The leaves at this house are the last to fall. When Autumn arrives, all the other trees on this block obey: they turn red, orange, brown and fall into crispy little pieces. But no, no, not the leaves at 613. They hang on and hold out, waiting for the touch of winter before deciding to succumb to their annual fate. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.
So it happens.
They spew.
All over a green yard, the trees shit no-longer-green junk. Junk for me to clean. Junk for me to hustle over. The fall of leaves itself is no simple turn. It takes time. It is a gradual bomb. A few leaves here, a few leaves there. Oh how I wish these dead things would drop all it once instead of the weeks it drips like a leaky faucet. Weeks. Yes, weeks. Out of my bedroom window, I watch. They hang on and hang on, teasing me with the role I must play in the mess they become.
So it happens.
They spew.
Fucking slooowly.
The typical routine involves a raking of the yard every week. More tree filth piles on (effectively maintaining the same mess I've just swept) and out again I go the next week. This year I decide to clean it up all in one go. One big boom to rid of the fallen dead doom. A few days before Christmas, I decide. That's when I'll get those suckers. They fall, no longer teasing me. Let them tumble as they please. They're on MY time now, not the other way around.
My misery must have missed me. It caught up with me in the most heinous way.
It is Friday night. I am standing in the driveway with a friend who is about to leave. A tubby, white-haired caucasian woman rounds the sidewalk corner, dressed in all her Christmas glory. Green sweatshirt, red pants, white scarf - this is the uniform of her yuletide stroll. The smirk on her face is as trying as the silver glitter on her scarf.
She walks up and asks, in the voice of one who believes to know better, "Excuse me, do you live here?"
"Yes" I say, reluctantly.
"Can you sweep up the sidewalk? I know the sidewalk has bumps, you can't do anything with thaat but I can't see them with all these leaves. I don't want to trip. Can you rake them? Oh no, not right nooow. Ohhh noo. But sometime soon? I'll be walking through here tomorrow night."
I am stunned, weak and a complete pussy."Uh, I was gonna clean it up before Christmas."
"Oh that'd be great."
"Have a nice night." I reply.
She is already 15 yards away. Her back towards me, walking, I hear, "Happy holidays."
I am silent. Defeated. With the woman out of earshot (maybe not) I start to bitch about the situation to my buddy. I find it be far too hostile for someone to tell another person to clean up their property. Granted, the sidewalk is public property, but the bitch could just as easily step out and walk on the street corner or maybe just LIFT HER FUCKING FEET. You see, the corner she traversed is in the dark because the trees block out the streetlight. The trees have also grown to such a degree that the sidewalk is uprooted at certain points and of course, there are leaves. Many, many leaves.
So what the fuck do I care should she trip over? Bitch, take precaution instead of enforcing perfection. Wear your glasses. Use a flashlight. Bring night vision goggles. Though you walk through the ruin that is this corner, remember, you could walk elsewhere. Or walk in the daytime. Or clean it up yourself.
With all my vocalized frustration, my friend's sympathy quickly turns into annoyance. At one point he tells me to "just shut up and grow a pair."
As soon as he leaves, I pick up the rake and vent my "sad/angry feeling combo" on the yard, unable to do anything else.
Outside my window the leaves still fall. Should you pass by this house, you'll see gathered leaf piles. They are the monuments to my humiliation. The pharaohs of Egypt get pyramids and I've got this. They remind me of my weakness and of a wish to be more assertive. Instead of being stunned, I should have shouted. I wouldn't get points for civility but at least I wouldn't be pushed around. All I can do is write and hope that brings some relief. But those leaves are still out there. The leaves still fall.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Dear Friend Has Died Today
A death unexpected is indeed the worst kind. There stands no flashing neon sign to mark what is to come, to warn what doom is to befall the heedless passerby. In its place is a void, a knife in the dark that hungers to sink sleep into those most awake. This is the fate that a cherished friend has met this day. Gone. No longer winding. A silent shell of what once was vibrant now lies extinct in the limbo of nowhere.
I miss my friend.
My iPod died today.
I miss my friend.
My iPod died today.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Paranoia Pollock Pioneer
Saturday October 16, 2009
The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.
Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.
It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.
Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.
Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.
He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"
Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.
"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.
"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.
"No, really, am I walking straight?"
Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,
"Am I walking straight?"
Another cautious stride.
"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.
Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.
"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"
"Yes."
Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."
Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.
Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.
Drive.
Bump.
Vomit.
Drive.
"Just open up the window."
Bump.
Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.
"Too late" another person says.
It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.
The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.
The sky attains its later fashion. A vibrant blue transforms into hues of cultivated violets and passionate reds, diving slowly into the western hills of the valley. The evening ballet occurs once more. This particular night holds the promise of a sleepover. A few drinks. Maybe even a few laughs. Changing moods and changing skies check this blithesome eventide. Welcome to tonight.
