03-30-06
So here I am in DC. Moved out
here about four months ago. It's official. Sis and I can't be
apart for more than a year. The last couple of weeks have been dark
and depressing. I can't find a job. I have no money to go out an
meet people. And I'm sleeping an average of 18 hours a day. But
in the last couple weeks I made the decision to go back to school.
This time around I'm trying graphic design. And the crème de la
crème... Today, I got my stuff back.
At 10:43am EST, Door To Door Storage delivered all my worldly belonging to my sister's home. She and my BIL were kind enough to not only house me rent free, but allow me to take up at least half their garage with my crap. I'm currently in the process of turning my temporary room into a semi-permanent domicile.
I have my books. I have my dvd's. I have my lady lamp. I have my buddah. I HAVE MY FUCKING BED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I remember long ago, George Carlin had a skit about people and their stuff... How were are a nation of stuff. How everyone is defined by what they own and how that's a bad thing... How we should all throw out our stuff... I never thought I'd say this, but fuck you George Carlin.
Yes. I own my stuff. Yes, I am defined by it. I worked hard to acquire things I love and by default am defined by them. When I left LA, I tried that whole "Simplify Your Life" theory. I threw away a LOT. I left behind more than I kept. I had been there over ten years... I had acquired a bunch of "stuff." I threw away a lot. What I didn't throw away, I donated. What I didn't donate, I gave to friends... But what I was left with was a bunch of "stuff." I fit 34 years of life into two 5'x'8' boxes.
Each and every object that resides in my sister's garage right now completes me in some way. Each and every piece tells a story. The things that are there... the things with which I clutter my room all tell a story of where I've been... where I am... and where I'm going.
So, Mr. Carlin, are we defined by stuff?... yes we are. It's been four months since I've held my grandmother's bible, run my fingers across the spines of the books that have taught me so much and that I read over and over again, cherishing every moment. It's been four months since I laid eyes on the lady lamp I bought at a flea market with my sister or slept on the first real mattress I ever owned. It's been four months since I watched the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. Right now I'm in ecstasy and I'm damn proud of what I've got stashed in those two 5'x8' boxes parked in the driveway.
11-15-04
Today, my sister got the call. Last week she interviewed for a job in Washington DC. Being a fed, DC is the place to be as far as career advancement goes, not to mention she'd be within a six hour drive of all of her son's grandparents.
THE PINK ROSE
03-09-04
I was waiting outside a bar on an early Monday evening. The person I was meeting was late. I called a friend of mine to pass the time. The single lost girl and the troubled married parent. What a pair we make. As we traded stories of wayward sons and forlorn hearts, an adorable older Mexican man approached me with a single pink rose. "For you. I like you. Very pretty." He handed me the rose and walked away, getting into his car and driving away. I smiled to myself as I smelled the sweet scent. You know, maybe life ain't all that bad.
HOODLUMS
03-09-04
There was a crashing from the back fence. My dog started barking.
Living in the 'hood, naturally I was concerned. I take position at the
window - on guard. Suddenly, Paco, one of the local boys, runs around
the corner of my house.
"HEY!". He turns to me, startled. Then he smiles and gives me a small wave. "What are you up to?" I ask.
Paco holds up a bloated water balloon as Mario, his young sidekick scuttles up next to him. "Waterballoons," Paco says. Soon there are two other boys joining the pack.
"Who's winning?" I ask.
Paco looks over the fence suspiciously, then down the stairs to the street. "We're losing. Bad," he says.
They come to the window to pet my dog. We talk a little bit. Laugh some. Them something catches Paco's eye.
Frank is making is way up the stairs, a bag of balloon's in hand.
"YOU'RE CAUGHT!" I yell. "MOVE OUT! MOVE OUT! GO! GO! GO!"
Paco and his gang rush behind the house, over the fence, and across the next yard.
"FRANK! THEY'RE OVER THE FENCE! OTHER WAY! OTHER WAY!"
Suspicious, Frank eye's me. He sends his second in command back down the street. Frank advances.
"NO! THEY'RE GONE! SANCTUARY COMPROMISED! OTHER WAY! NO WATERBALLOONS IN MY YARD!"
