Tag Archives: life

Away from the Numbers

I locked up my bicycle on Colorado Boulevard. Off to the side of a parking garage on Fair Oaks Avenue. Lining the boulevard are buildings pregnant with restaurant and retail establishments. The city of Pasadena parades these buildings as being historic which meant either they probably meant something once or that they were simply a century old and historic by default.

People ate and shopped on the street all through the day, but with a strange sort of skillful seriousness. They were culinary connoisseurs and professional purchasers of an inspiring vacuous conviction. Then they’d retire as a new boulevard would be birthed beneath the blanket of nightfall; inseminating the luxurious little lane with nightlife. Then the city’s beauties binged on bottomless bottles of beer, booze or bubbly in babe-abundant bars where bitches bounced their booties to the bass being bumped. There was a bar for anyone, any scene and were at your fingertips. If you could find a parking spot.

Parking garages were plentiful. They had to be in order to accommodate the plethora of tourists. You could find one around every corner and would probably regard them with honks, fist shakes, screams, and smacked steering columns. Then you’d find yourself still honking, fist shaking, screaming and abusing your steering column as you’d tread through the parking garage til you found a parking spot. Getting past traffic signal-handicapped tourists to the parking garage was only the first part.

It was easy for me to dismiss the luster of Colorado Boulevard. It’s convenience may have been a part of it. It wasn’t a trip away, a plan away nor even a drive away for me. It was a train-stop away, a bike-ride away, a walk away, or even a song away. I couldn’t discern the street’s splendor from the adjustable basketball hoop in my neighbor’s driveway. (The hoop had a potential to raise my self-confidence by granting me one slam-dunk in life, however this remains hypothesized until I cure a misunderstanding my neighbor had of me, of which had ironically impeded any attempts of my doing so. Access to the hoop was denied indefinitely.)

My apartment was only a few blocks away. Of that I was grateful. I was unable to see the brilliance of the boulevard others saw because I saw this: at least 90% of people walking the boulevard that day will be bitch-slapped by a fee for a parking pass. Most visitors and virtually every tourist had no idea where the real parking spots were hidden. They either purchased the pass or paid a parking violation because they just weren’t clever enough to outsmart the street signs. There was more parking enforcement than law enforcement. It was both saddening and amusing to see that it wasn’t the historical buildings in Pasadena, but the huge, hollow buildings that really made the most money in ratio to the amount of effort they required. I never did know much about business. People were sent to institutions by their loved ones and some went as far as to send themselves; with a common endeavor to become educated with whatever the actual ideology of business was -It ain’t me babe.

I just hoped business wasn’t just about numbers and the accumulation of it. I saw the numbers. I never appointed an importance to them. I never had the desire to become wealthy. I was okay with being poor like I’d always been. I was pretty good at not having any money. I didn’t give enough of a shit for business to try being good at it.

I was always bad with numbers. Never had I felt comfortable around them. The multiplication table mocked me. Enduring the abuse of business felt unnecessary. It would’ve threatened me only with poverty which I’d already been well-acquainted with. I just wanted to live simply and simply love, not flashily but whatever was enough for Goldilockshold it! she’s gets eaten! …right? As simple as these aspirations appeared, they weren’t. I was too busy being bitch-slapped by life and love, smacked like it was none of my business. I wasn’t sure why this was. It never seemed to be very fair. I’d already learned these life and love lessons, several times over. It was almost as though I was being beaten for entertainment. There were times I’d been reduced to having an Elliott Smith album on repeat as my body was locked in fetal position on the tile of the bathroom floor. Though sometimes, the abuse was funny. Sometimes.

Perhaps, when you boiled down life and love, they’d also be revealed to persist through the accumulation of numbers. Ergo, I wasn’t good at life and love because I was terrible with numbers..? This sounded rough, but sounded about right. I haven’t even mentioned how terrible my luck was. Let alone mentioned the menacing bully that was my mind. hey, chubcheeks, listen… i’m right fuckin’ here! don’t be sayin’ shit ’bout me!At least, not yet. Looking at the parking structures on Colorado Boulevard always gave me an image of people everywhere being backhanded, which incidentally reminded me to set the lock on my bicycle. -a cheap combination lock I picked up which would lock or unlock with the right numbers. 

[This is the introduction to the novel I’ve been working on.