Ding-dong! The assembly arrives, returning from a Great Mall - a misnomer, no doubt - to a corner house marked 613. Courteous smiles appear accompanied by introductions delivered upon entry of the front red door. Brody and Jess are no strangers to this place and are the first to walk through. Behind them stand Neil and a rather amicable fellow by the name of Nebo who has driven them here. Among these few is a resident of house, J. Norman, chief of the gathering.
It is not too long before another troop lands. Their purpose? To ask the 613 group in joining their 4-member gang on a trip to traverse haunted grounds at San Felipe. On the driveway they discuss, joke and shoot the shit beneath a now twinkling firmament. The streetlight glows its lucent purpose, a yellow splendor splashing upon the youth who ardently speak of the night's potential. Who will go? And who will stay? The ghosts, they wait for the eager tender age.
Those of 613 opt not to go. They bid farewell to their friends. Nebo too has departed, restricted by the 23:00 curfew set upon him. The ones who remain make way towards the backyard to partake of a herbal treat. Once done, they head back to the computer room to drink a drink admittedly not legally allowed them. The cheers soon run high.
Giggles emerge from the computer room. Sobriety has left and said "Goodbye!" and in its place a tipsy awkward stumbles forth. Huzzah! A pronouncement! Neil has to go home. A curfew on his head, his current state of mind only increases the bounty. The parental posse will be on the lookout; of this, Neil is most certainly aware. Paranoia, paranoia. He no longer believes in the sureness of his step.
He looks at his comrades and asks with bizarre worry, "Am I walking straight?"
Neil steps after step step, each audible sneakered tap on the floor exposing the forced control.
"Am I walking straight?" he asks again.
"Yeah" his friends respond with a chuckle and a smile.
"No, really, am I walking straight?"
Anxiety is the orchestra that fills his voice but you can not tell by the look of undeniable calm on his face, almost a complete uncare, yet the band tunes up and again Neil asks,
"Am I walking straight?"
Another cautious stride.
"Yeah" his friends say assuredly, amusedly. It's enough to go home with.
Neil, the aspiring trapeze artist, supplies directions from the backseat. The sunless ride home acquires a soundtrack thanks to the nebulous tunes of 89.7 KFJC. The lyrical drones jive like court jesters to wasted kings and a queen. Brody. Neil. J. Norman. Jess. They're all here. So is Neil's favorite query.
"Quit playing around, do I really walk straight?"
"Yes."
Still rootless on the matter of his march, Neil decides to stop by Nebo's to show him his recently obtained circus act skill. A detour is made. The vehicle rolls into a neighborhood and out steps Nebo. One need not hear what transpires between the sober and the stoned. Eyes upon them easily see a one-man sidewalk parade as Neil takes step after step in front of his friend. Neil returns to the vehicle, the strangely aloof look still on his face and he proclaims, "Nebo says I'm walking straight. I can go home."
Inside the apartment complex is a street one long way down. Street lamps line either side the entire length through. Behold and marvel at this alien sight, an imposing funeral procession of the day now gone. Cars quietly whisper their way through, careful not to disturb the mourning of a lost sun. Be wary of the speed bumps, for they are frequent and guard the solemnity of this long way down, simultaneously opposing the booze-dope tempered.
Neil lives at the other end. For all the speed bumps littered across like a tar and gravel minefield, navigating this straight effectively replicates - on wheels - the difficulty of the Neil predicament. Too much or too little put hesitation on the driver. Appearing foolish is a no-no. Bump. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I'm not feeling well" says Jess. Drive. Drive. Bump. "I need to throw up." Jess opens the door and upchucks the evening's liquor dinner onto the bump just passed. At first it just looks like a quick spit, but no, as soon as this is mentioned Jess finds herself opening the door. Bump. "That was definitely vomit" someone says.
Drive.
Bump.
Vomit.
Drive.
"Just open up the window."
Bump.
Jess pukes toward a glass window that isn't supposed to be up.
"Too late" another person says.
It continues on the long way down. The liquor regurgitate mostly ends up outside. One attempt fails. The faint sound of booze-dope retch hitting vehicle interior floor is heard. "I don't feel good" says Jess. If a giggle hit the air, it wasn't apparent. Nobody takes delight in feeling that ill on a proposed night of mirth.
The long way ends and the vehicle turns left, leaving behind a bump-ridden road painted Pollock style in tints of hurl. Jess is spent, her form sunk in the rear seat but tells everyone that she's feeling better. Neil steps out and is left to his fate under stars and streetlight in front of his home. "Good bye" and "good luck." Heavy on the good luck. A couple more laughs are traded as he takes one more practice walk on the tight rope. What becomes of Neil upon his friends' farewell? Who knows, who knows, such is the story of a youth and his first toke.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Calling All Drug Addicts! Calling All Drug Addicts!
