Happy Families!

     There are human beings living in there; human beings I will never meet. I found this by happenstance, when looking for a quiet corner of the world to hide and do some drugs; that being coffee, Starbucks coffee, my favorite drug dealers.

     Not a particularly nice looking building, but it sits at the heart of a very opulent area. That's Los Angeles for you, a third world county that doesn't see itself for what it is because is busy telling the rest of world how to live.

     I grew up an orphan, and windows are, and always have been my Achilles's heel. I remember seeing them at night - beauty and perfection has always taken place at night for me; under the harsh light of day I see it all - I remember windows lit inside and waited to get a glimpse of a mother, a father, their happy children. It is the only thing I have envied in this world: families.

     In my imagination, they were always happy and I always walked away feeling sad and lonely; asking God why He had deprived me of a family. It would be years until I found out he doesn't exist.

     If you look carefully at the picture, you will see the hanging grapes on the wall that mark the division of the property line. I tried one. They are as sour as I feel right now. I wonder if someone with a better life story than mine would find any sweetness in them.

     Could it be true? Could life be a matrix where our experiences reflect how we feel? If it is, then I'm doomed because when I see lit or unlit windows I always imagine a happy family inside; something I've never had.

The Light of Night

     I travel into myself; there's no other destination as urgent, as essential. I, a ghost in my own lifetime, too old  to fit among the live, naive, the young; too optimistic for the bitter, the old, the others that harvested practicality from all they've lived.

     I fit nowhere. I have nothing else but the journey within, the lonely road into myself, like a teenager swimming in a river, diving deeper and deeper into the darkness without ever looking back at the horizon, the misleading thin line of light above; deeper and deeper until a voice out of nowhere reminds me: " This is not your environment, you need air."  Air being others of my kind. 

     But it is the diving I enjoy. It is the diving that disperses bits of truth, moments of me that pop like bubbles in the water surrounding me,  in which I recognize my humanity; the revealed moments of me within myself. The diving one must do alone, without love, companionship; love requires the surface, the island, a blanket: basket, fresh fruit, wine. Another. London.The sun. 

     The sun does nothing but reveal the already seen. Such useless star, the sun. Scorching everything below, as pretentious as an ivy league college professor, pontificating, like that gentleman on PBS who interviewed others and spoke gravely, exuding importance, saying nothing original, regurgitating words of others as if the simple act of understanding merited such arrogance. Such is the sun above. 

     At night, I temper with things at easy. Not at will. In the dark corners, shadows, and reflections of light, the subconscious flourishes, comes out to space, to air  the dense matter inside: mash of memories, disappointments, deep injuries and sorrows. It comes out to be among others, outside of the harsh light that judges, that seem to understand but doesn't. How can it, when the entity itself labors for the reasoning of its own mysterious actions and words?

     In the darkness of lonely nights, if one sits still, doesn't interfere, doesn't judge, one can get those lovely bubbles of self recognition. One can meet the true self dormant within.

     I guess this is my way of saying that this world has gotten to be overexposed and so, so, so very loud that everyone should just shut the hell up! Myself included.

     For a bit. A heartbeat or two until we are so deep within ourselves that we have something to say. About ourselves. Not others. 

Downtown

Near the chaos

of a big city

I met a man.

On a narrow street,

forgotten,

like a bloodless vessel 

in the heart of the city

of the hidden angels.

The man with sharp wit

inquisitive mind

blue shirt

surrounded by pigeons

like a renaissance painting, 

sat invisible,

amidst the Asturian architecture.

He pulled a chair,

I quietly sat.

When a man

talks about his son

one should always listen:

my son the musician

my son the artist,

the genius, the soulful,

the embodiment of an ideal;

my daughter 

the producer, the writer,

the unrelenting warrior -

my heart

begins pondering my own story.

You can easily measure 

the stature of a man

when he,

unaware of his own stature,

is busy elevating others.

When you walk away 

from such a man

you can no longer hide

the smallness inside:

I’m filled with tomorrows

haunted by the yesteryears 

unaware of beauty,

beneath my feet,

unnoticed,

a few blocks from my home.

In the past

I hurt for men,

sleeping on the edge of buildings

sometimes

so forgotten by themselves that

they fall short,

and lie

on sidewalks

on the edge of the street.

I hurt for them no more,

and I no longer float on clouds

my generous heart creates.

Today I met a man

who wanted nothing from me,

and as I walked away

I finally embraced 

all the lost souls in the city:

the homeless, the destitute,

prostitutes, thieves, beggars.

They are no longer

the pitiful

the sorrowful,

the forgotten,

they are what they always were:

they are me,

reflected everywhere.

                                              

Homebound

 

     He stepped this way, that way, the other way; his fingers inside a peanut butter jar; half-empty; eating and pacing. Where does one go when there's no place to go to? His hair, Jamaican style, lending a vitality to his ambiguous steps, or perhaps, it was his firefighter suit jacket that implanted the thought on my mind, causing the judgment, pre-judgement, misjudgment. 

     He began crossing the street, stopped, turned around, stepped backwards: that way, this way, again. He looked inside his jar and got his fingers dirty again; stuck in his mouth and sucked it clean. How long has it been?

     Someone, long ago, handed you a pacifier, apropos of that, immersed in something- what? What kind of parents did you have? Apple juice, milk, beer, wine? Did they imagine their baby would grow such a beautiful dreadlock? I bet they never once imagined he would end up by my window, homeless in Santa Monica, trying to decide where to go, which direction to head towards when all directions lead to nowhere.

     And just like he appeared, out of nowhere, out of nowhere he went. We shared but a fraction of a moment, but from this day forth, his destiny, his tribulations; he has made me an accomplice to it. I was busy watching him as one binge watch a series; as someone who has made to the forth season in one sitting; and is not quite there anymore. 

     In my stupor, it never occurred to me to open my window and yell to him: " Go home, man. Go home. Don't you know that parent's doors are built with spring hinges?"  

- AMENDMENT TO OUR SOCIAL CONTRACT -

From this day forth, no human being will be allowed to bear a child he's unwilling to provide for, forgive his/her/them transgressions and extend a hand in times of need.

***An exception will be extended to all religious  people who happen to bear un-traditional children. They should follow the guidance of their loving God.*** 

MOVIE STAR or someone like you and me.

So I’ve decided to change, to shed my proverbial skin and find myself; somehow. And that is what’s crazy and sad: I know that I’m in here and not out there; somewhere.

Desperate to be, I bought a Tesla. The car can fly. And yet, it takes me nowhere, for wherever I’ve been, I am not there. It’s a fast ride to a vacuum: big houses, noises, private planes and people. God, I know so many freaking people. Not a single flight alone anywhere. Flights to nowhere: a city, a beach somewhere, where I will walk alone and friends and family will tell me how lucky I am.  “you ought to be happy,” “do you know how many people want to be you?”

Really? Millions of people, according to this motivational speaker wannabe, want to be me, and I just want to meet these people and ask them: who am I? Because fuck if I know.

So I sold the Tesla, sold the house in the Hamptons, stopped pretending and said: “no more,” to all the busy bees.

And now they know who I am: I’m the irresponsible narcissist who threw all away for a dream of a better place, a place where I might be. “ Fuck you if you can’t breathe.” “What will you do? ”What will you do for me?”

Your what is a why for me, because all the material things you claim ought to make me happy led me here: a cul-de-sac where other people are trying desperately to be; grasping at windmills, worshipping Cardi B, sipping schadenfreude tea, and finding validation on the desperation of wannabes. I-I just wanna be me.