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Filed under allegory, fiction metaphor, non-fiction metaphor, poetry

it’s a wonderful life

I find movies are funny when they pitch that It’s a Wonderful Life archetype. Prioritizing a lesson in appreciation of life’s trivialities before it’s too late. I appreciate the philanthropic sentiment of the gesture, and concur it’s forwarding, however, I, personally have yet to be convinced of the message’s proclaimed affect. A spoonful of sugar really helps the medicine go down.

In a war, intelligence is the only weapon all sides can attest to being the most critical weapon of offense and defense. I can’t help the way my mind processes. It’s prone to over analyze things until they become satirically stygian, and I’ve lost faith in humanity. This happens quite often, and the only way to slow it down is to drink. I know that’s a terrible solution, but I’m without health insurance for fancy pills or a therapist to tell me what I already know. Maybe love is the answer, but it’s too expensive for me, and possibly more venomous.

When my fingers aren’t firing like machine guns on this keyboard, I’m out smelling the roses and holding the door open for you. If you’re being a prick, I’ll tell you a joke with plenty of hoke. I’m Dr. Jekyll and I see the beauty in humanity, that it’s a wonderful life. But in the back of my mind, Mr. Hyde says I’m wasting my time, and waits until it’s time for him to write. I’m both these people. Yet I don’t know which one I really am; the blood and bones or the immortal words of the night.

What little intelligence I have, terrifies me to death in the morning.

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if only Diderot

I walk down a busy metropolitan street
it’s night and the lights from the shops
are burning on
the night
showing the people the
bars
clubs
restaurants
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights show everyone’s faces
not their real faces but
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

the light lights the night but not as bright
as the sun would
You can’t tell if that man’s suit
is black
or
dark blue
You can’t tell if the woman walking
toward you from 15 feet is
22 or
32 or
42 etc.
the faded women hide their
years
under the part-time bulbs
because they feel
rushed
in
life
and the men realize they are not
ten years younger
twenty years too
late

I see it all the time and say to myself
I
will
soon
be
joining their ranks

why do they do this?
for friends?
for fun?
for love?

if love can be everlasting
hypothetically
can you find it in those
already in
disguise?

the women I’ve gone with
were terrible lovers
terrible companions
terrible fucks
but I don’t go with women
as often as
you
but
I’ve gone with all the women you’ve gone with
I did that as soon as
you
started
bitching
about her
women, this concerns you and your
men too

I
hear it all
see it all
feel it all
all the time

I don’t have to complain about all the
bad dates I’ve gone
on
simply because
you’ve gone
on
all the bad dates
for me

those who believe they’ve found
their soulmate
just haven’t lived long enough to
find a better one

Diderot says,

“oh snap!”

and gives me a
high-five

Of course I believe true love is
possible
but that is a belief that is always
under
fire
but if history has taught us one thing
which
has
never
not applied
it was this,

“if only…”

I continue walking down the half-heartedly lit
street
past all the
bars
clubs
restaurants
clothing stores
closed stores
the lights on everyone’s faces
the faces they want us
to see
to believe

and sullenly wish upon a lightbulb

that all of it could
fool me.

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Skip Everyday

When I passed away the first time, I cashed in my chips of chaos for structure. No room for messes I couldn’t manage, straight lines only. However, one can never shed the roots from which they’ve come to fruition, so the chaos lingers. So I kept my chaos at bay with perpendicular angles and tectonic shifts, mentally and actually.

They say you can read a person by how they keep their room, and it’s true. From a room of acute and oblique, and laundry as carpet, I went to a Swiffered linoleum, and cubic IKEA shelves. Within those shelves, were where my micromanaged chaos lived. Juxtaposed eccentricity and ethereality, I thought it would maintain the structure in my life. But one can never anticipate the unpredictability of others.

The man who took me in and gave me a chance with a job I’ve only dreamed of, allowing me to pursue and collect the wonders of life that waited in single file, took his own life. He did so with taste, a Smith and Wesson Model 29, .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry’s gun. His head, cleanly taken off, and off with him, the stability he gave me. I haven’t had too much experience, with death, or maybe I have and repressed it’s memory. Wait, yeah I did, a close friend had died of hypothermia and blood-loss in New York City two years earlier, but I don’t think that counts. Okay, I’m bad with death.