Frank heads back down the stairs at a crisp clip.
I laugh as I come back inside.
There ain't nuthin' like a good old fashioned water balloon fight.
My little hoodlums.
At least they aren't doing crack
PREVIOUSLY, ON THE CAVERN:
SARCASM
ONE YEAR LATER
HELLO AGAIN
GOOD MORNING
WHAT'S
WRONG WITH IDAHO?!
THESE GAMES PEOPLE PLAY
MY GRANDMOTHER'S BIBLE
QUESTIONS
NOTHING
FUCK BUDDY
SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR
BRIEF MORTALITY
SIRENS SINGING
BIRTH OF A PATRIOT
HELICOPTERS AT NIGHT
9/11/01
SARCASM
05-04-03
You leaned over and said....
"I'm sorry if I talk over you. I don't mean to."
I smile politely.
You smile back.
You lean in and kiss me.
"At least I know, right? At least I'm aware of it."
Right.
You're aware of it.
Good for you.
What else can I do to stroke your ego?
Your hair looks nice.
Those pants hang well on you.
May I cum now?
09-11-02
Towers
Destruction
Victims
Terrorists
Taps
It's a year later and there's just as much news coverage as on that damndable day.
But now we have perspective.
On the way into work there were a few more flags than usual, but not nearly the display seen a year ago. As I drove by the Museum of Tolerance, I heard a woman with a lovely voice singing "God Bless America," as I navigated my way through the traffic tied up by a water main break.
Yesterday, they put the country on "High Alert."
Everyone sighed and went on with their daily lives.
They are calling September 11, 2001 the day America changed. I guess in a way that's true. As trite as the phrase has become, we did, in a way, lose our innocence. Not a day has passed that we haven't heard the words World Trade Center, or terrorism, or war. But life goes on.
Tonight, as I surf through the channels, looking at the different coverage on the different networks, I am struck by the sameness of it all. The same talking heads telling the same stories we've heard each of the last 365 days. Day in and day out, those same two planes hitting those same two towers. Day in and day out, journalists shaking their head in disbelief. War on Terror. Heroes of 9/11. Let's roll.
I can't watch anymore.
It's not that I'm devastated, sad, or calloused. It's just that I can't watch anymore. I need to be in a world where this isn't the reality right now.
I'm tired.
I wonder what's on Cartoon Network?
07-14-02
Restless.
Stagnate.
I need to move on.
When life grows stale,
even the mold sounds exciting.
04-24-02
|
Woken
up by a soft caress
Over my shoulder Down my back Under the sheets No words spoken As you grab my neck As I suck on your finger As our bodies sweat As my head falls back |
04-10-02
It's a perfectly acceptable state. Sure, it's not what one would call "tourist country," but that doesn't mean it has nothing to offer!!!! For instance, there's the Craters of the Moon National Monument! Dubbed "The strangest 75 square miles on the North American Continent," it is advised you bring a flashlight.
My sister and I have road trips of legendary proportions. Our first was decided on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Connecticut, when one of us looked at the other and said, "God, I wish I could get out of here." The other replied, "That's a good idea. But where would we go?" We looked at each other mischievously...
"I've never been to Graceland."
And so started our traditional road trip.
We've seen Graceland, Rock City, The Worlds Largest Thermometer, The Alamo, Lafayette Cemetery, several hundred miles of desert, and something called "The Thing." Believe me, you just have to see it.
You see, for us, it's not so much about the destination as it is about the way there. Those little places along the road, the weird people you meet whether you want to or not, that inside joke that only the two of you get because you've been driving for twelve hours straight.
So this time, we're going to Idaho. Why? We haven't been there yet. And I hear tell they have the strangest 75 square miles in the North American Continent.
04-05-02
|
These games people play Do you flirt with other girls Do I push you off until tomorrow Or are we both just scared to death? Why do we play? I’ve always hated them |
04-02-02
When my grandmother died, I couldn't go to her funeral. Too many miles and too few dollars separated me from the one place I wanted to be that day. A woman I was lucky to see twice a year when I was growing up, became such an indelible force on my life that it still pains me, nearly half a decade later, to think that she is gone.