You’re a drug addict, fine! We hold no judgment against you and what you do. At your age I take it that you do stop, look and listen before crossing the street. There exists a dilemma, however, and the dilemma is this: When you do decide to go from your silly 3-day sobriety to your next oh-so-sweet high, the problem is that this home - free of the poison you so lovingly inhale - becomes a necessary stop to get there. Do not bring your addiction to this house and lean on us to get your next fix.
Do not drive all the way here from wherever you’ve come from, jittery and sweat-browed on a cool evening to ask your brother’s sons for “gas money.” Do not ask to give you a ride to a certain location just off a main road, tucked away in a seemingly innocent neighborhood. Do not use this home’s phone number as your own to receive calls from suspicious strangers. Don’t ask to borrow a car, say you’ll be away for a little awhile only to return 9 hours later, 3:00 A.M. in the morning. When asked about where you were while away, don’t play us for a fool and claim you “played Scrabble.”
Again we say that no judgment is held against you but the lies you do tell scream loud over what we choose not to say. The extent of your lean is made obvious by the fiction you create. Along with those stories exists a monument of fact: When and where the mere whispers of your habit do arise you mockingly piss on those concerned. And though you hover in your high, you come back down again and you find yourself asking for “gas money.” We don’t have “gas money” but we might have “drug money,” would you care to take that?
If you can’t support your habit, maybe you should quit? When you find yourself scavenging every nook and cranny for a fix you can’t afford, that’s a sign. Take a look at your wallet. If you fueled your car instead of your addiction, you wouldn’t have to ask. You eagerly grab your beggar's dollar for the one unoffending but it's still connected to the other. So don’t ask. Do not ask us for we will not support what you choose to do. We will not give you a ride, nor will we give you money. We will not in any way play the role of an enabler for your precious fix. Although you feed us lies, we tell you this quite plainly so stop, look, and listen, “This house, this home will not be a stop to your next high.”
Do not drive all the way here from wherever you’ve come from, jittery and sweat-browed on a cool evening to ask your brother’s sons for “gas money.” Do not ask to give you a ride to a certain location just off a main road, tucked away in a seemingly innocent neighborhood. Do not use this home’s phone number as your own to receive calls from suspicious strangers. Don’t ask to borrow a car, say you’ll be away for a little awhile only to return 9 hours later, 3:00 A.M. in the morning. When asked about where you were while away, don’t play us for a fool and claim you “played Scrabble.”
Again we say that no judgment is held against you but the lies you do tell scream loud over what we choose not to say. The extent of your lean is made obvious by the fiction you create. Along with those stories exists a monument of fact: When and where the mere whispers of your habit do arise you mockingly piss on those concerned. And though you hover in your high, you come back down again and you find yourself asking for “gas money.” We don’t have “gas money” but we might have “drug money,” would you care to take that?
If you can’t support your habit, maybe you should quit? When you find yourself scavenging every nook and cranny for a fix you can’t afford, that’s a sign. Take a look at your wallet. If you fueled your car instead of your addiction, you wouldn’t have to ask. You eagerly grab your beggar's dollar for the one unoffending but it's still connected to the other. So don’t ask. Do not ask us for we will not support what you choose to do. We will not give you a ride, nor will we give you money. We will not in any way play the role of an enabler for your precious fix. Although you feed us lies, we tell you this quite plainly so stop, look, and listen, “This house, this home will not be a stop to your next high.”
Sunday, July 19, 2009
LSV
On midnight morning I was watching ASAP '09 (a Filipino variety show, DirecTV 2060) to stockpile fuel for my lyrical ammo and while doing so, came across a random thought that entertained me for a good 7 minutes. The birth of this "ha ha" spewed out into this not-so derelict earth during a performance involving a few fascinating women in scant and sparkly dresses. And what was born from this delight? A conversation.
"At least the girls are pretty, right?"
"Huh?"
"The girls are pretty?
"Oh yeah, yeah. Even if they lip-sync."
"You mean the ones that can’t sing?"
"Yeah, looking unsure of themselves. Standing on stage, moving their lips about. Still pretty."
"Even if they lip-sync."
"Uh huh."
"Do you think . . .?"
"What?"
"Oh Christ . . ."
"What??"
"Do you think they lip-sync their vadge?"
"At least the girls are pretty, right?"
"Huh?"
"The girls are pretty?
"Oh yeah, yeah. Even if they lip-sync."
"You mean the ones that can’t sing?"
"Yeah, looking unsure of themselves. Standing on stage, moving their lips about. Still pretty."
"Even if they lip-sync."
"Uh huh."
"Do you think . . .?"
"What?"
"Oh Christ . . ."
"What??"
"Do you think they lip-sync their vadge?"
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