This man helped mentor me into writing, and gave me a job under him, as his head editor. Now that he selfishly took his own life because of a divorce that robbed him of his children, I’m selfishly wondering about what job I can find next. Only a week has passed since the incident, yet, it is only a matter of time before the skyscraper of stability I’ve gained in my life, comes toppling over, leaving a rubble’d gravesite I can call my own.

It still wasn’t as bad as the first time I died, when my heart was wrung dry and kept in an oblivious girl’s dresser, but now I’ve no body, no heart, and what’s left of my soul isn’t strong enough to power to the flashlight I need to light my way.

I can’t talk to anyone about it either, because I’m too stubborn to listen to their words. I’ve always found my therapy to be writing, especially in the state of despair. Though, lately, I’ve been finding myself writing things that sound like suicide notes. Not because I’ll soon run out of funds, some of the richest people are often the saddest people, but because nothing in this earth feels like it grips me to it anymore. We sometimes forget to show love to the things we love, and thus, are never prepared to show them to the exit.

The things in life we love, help us live; being without those things, help us leave.

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Filed under non-fiction rambling, stories

52nd Street Theme

 

Sometimes, there's no time to sit and eat. Take the plate and silverware with you.

I live rather comfortably. Perhaps more comfortably than deserved. It’s not a pessimistic observation or view, it just presents itself in a more logical light that life shouldn’t be played on the novice level. Sure they would  lack a bit in the stress department, but when they double-take a look at their lives They’d notice the things the things that surmised their lives were bland and comfortable. Bleakness befalls blatantly, burdened by the general comprehension  over the brevity of life. They “didn’t dance enough when they were young,” but this life isn’t a video game, they only had one life left, and will probably have to start from level 1 (if their faith grants them reincarnation). If you’ve ever beaten a game on easy mode and felt you could’ve done better with a more challenging mode, you can’t. That’s virtually the essence of having it easy. (No pun intended, not too much, anyway.)

Henceforth, uncertainty pervades any ideals I may have had in regards to this post. It isn’t a call-to-arms because that intention would connote a pro-bullshit dogma consequentially instigating mentally adverse (fucked up) people into performing adverse things. Then placing the blame on me, and that’s adverse. That said, leaves a kind of epiphany/philosophy because A.) I’m fortunate enough to unravel this knowledge at a young age enabling the possibility to deter an ensuing fate of regret. Especially in old age; how much more helpless can that feel? Also, B.) My newly discovery of a discipline comprising as its core logic, aesthetics, ethics, metaphysics, and epistemology; the value of stress. Shit. Both A and B sound pretty adverse don’t they? Or do you understand what I mean? Argh!!

Then again, maybe this was what I was talking about? The trials of life; the bonus levels.

How full doth thine chalice looketh?

If it's too easy, try a tougher difficulty.

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Chateau Marmont

A fine line is drawn between non-fiction and fiction, as you know, also pertains to daily life. We justify them with phrases like, utter honesty, or if heaven permitted, white lies. Through the thick haze of semantics, and this could be a purely opinionated observation, what is to be said of the truths that neither parties want to accept? Let alone, justify. Not knowing what I mean is sign alone, but an example would be, “I didn’t want to drink that cup, but the adamantly opinionated fellow, convincingly propagated the pleasure he were to receive if I were to drink it. (nothing specific, but take note that it will involve whiskey over whiskey, the only alcohol that doesn’t influence my urge to hasten physically delegated damage for unexplainable reasons.)

Excuse my malformed analogy, they sound good most of the time, but even I, am confused. In my case, the confusing stipulation was my contentment of being sorrowful. Even the sense of ad hoc justifications does not interrupt when I say that. I am content with it because I know I can not express myself adequately without the sour bits of life, I never had a sweet tooth, and can not translate the sweet things in life. At least, not in a self-actualizing manner, because anyone can conjure a justification, and for almost any reason. I don’t loathe the misery, in fact, I crave it as it is my only means of escape. The most efficient one at least. And it’s because of teeth, the one’s behind most frowns and most smiles, glossy and off-white.

