For the longest time

Quitting smoking is a difficult task.

Just thought you oughta know that.

Missing young Roni

I loved to listen to Supertramp's "Bloody well Right", and "The Logical Song". I used to sit in my room and make lists. I used to write to people who would never know or write me back. I used to dream of fantastic places. I used to steal my mother's alcohol, I used to share with those I loved. I used to have innocence hanging on a string. From my mouth, down under my chin, hanging on everybody's every word.
I used to be such a positist, pessimist, youthesist. I used to dream with people. And I still dream of people, of falling airplanes, of catastrophe. But i did it better then. Because at that time, I was new. I was pallid. I was a short-comer.

And now, that's just ugly. Now, so silly. Now, pathetic.

But change happened for both the better and the worst. I'll look back at me now. Just a kid, twenty-something.....tiddily-winks. My life in half, and I'll be so wrapped up in everything that this will seem like just another opportunity to retrogress upon youth.

I won't write anymore, I'll just read. I'll just be a paralyzed, sex for the need....

I'll just observe and pretend to be overheard, cuz ain't no one wants to hear you now!!!!

Cumpleanos

I heard knocking. When I hear knocking as I sleep, it is but a reflex to say "come in". I didn't say anything. I tried to ignore the sound. But it grew faster and more persistent. And that's when my brain registered that this was not the sound of flesh to door. This was something else. "Come IN!" I yelled again. And as I approached consciousness, I felt the strain on my neck. My fucking shoulders were tired. I am not sleeping in my...."Mamm, you are going to have to step outta the car." I haven't slept in yr bed in months.

"His name is Shadow because he is a black dog." Simple symbolism is not impossible for a child of four. Nor is 7am an early hour for one who falls to sleep at 8pm. In fact, Rosemary found it appalling. For a child to sleep more than 8 hours is a sign. Mental retardation, perhaps? The indications are quite clear. Neither of them accepts breakfast. "Oatmeal is gross." "Raisons look like dead flies." The difference between old and young are now revealed. What in heaven is a Cocoa Crispy? Maple syrup and brown sugar is ignored. As are they. Two siblings. Of what crimes are they capable?
Dog abuse. "His name is Shadow because he is a black dog," he repeats. Two hours later. To his sister. "He is not black, he is dark brown." They don't teach these differences in color until 2nd grade. But she's still in 1st, so retardation will probably be ruled out. But that would only happen if Rosemary had heard her correct her brother. Thus, retardation still clings to this woman's chest.
"I did it again, you know."
"Did what?"
"You know...."
"Oh."
"So what should I do?"
"I guess flip it."
"I did, but what about the rest?"
"I guess, hide them."
"I did."
"Oh."
That's all the conversation needed between two people who understand things so well. Even after only two years of speech between the two, those few words are the only necessity. That is the way among children. Swift speech. Retardation is grossly misunderstood. Even through the prognosis stage. Genious should have been the stronger bet, but that wouldn't be determined until years later. Many, many years later.
And many, many mistakes later, as well.

la boca does not belong there

You have no idea of what you ask. You know nothing of where this came. Trust? That's ridiculous. These voices stem from young children. They are frightened of adults. They see your respectable ways, and they resemble adulthood far too much. Perhaps if you use younger speech, or maybe if you speak in cartoon voice. Maybe if you draw pictures and tell bedtime stories, i might listen.
Just maybe.
And should you disguise your intentions as youth, I'd be more inclined. Trust is a two way street, you know. Some games are okay. But not all games. I grew used to, and once trusted games until I learned the adult versions. So now, I grow weary of such things. I still yearn for those olden times, those big T-shirted times. I'd like to see you quote things I know, people I like, books I've read.

I know many things now. I swear I do. But if you could just simplify yr words a bit and stop trying to sound so smart, I'd probably understand you better. I don't like the games of which I know not the rules. Nobody does. It's not a kid thing, it's a people thing. I've grown and learned, but that's not to say that I'm happy about it.

Remind me of Moon

Interesting enough, that I needed Subrosa last night. I felt so awful, and for no reason at all. Curious enough to say the the last post I wrote was almost exactly a month ago, last time I was emotional and insecure. Need I even mention one additional sidenote that yesterday began my angry flow. Can I be any more predictable? Can I have any more resemblance to such a boring friend in the sky. I've heard alot of beautiful praises sent to the moon, but how about the annoying negatives?
How about the fact that it is something that you cannot escape? Should you fight with the moon, or break up with the moon, well how can you recover with its refusing presence? How selfish to stay!
How about the fact that you see the same faces again and again? It grows, and with it, you do too....happy and full, crazy and big and bright, bringing everyone out to play, only to sink down and deflate and darken humanity's spark, ruining the party with absence a mere moon moments later? How is it anyone can bear to undergo the cycles again and again, ceaselessly repeating? The sheer monotomy makes me bury my head in the ground.

And that is how I feel. I feel annoying and meddlesome. While only trying to help, keeping time and keeping stability, all anyone really desires is the disruption of these things. All I want is a disruption from these things.