When I was a child, she would come to visit, and instead of going to church on Sunday morning, we would get to stay home, comfortable in our one piece pajama sets, complete with built-in footies, and listen to her animated tales of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-Nego. And though, in my adult years, I grew to question religion, I cannot forget the life lessons she taught us with her simple country charm.
So when I found out her house was to be sold, and there would be but one more trip to the birthplace of my father's family, I was asked if there was anything I'd like from the house. "Yes," I thought. "I'd like the house, please. I'd like the memories. I'd like to think there is still that haven there, no matter how dusty, no matter how decrepit it may become." But I knew this was impossible.
So I asked for a bible.
I could think of nothing else that would so encapsulate the amazing woman I was lucky enough to call "Granny." I could think of nothing else that would bring me closer to the spirit I still feel hovering over me. When I feel particularly low, I pick up the book and let it open to a well read page. I read the passages and imagine her steely gaze bringing the words to life, and instilling the fear of Satan himself deep into my bones.
As I sit here and write this, my grandmother's bible sits in my lap.
And she still inspires me.
04-01-02
Why do we stay where we are unhappy, when our years are so short? What keeps us from grabbing life by the tail and holding on tight while it soars towards the moon?
Is it fear?
Is it shame?
What makes it so hard for us to make this life that we have the best we can make it? What forces us to give into the whims and expectations of others? Why is selfishness a sin?
Why do we seek escape instead of enlightenment?
| .. . |
03-28-02
Some call it apathy.
I call it nothingness.
What do you do when you just don't give a flying fuck anymore?
How do you fix that?
How do you MAKE yourself feel?
01-03-02
A fleeting
kiss.
A wave good night.
Attachment was not an option.
But with every
"Can I crash here?"
And "I need you tonight."
I fall a little deeper
Into your spell.
Remember the days
of a quick smoke and powerful fuck?
Remember when I left
without saying goodbye?
Now I wake up next to you.
Are you seeing anyone?
Are you seeing me?
Perhaps the real question is
Who's going to break first?
SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR
09-28-01
Fear is a comfort zone.
You know what you are afraid of. There is a source. There is a comfort in knowing that, if you encounter a certain event/decision/situation, you have absolutely no idea how you will react. That's what fear really is, isn't it? Not knowing how you will react. What if you can't handle it? What if you live? The real fear is the aftermath, not the event.
Think about it.
Okay, now think about this. Is fear really the fear of conquering your fear? How much do you rely on your fear to define yourself? What would happen if you actually faced that fear and conquered it? All of a sudden, things are different. You are different. How do you deal with that?
You sit there in your safe little world, with your minute little fears of this and that, all harmless really. It's all just part of the game. But what happens when you actually take that flame and, put it in your hand, no matter how fiercely your psyche tells you not to? Things change. Suddenly you aren't afraid of one particular thing. A weight is lifted.
Suddenly, you can dance.
09-20-01
I am indeed mortal.
Took me thirty whole years to figure that one out.
At work today, as I toiled away at my mundane little tasks, looking forward to the "Big Brother" finale, looking forward to anything but the news, I was suddenly jolted with the news that our company was a terrorist target. If Bush attacks Afghanistan... well, "they" will go after the major studios first.
The FBI will be on the lot. All possible security measures are being taken, down to armed guards and twice daily car searches. It will be inconvenient, but it's for your safety. Nothing is going to happen. It's just a precaution.
I'm sure nothing will happen. I'm sure we're safe. But it's the uncertainty that kills you.
SIRENS SINGING
09-16-01
New Orleans has been my siren for years, always calling, always there. My fascination with the city started with my teenage fascination with Anne Rice and her Vampire Chronicles, and continued during my "Religious Renaissance," when I encountered voodoo. It never really went away. I seemed to have this connection with the place, though I had never visited it before.
I finally got my chance on a road trip across country, moving my sister to the west coast. We took the long route, dipping down from Connecticut before we headed west, just so we could have a day and a night in New Orleans.
