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.
Friday, March 12, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Your Face
Oh how lucky am I
To see your face
For 4 days a week
A disheveled disgrace
You want and you gnaw
You take and then hide
In this home you believe
You're a saint but it's a lie
In silence I stay
But in silence I rage
At the decrepit before me
Unaware of his own shame
You come here for pity
Hoping I may abide
But it's hate I return
For I am not on your side
So go on you poor fool
And indulge in your crystal meth
Is it a sin to actively pray
For someone's death?
I don't care who you are. How dare you throw me a suspicious side-look in the house that I live in! You know where the fuck you're at. You know what the fuck you do.
Good riddance and Godspeed, you piece of shit.
To see your face
For 4 days a week
A disheveled disgrace
You want and you gnaw
You take and then hide
In this home you believe
You're a saint but it's a lie
In silence I stay
But in silence I rage
At the decrepit before me
Unaware of his own shame
You come here for pity
Hoping I may abide
But it's hate I return
For I am not on your side
So go on you poor fool
And indulge in your crystal meth
Is it a sin to actively pray
For someone's death?
I don't care who you are. How dare you throw me a suspicious side-look in the house that I live in! You know where the fuck you're at. You know what the fuck you do.
Good riddance and Godspeed, you piece of shit.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Dog Bite Scuffle (Preview?)
Big dog chomps on Nick.
I dive in in an attempt to free Nick from big dog's jaws.
Bleeding. I get bitten.
Bleeding. Nick has stitches.
Super cool neighbors help with me with some "medication."
I get tipsy.
Jethro.
That's all for now. Maybe more to come? I'm rather hesitant because a lot went on last evening and the details (which are very much clear) are still swarming in my head; there's just so much to say! How do I put it all together? I do not know. I've got future sore hands to deal with. Nick lies in sleeping sedation with a cone around his head. I bid a most sincere good night to you all.
I dive in in an attempt to free Nick from big dog's jaws.
Bleeding. I get bitten.
Bleeding. Nick has stitches.
Super cool neighbors help with me with some "medication."
I get tipsy.
Jethro.
That's all for now. Maybe more to come? I'm rather hesitant because a lot went on last evening and the details (which are very much clear) are still swarming in my head; there's just so much to say! How do I put it all together? I do not know. I've got future sore hands to deal with. Nick lies in sleeping sedation with a cone around his head. I bid a most sincere good night to you all.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
So Immature
Today was the start of the 4-day free preview of "BabyFirst TV" on DirecTV channel 293. I must say from I'm seeing, I'm quite enjoying it; though you might look upon me with disdain and disregard it as nonsense, I can't help but be soothed by this innocent programming. Primary colors grace the screen. Unoffensive music lingers on. Numbers, shapes and soon-to-be familiar creatures appear. I see a fish. Somewhere in my mind, there is a smile. To sit back and enjoy these things is something to be appreciated, something apart from a world too accustomed to elements less benevolent.
Flip the channel and something bitter comes back.
Armed men take aim and fire upon one another.
The man screams in pain because of a shattered bone.
A mother murdered her child, they say.
Even in a hockey game someone gets a big sweeping elbow to the face.
So I switch back to channel 293. Nonsense, you say? Oh well.
Just give me these 4 days to ease off a life-yes-harsh and then we can go back to watching August Underground.
On a side note: Go Sharks! It's about time we get the win over Detroit this season. Marleau sure was slick with that winning shootout goal.
Flip the channel and something bitter comes back.
Armed men take aim and fire upon one another.
The man screams in pain because of a shattered bone.
A mother murdered her child, they say.
Even in a hockey game someone gets a big sweeping elbow to the face.
So I switch back to channel 293. Nonsense, you say? Oh well.
Just give me these 4 days to ease off a life-yes-harsh and then we can go back to watching August Underground.
On a side note: Go Sharks! It's about time we get the win over Detroit this season. Marleau sure was slick with that winning shootout goal.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)