I constantly think I have figured out a new way to change things. Only to be fooled again into another cycle. I feel like I'm purposely picking the same "new ideas" to follow because I inherently fear the change a true new idea might make. And how lame is that? Wimpy, predicable and pathetic. Why can I never make up my mind? And when I try, it is only knowing "No, i know i do NOT want this."....it is never feeling "Yes, i know THIS is what I want." What do I do? Why am I so influenced by meaningless Details? Oh my goodness, i wanna shout!

Motherly Confused, Utterly Cold

I am so cold. This cold has driven me downstairs underneath my living room heater.
And I don't know what this is all about. Not the cold, but the thing I do.
The cold was just how it is right now.
Even with the heat on,
I close these doors like a Christmas present,
or like the glasses I used to trap spiders under
when I first arrived.
Why do I do this?
Why did i do that?

Maybe I'm different in hot and in cold. Maybe I'm like that green cup I had from Burger King that turns yellow by hot chocolate, green with raspberry tea.
Even last year, I was too old for that shit.

But still, with no explanations.
I used to think, just a mere 3 months ago, that those spiders were visitors. Didn't think I'd run out of cups. Didn't know they lived here.

But they run rampant, so I don't even bother with the chase.
Bitten, so what?

Gonna switch to stand-by. Made a big list.
Mary, mother of god, pray for our sinners. Now. At the hour of our death, Amen.

nai

I am 27 years old. Shouldn't I have reached the age where I no longer feel like I did when I was 14. First days at Notre Dame HS, timid and scared. Shy around everyone. Trying so hard. And what about 18 and Cloyne Court? I even had Rebecca there with me, yet same thing. I remember pausing behind my doorknob before leaving, breathing in for some air, air that fed the nervous lungs, and stomach and eye that led me outside among the other ones. I feel like that when i do everything still.
I wonder if this is constantly feeding on me, and has kept a steady pace along the years. Is this why it cannot be outgrown? In solitude it keeps still, but i think solitude is only for those people who haven't those stories that you just need to tell.

Yr not cookin!

Why am I such a drama queen? I read my last few posts and shook my head. I can be so dramatic when my feelings are hurt. I probably have become more of a baby since I was actually a baby. That disagreement was solved, which I am happy about because that would have been so difficult to forever lose my favorite friend.



This makes me happy. Made me miss home.
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/gijoe-porkchopsandwiches.html

Ps. A nasty ass black beetle almost flew into my mouth. Uh, i cant wait until winter comes and freezes these mothafuckas....

Hello Again

I woke up too early and I want to go to sleep. This is one thing I really hate to do on a weekend.

In memory of you

dai ichi no .....i forgot the rest...it is the sun...the center of the picture...




This guy below reminded me of you, with the fire behind you.

As I was riding back from the Horai Bridge, I saw this beautiful temple hidden in a garden. I rode inside, park my bike, and had a moment of silence. The king of the Temple, how he later described himself, found me marveling at all the beautiful statues and he spoke to me. He spoke very little English, but I learned his son lives in NY and is a hairstylist. Perhaps this is why he invited me inside to view all of his artifacts from his travels to Tibet, China, Mongolia, India...His books were amazing. I wish you were with me to hear the interesting things he tried to say about them in broken English. He mentioned Tantra, and showed me a book of the Quabalah...when he heard me say "chakrah", his eyes grew wide, and he jumped up to get more books and photo albums. This is just another example of how you've forever influenced my life...i'd have never been in that place, at that time...if it weren't for you.




I kept my promise, and I intend to keep any others. However, this is for your future, and also in recognition of the death of something very dear to me.

A Requiem for the Inaudible Arrival of Autumn

When my grandmother laid on her deathbed in the room right below mine, I would try to understand the things she described. In my denying attempt to comfort her, I would try to distract her by saying positive, life-forcing words. Yet, we both knew her situation was fatal and those last few days would be our last together.

Though she had completely lost her appetite about a week before her departure, she would try to appease my worries by forcing bites of watermelon. Even though we both knew once I would leave the room, her body would again reject such attempts at sustenance. Her body wanted to stop. Such is the way of life into death.

I remember her description of attempting to eat and drink. “It feels fake, mija, the flavors have disappeared and thus any enjoyment has faded. It is pointless.”

This was my first and most powerful lesson on Death.

Very recently, I have again been reminded of those last few days of May 1997. I have felt the subtle beginning of the realization of death’s cycle. A very special belief and part of myself has begun to deteriorate, and once again I am standing at its bedside. This time the thing that is losing strength and refusing to eat is my faith in a very important relationship.

My best friend is a very special person, someone whom I have known for years. We have shared many magical experiences and I always believed that these things had created a bond that was unbreakable. Up until quite recently, I believed that our sentiments were mutually equal. I viewed this person as a brother to me, which in my eyes, constitutes the truest and strongest bonds existent in this life.