I fell in love.
I remember feeling bitter about leaving to start my life in Los Angeles.
We sipped hurricanes and listened to the Blues, ate fried crawdads and fixed our tattoos, then poured ourselves into a taxi and stumbled into our hotel room.
The next day, we woke up early and took a gander. Even with a wicked hangover, the city inspired me. Porches, wrapped in intricate cast iron railings, peeking out from behind moss covered trees. Grand monuments to the dead, above ground to prevent flooding. History seeping from each and every crack in the sidewalk...
When I talk of my future, New Orleans is always "the next stop."
But, alas, right now, I find myself in sun-shiny Los Angeles - Home of Inflated Egos and Trophy Wives. I came out here to make movies, more specifically, to write movies. I tried. I still ended up a desk monkey at the "Fourth Largest Major Network" THERE ARE ONLY FOUR MAJOR NETWORKS!!!!!! But I digress...
Point is, the city finally beat me. I thought I was tough, I thought I had a thick skin, but it takes a mighty big person to deal with apathy day in and day out. Then, there was the World Trade Center. The idea of moving had been weighing on my mind for quite awhile, and suddenly becoming the #2 terrorist target in America seemed to jump start it.
My mother says I need to see a shrink and get on some medication.
Maybe she's right.
But let me ask you this...
Do I really want to live in a city where what you drive is more important than what you do with your life?
Is it healthy to live in a place that is only tolerable when you're properly medicated?
09-14-01
This morning found me uneasy. I was still reflecting on the reports from last night. How long is this going to be our news? How many more attacks are we going to have to go through before this colossal pissing contest is over? When are they going to target Los Angeles? Where will I be?
I rambled into work, and let myself get caught up in the mundane, cherishing those fleeting moments when I was not thinking about the human suffering, the anger, or the future, when I was thinking of nothing at all.
The work day was coming to an end. Being promised an early release as soon as I finished, I frantically typed out my final report. Suddenly, the lights go out. Normally, an inconvenience such as this would send me into a slew of explicative directed at whomever was responsible for the half hour's worth of work I had lost. But today, I was scared. The office was silent. Everyone was thinking the same thing. Is this it? The emergency generator popped on, and I felt an undeniable need for a cigarette. I stepped outside and was met with the sound of sirens. I felt myself trying to decipher them. That one's a cop... That's definitely an ambulance... People began pouring out of the building next to us. They were evacuating. I went back inside, only to find a quiet state of confusion. Should we stay? Should we go? Why did the lights go out? Suddenly, the electricity came back on. Computers were up. Back to work.
Making up the lost work not only meant the reversal of the aforementioned early release, it also meant a drive home at the peak of rush hour. That was fine. I could use the hour to myself. Frankly, I was dreading going home, going to sleep, and waking up to "new developments" tomorrow. As I crept slowly through the surface streets, I passed a flag and banner shop I had never noticed before - wouldn't have noticed it today had it not been for the line out the door and down the block. For some reason, I smiled.
As I got closer to home, I noticed small groups of people gathering on the streets, lighting candles and waving the American flag. Motorists were honking, cheering out their windows, waving at the demonstrators. Every neighborhood I passed through had its own gathering. The horns were blaring. The cheers were even louder. Though I couldn't bring myself to cheer, I looked at the people around me, all different races, different ages, strangers and brothers, all in one breath. For the first time ever, I was actually proud to be an American. I felt real pride - a deadly sin, I know, but everyone knows the deadliest sins are the best ones.
I live in a predominately Mexican area. When I pulled onto my street, I was greeted by some neighborhood kids. They had been waiting for me. Did I have a flag?
"Why?" I asked.
"There's some people down there and we want to go too."
No. I don't have a flag. It never occurred to me that I should own a flag. They asked for a ride. They wanted to drive by and honk the horn. A smile once again crept over my face.
"Get in."
We did two drive-by's.
Though I fear for the future, though I worry about retaliation to the retaliation promised by our President, and though I worry for the survivors of the innocents we are bound to kill in our campaign of revenge, I remember that it IS revenge, and revenge is never pretty. We've all tasted it, that moment of revenge, and if you try and look me in the eye and tell me it wasn't the sweetest thing to pass your palate, then I will look you in the eye and call you a liar.