In script, as you’re presented with, I write a certain way, but close friends of mine would never anticipate my particular combination’s of words, scribed in internet splurge format. There’s a good reason for that. Entity. Some of us are truly blessed with the gift of writing the way they speak, and others, speak louder only in one of the two formats. I am not blessed with speaking as well as I scribe; can not enunciated the words of my soul. Perhaps I’ve focused too much on the Arabic structure, but I doubt I’d have been who I am without the comfort I find in transcribing ocular nonsense. *hint*

In person, I’m bright, lively, and optimistic. Hard to believe? I agree entirely and allow an explanation [I’ve discovered moments ago.] In a physically organic fashion, I’ve never preferred to leave without sucking a smile out of a person, even  at my own expense. I’ve always believed being positive or negative around others is contagious, and only one of those options was beneficial. A smile from the most unwilling face shone warmer than any sunny day, and I craved that feeling like a junkie did for his next spell. In a physically organic fashion, of course.

On paper, my mentally organic expression, my art, my translation of the soul within, blah blah, etc; the joy is derived from the malice. It is masochistic, and contrived, though, I feel more can relate to that. A laugh and a smile are a quick and temporary fix, and it goes appreciated, however, the combination of words your eyes follow will map the path of your lament, or willingly, they dark and evil shit you don’t ever want to say out loud. I feel that way too. If there’s a passage I find so ‘everything-below-the-equator’ everything oriented in pessimism, EXCEPT wrong, chances are, I’ve given it my loyalty.

The only problem I have, and can identify with, is that a strong and committed person can easily lose their place when they walk the tightrope. I thought I had it down; love it all in person, hate it all on paper. I don’t. I was never as strong as I thought I was, I’ll find myself in sweaty situations deciding between vanilla and chocolate. I’m terrible with confrontation, but my confrontations occur when I’m certain on how wrong you are. Pretentious. Yes, seemingly, but this post allows no room for petty white lies. It is possible I may be undergoing an influx of  consciences, but if that’s all it took, isn’t it reason enough to take a second look? I want to keep writing as a sad bastard listening to Belle and Sebastian, but I find myself living as every hit song The Strokes have ever had. It’s 6:34 in the morning, maybe I should sleep on it.

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pen & the camera

The day begins with the birdsong of an alarm clock. You never recognize the tune immediately, and yet you can never realize it’s significance, if any. The sun shines, and the moon docks, from day to day, this happens. Assimilate into a prose or a pose that promotes the product. It’s always the product. My body in this place; my mind in it’s glory.

I write, and I can never stop writing, I may go a tad bit crazy here and there, but there aren’t many choices of complacency for people like me. I don’t have good looks and media-model measurements I can aspire to inspire. So I’ll stick with the cards my wits have up their sleeves. FICTION is a fancier version of NON-FICTION, and the honest truth is; non-fiction is plain, boring, and depressing. (Can we do anything about that? ha!)

Narcissistic-ally, I’ve begun writing a non-fiction novel of allegory and rhetoric in the tense of fiction, and no one would claim my story false because my story is in fact, true. (Well, nine-tenths of it is.) Under a pseudonym. A call to arms from one who has/had understood the septic end of human relations surmised by our youth. All in all, detrimental moments have led this pseudonym to where it may, and as I speak. Bullshit is one thing, but if bullshit is served with a side of philosophy, there is and will always be something to dribble.

You can write meaningless shit about terminal illnesses, or the way the head cheerleader preferred to slurp penis over slurpees to be in. You can write poetry after googling your research and explain where the hell the L train is going. Fiction is just a more exciting take on real life. It creates a story and enthusiasm for the weak, and pushes the meek outside into the sun. Diagnosing cancer and treating it in time, picking out the best cheap wine for the picnic of a lifetime, success stories from an eating disorder, alcoholism, pedophilia. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t take things lightly, then you’re taking them seriously, things matter. When every little thing matters down to the T, you’ll be an unhappy old bitch/bastard before you’ll know it.

Bullshit was never bullshit to me, it was a healthier justification in/to the accordance of life as opposed to the bland, truth seeking mentality as a journalist. A writer of fiction will always see more truth than a journalist. The difference in fictional writers and journalists is their philosophy and trivium. A journalist will never be allowed to refute this either. A journalist works on truth and facts, not opinions. Especially not their own. Can an Atheist be angry with God?

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Filed under allegory, fiction metaphor, non-fiction metaphor, non-fiction rambling, rhetoric, stories