Upon my move across the world, I have found that our relationship was not what I thought it was. It was not brotherhood, but rather just friendship after all—which our blood has always proven, yet I would not accept. Though this may not seem like a very sad death to any observers, it is very sad to me, and I mourn it accordingly. It is not as if I am mourning the loss of a brother. My brother has not died—but instead, it is losing something that had never existed in the first place. And when this happens, there is nowhere for the sadness to go—not to the dead, nor in the ground—but only to myself and inside my heart because that was the only place where it was ever real.

So, since I have no real place to go with these remnants of feeling, I come here to the emptiness of cyberspace where my thoughts can go free and continue to float—much in the same way as trash into outer space. Perhaps one day, like the day my mother and I sorted through my grandmother’s worldly possessions, this floating cluster of feeling and explanation will be fumbled through by any other mourners of the non-existence in this world. And then maybe all of our candles and Japanese incense can burn in unison.

Call me narrowminded

"Having the best of both worlds means never having to give loyalty toward either of them."

I woke up today, thinking that. I didn't know that I had such a strong value for loyalty. Nor was I aware that I have pissed off sleep. I love fighting dreams, but not these.

In essence, anger is sadness. How can I be sad when I'm so happy?
I'm five years old again. I think I'm going to stay this way.

I don't want to be that guy who stuck Algernon on that sticky trap and just stared with an full and terrible gaze.

I'm so happy and free, yet I have the heaviest weight on my heart, and it that I am happy and free.

Some people have disappointed me greatly, and sadly, even five year olds understand that much.

Not the Same

here's not the same, there's not the same
you're not the same, they're not the same
and more importantly,
we're not the same
it's not the same
we're not the same
never were,
and never will be again.

Already August

I haven't written in a long time, mostly because i have been exceedingly busy, yet also lazy. I have had my mind filled with so many preparations and plans, that i allowed my other plans melt a little. I wanna talk about my feelings, because i am feeling them now, however, I don't think I will allow myself that any longer. I am going to spend less time on things that spend less time on me. Because i am numero Uno here. Me.

July 4th: An update

I spent quite a bit of time today looking through the memories of this blog, and i was reminded of many things. I read 2004's post for today, and i wanted to add 2005 and 2006's

Last year, I chilled by Oceanside at a family barbecue of Angie's. Moto was there too. I remember sleeping on the beach, in a tent, eating good food, laughing and drinking wine till the wee hours w/ good peeps. I wish i was doing something like that today. Today i feel so empty, like i'm missing something extremely crucial.

yr mouth is a passtime

al pastor loves something spicy
carne asada's only beef
how can i take for serious
when there's toothpicks in yr teeth
birria is really blah

i can't keep lengua on my tongue
but i'd like to see yr something
while yr something is still young
hambuguesa, agua fresca
i might stop to arrest ya
cuz something isn't tasty
unless its done in times so hasty.

Junio Lunio

this month is almost gone and time feels like a head rush hallucination. colors are flying past me as i walk slowly through the greater sever sever land.

in a time of no time, everything would happen before it could happen.
And it was in one of those moments, when The Creature emerged from
the edge of a green, salty lake. its skin was not akin to salt, and
its tears were of fresh water. through the cries of creation, long
lines of black ants pushed their bodies beneath the creature. the
insects made a song of their marching which calmed the child toward
sleep. no mother could awake from such silence. not that creatures
have mothers.

not long until dawn, the blackies had made their way to a grassy
plateau and laid the creature at the foot of a small, immeasurably
deep hole. as mentioned, this was a time of no time, and in no time
at all, moments managed to pass indiscriminately


the ants, nowhere to be seen, insisted harmlessness. helpful even.
some even interpret caring, friendly. after a very long period of
this No Time, the creature had awoken. this creature was not cold,
nor hungry, nor frightened, yet it cried and cried, as the born
often do. ....
believe it or not, this characteristic is as common in creatures
as it is of mortals. the creature was not hot, nor uncomfortable,
nor unsheltered. this creature was merely lonely, and as it flailed
aimlessly upon the grassy plain, it made slices of its fleshy
appendages, cut on the sharpened blades of stiff, unwielding grass.
The Creature's tears were not salty, but its blood was.....and
the ants felt their calling. these soldiers of good intentions thus
began to feast upon the juices of the child, as if it were the bleeding
heart of a freshly opened, and of course, salted watermelon. ...................................
cold and sweet and seeded. Cut into squares, in a clean white bowl,
on the porch of shaded house in southern georgia.

absolute perfection of the white light

I'm Back with the Audioblogger

my medicine

tastes like shit in my mouth,
not yet expired
though sun-stroked to the core
i lay sick on a blanket in the middle of july
delirious in not much of a dream state
the sounds of wings and summer
blow the breeze through thousand little holes

i despise the spoon
and the sorted hand
it hurts my throat
even more when
my mouth is dry, chapped, and lazy
when i am sick
laying like a babe on a sheet in the middle of summer for all the breeze to blow upon

my medicine,
taste like shit
owned by none but me