09-13-01
They say the world as we know it is gone. I think they may be
right. We'll rebuild. We'll go back to buying our SUV's and perusing our
Hammacher Schlemmer catalogues. We'll come back even more self absorbed, armed
with tales of personal, or even second hand twice removed, tragedy. But
something has changed.
The first night after the attack was eerily quiet. The country was on shut down. No planes in the sky. I sat with my roommate as we each described the same images we had both seen, the same images everyone had seen, just so we could put it into words. Suddenly - a low rumbling. It sounds like a plane. We stiffen and rush outside, searching the sky for the source. Of course it's military. It has to be military. But we wait for the impact, none the less.
This morning, I was awakened at 5:00am by another low flying plane, followed swiftly by some helicopters.
Of course it's military. It has to be military. I wait for impact.
Finally, today, they opened the airports. Then closed them. We're skittish. We fell off the horse, and it's taking us a little while to get our feet back in the stirrups. And even when we do, we're never going to ride so fast again.
This is big, and we all know it. We go back to work, trying to bring a sense of normalcy to our lives, but deep down, things have changed. Everything seems fragile. This end up. Handle with care.
We wait for impact.
It was a rare day off. I woke up late and lounged in my bed, eyes barely open, making plans for my free day. Grocery Store. Laundry. Perhaps clean the bathroom... When I finally coaxed my lazy ass from beneath my warm cotton sheets, I opened my bedroom door, and found a chair blocking my path. On the chair was a stark white, 8x10 sheet of paper, with a message scrawled in black Sharpie:
Turn on news.
Terrorist attacks on World Trade and Pentagon.
Shane and Kelly called.
Well, at least I know that even during a national emergency, I'll still get my messages.
It's now 9:30pm PST on Wednesday, September 12, 2001. Like most Americans, I've spent the past two days glued to my TV, radio, and internet news. They keep saying things have changed forever. Perhaps they have, but I think we'll bounce back. We always do. That doesn't diminish the fact that things have changed for right now.
Right now, we're angry.
I see it as my co-workers begin blaming the passengers of the hi-jacked planes. "They only had knives. Why couldn't one of the passengers have done something? Why didn't anyone have any balls?" My co-workers weren't there. They don't know what happened. Perhaps the terrorist said there was a bomb. We know they were killing the flight crew. Putting all that aside, think about this. Did you ever imagine that someone would fly a hi-jacked plane into the side of the World Trade Center? I sure didn't. And I imagine the passengers of those hi-jacked planes imagined they'd be stranded on a tarmac somewhere in Bolivia. These people are victims. Don't blame them.
I've seen the footage of people celebrating in Palestine. I've also seen people using this footage to fuel a sickening hatred towards people of Middle Eastern decent. I've even seen British and Canadian news feeds reporting that the "celebrations in the streets" was actually just one street in one town. Don't get me wrong. Those people are sick. Those people are just as sick as the ones walking down Main Street, saying, "I wish I had a gun, so I could take care of some of those towel heads right now." But it is just one street in one town.
One of the things that makes this country great is the idea that anyone can come here and, with enough hard work, they can achieve their dreams. This has given us an incredibly rich population, in both culture and history. We have neighbors and friends from countries we've only ever seen on a map. Embracing these other cultures, and intertwining them into our own, has created that "Great American Melting Pot" we're so proud of. Don't blame the actions of a few people who live half a world away on the guy you pass while jogging on Thursdays.
How many of you have German blood in your body? The Nazis were German. Russian? Irish? English? Chinese? The fact is, there are no true Americans. Studies show, even the Native Americans originally migrated over here from what is now Russia. To be an American is simply to be an American. It doesn't matter where you were born, once you make that oath of citizenship, you ARE an American. Now is not the time to alienate your fellow Americans, no matter in which country they were born.
I suppose this particular rant has turned more into a plea.
Remember where you are.
Remember what we stand for.
Don't let them win.
