it or read on.

Bobby was leaving and dad told him that if he had nothing to do tomorrow, he could drop by and help him wash the boat. Nothing to do tomorrow? Bobby hasn't been doing anything for what seems like years now. For Bobby to drop by, do a few chores and believe that he has filled his quota for responsibility in life is something I have an issue with. Going on a beer-run does not put food on your family's table. Nor does it excuse you from an addiction you cannot afford. For all the time spent here, he could be looking for a job. Instead, he is awarded with a fishing trip. Instead, he pats himself on the back washing dishes in another home when his own kitchen sink is full with last night's dinner.

I told dad right then and there that I will help him wash the boat tomorrow. That's what I am here for. It wasn't necessary for Bobby to be here and I didn't want to give him the opportunity to displease me for 4 consecutive days, something critically turning into a possible routine. Dad said he doesn't know what to say about my offer for help. Bobby left.

The debate began.

To debate with a drunken father is a circus act. Considering dad's inebriated habits, a merry-go-round is involved. He repeats himself on subjects already discussed. 3 times. 5 times. 10. Dad defends himself and says he's caring for his brother. I tell him otherwise. I tell him he's holding his hand. He's letting him be. To care for someone and to leave them as they are are two different things. It isn't help he's giving. For all the wrongs Bobby stands for, he gets a pat on the head. He gets to go fish on a boat on the bay. Dad brings up Bobby's past accomplishments. I ask dad if great deeds in the past excuses a man from his present faults. "No," he agrees, "but I'm helping him." The merry-go-round.

Twice he left the debate. Twice I stood my ground. I tell him of addiction. He does not want to see it. He refuses to acknowledge that drugs played any role in how Bobby is now. He wants proof. I give him proof - how he has affected others. I don't have to see Bobby inhale what he lovingly refers to as "bato." As I have eyes, I have seen. With my ears, I have heard. I tell him of a family, I tell him of a son, I tell him of a home. Dad - in his drunken reasoning - asks why I bring other people's issues into his house. Why should he care how other people have been affected? All I did was give him proof. No man with any sense of clarity could consciously bring such hardship on his own family, a man who previously was a provider, a man who was once a father.

Dad does ask why must I be so loud? Why must I make it into a problem? As depressed as I am, I have my own issues to tackle. Bobby is a mirror. You put that mirror in my way and my problems are multiplied, shining back at me how much of a fuck-up I really am. Except I can't point towards a drug. My mind is the lone culprit. Bobby lives on without care about how he has affected others. I am laden with guilt about who I am, how I am a failure and why the hell I'm still here. For all of my faults, I am ashamed. Can Bobby say the same? Can he own up to what he has done? This is why I'm loud. This is why I speak. This is why I write. Who am I to talk?I'm just another loser.

After all that was said, I find out that Dad is fine with the way things are with Bobby. Though he doesn't see how I see it, he is content with the situation as it is. He will continue to hold Bobby's hand, indefinitely. 30 minutes into the debate, dad ended it and told me to shut the fuck up. So I did. I didn't want another trip on the merry-go-round. During the exchange dad had proclaimed I was the only one who has a problem with Bobby. Is this true? For all my barking, am I really the only one to be so bothered by him? Perhaps so. I really should shut the fuck up, shouldn't I? At the end of the circus act I felt like a complete jackass, granted, a jackass who at least got his point across. But then the guilt piles on, yet another thing to be ashamed of.

"Hello, failure."

"Hello" I reply.