old shit, that resembles new shit, that should die, but won’t, but I’m keen on making it so.

From my window, I see all kinds of life. I see couples fighting, paramedics being called, car accidents and prostitutes trying to fill something up in themselves, something in the men they fuck.
Simplicity isn’t simple. It’s probably the hardest rain to drive against. I’m not sure I can do it. Chaos makes things bearable for me, happiness is foreign and I can’t understand it. I’d rather sit in the dark, in the stench of its rotting corpse, makes more sense.
But the change, the change of mind comes and goes. One day I feel ok, enough to indulge in simple pleasures, like a hot bath or a hot meal. The way the city looks at night when the street below me isn’t congested with traffic.
Not everyone is a bastard; I’ve realized this because I’m not one. It’s that beautiful mask we’ve adorned ourselves with in order to avoid pain. I see those fucking masks everywhere. I love people for what they’re not, the things they hate and despise about themselves. I probably look so sane, so in control with my mask. That everlasting smiling mask that cries a sad song.
How pathetic.
I want to save myself some time by not pretending, I want to keep my sanity.
Then that feeling creeps in, the feeling of aggression and lust.
The beast of burden.
I can relate to the volatile.
I want that carnal love more than anything in those times. Cigarettes just hang in my mouth carelessly, blinding me with the smoke, perhaps to put off the inevitable. Friends become unimportant and I remember my whole purpose, my whole fucking purpose. It’s so clear then.
I wanna fucking tear everyone apart. With claws intact and my intentions standing there, teasing me to give it a try, to go ahead and do “the thing” that I so violently avoided for fear of consequences. It’s come to find me, and I can’t hide.
I want to leave them all to die.
To be the only one left with the answers.
I won’t share them then, I’ll die with them inside.
I’ll never tell.
Those are my dreams. The ones I wake up from, breathing heavy, salty and humid.
Then there are other dreams.
They creep up after many nights of lost sleep, of thinking and crying. They come when I’m feeling naïve and virginal, like a child.
This presence sits on the corner of my bed and slides himself right next to me, knowing I welcome his warmth. How lovely he feels, rugged and available. I’m between sleep and heavy lids then, hoping the sun will explode before morning comes.
He tucks me under his arms and begins to kiss me. I can feel the unshaved beard caressing my face, his mouth rough and gentle, examining my insides without digging. I’m happy to regurgitate.
He knows this little girl is helpless, he knows how this excites me. He understands my need for this. So he pushes me closer and closer to him. I can feel him hard against my thigh, I can feel how much he wants me. I need to be wanted. I need this more than he knows.
I don’t feel violated. I feel loved. I don’t want it to end.
He sends these currents, these fucking electrical currents up and down my body. I can feel my feet tingling shooting straight up my spine to the tip of my head.
I could’ve died then.
I did die.
He took something with him that I never gave. I can feel it missing when I awake. I can feel the weightlessness of its departure.
Sometimes, in times like those, sleeping isn’t half bad.
I like the torture of waiting.
I like the sweetness that comes when I feel that “thing” again.
The thing that has no name.
After something like that, the tingling lingers. It has no name. It carries only mine. But I never share its cadence, I never share its gorgeousness, because one never shares those types of gifts.
The burden then becomes a cross. That distinguishable agony.
Fuck.
Will it ever stay?

You were right, love takes time…

up a mountain, in the outskirts of Los Angeles

he drives like a maniac in his own vehicle

but when he drives my car,

it is slow and steady–a turtle

we stop for fuel in the form of beer, trail mix and water–

we’re unsure–

swept by fears and love and fears

old demons, ghosts, insecurities

whatever name we give our doubts

if they can even be called doubts

 

small talk and uncomfortable yet comfortable silences–

the occasional joke, intertwined with the beauty that only nature can provide

sprawled, gorgeous, immense, silent–

dangerous

 

the climb begins to take its toll on my empty stomach

my ankles

my lungs–gasping

 

I am weak

he is strong, able, beautiful

everything I am not

 

I worry that this climb will show him my frailties

that I’ll crumble at his feet, that he’ll leave me there

to be swallowed by the grit

food for hungry vultures

but he waits…

smiling at the waning hills

bright yellow, red and purple flowers leap around him, dancing with his shadow

 

he is a million mirrors

reflecting back my pains and joys

 

my pains manifest

but my will to reach our destination is greater–

 

there is no shade, but a cool breeze caresses me–us

I miss his arms, his hands on me

I attempt affection, he accepts–begrudgingly

his dry mouth lands on mine and disappears just as fast

thirst comes and we drink heavy with conviction–

 

we’re almost there.” he says

I’m ok.” I whisper, inaudibly

 

this isn’t going to be easy

this union is a test

a test of death and life

a test of patience and forgiveness, of trust

of things yet to be tapped into

 

the sound of water distracts our rumbling guts

we are hungry, but first, we must reach comfort, greenery, quiet solitude and a place to sit

wet soil and strange noises fill the space between him & I

we jump over heavy rocks

slip between cracks and the silence is beautiful

like stars, and sky, and snow

or what I imagine snow to sound like

since snow is as foreign to me

as he is in this moment

but all things that stick around eventually seep in our foundation

we slip our feet into a stream of freezing cold water

we force ourselves to endure it, because we know that the payoff to most things, comes with time

we know that nothing can be forced upon us unless we give it permission

 

ants want his attention

more than I could ever show–

they crawl on him

the way he often climbs on me

pain turned into pure passion

he lets them have their fill

they indulge

we ask questions of each other that perhaps we always knew the answer to

they seem safe grounds to walk on

safer than the wet rocks beneath our feet

we laugh

take pictures

sit closer

drink heavy

drink loudly

the sun creeps back

retrieving

hours have passed since we began this climb

we feel a bite in the air

the slow and steady descent

high voltage in the heart

we take time now to look at one another

pick flowers

hug–

we stare dumbfounded

at the vastness mixed w/metropolis

his smile is sweeter/my laugh echoes

we repurpose our limbs

wrap our hands around each other

bellies full of food and drink, of love, of fear

 

I grip him knowing this doubt is melting

the sun is setting

we drive to our den

our sanctuary

the 110 freeway carries us at 80 miles per hour

a torrent of metal and lights

 

home is where we are.” you say

I say, “where we are, is home.”

 

img_0458.jpgIMG_0467

before this current life

My paycheck is spent on responsibilities.

Rent.

Food.

Insurance.

Bills.

The occasional sex toy.
I’ve got a grudge that I’m holding, against everyone, this includes you and your family, your pets, your pantry, your husband, your job.

I’m not sure if this is innate or if it surfaced with time. I can feel my muscles tense up right when I wake up. I can’t get it together, they stay like that throughout, gnawing my soul, not lovingly, real rough real mean, like the stray dog that bit my face when I was deported back to the homeland in 1991.
Where does this shame come from?

Does everyone feel it?

Is it cause we came from sin?

Are we all destined to this melancholy bullshit?

Is the creator to blame?

Does he see my pocketknife?

Does he understand that this loneliness has followed me, followed all of us from birth.
My mother gave me some crucial advice growing up.

Advice I’ve just recently understood as true.
“First you, then you and finally only you”, she’d say.
It’s the same with love and everything in-between.

Look out for yourself, the heart is a vulnerable stupid thing.

You give it away only to get it right back, broken, in pieces, completely and uncomfortably unrecognizable.

musings circa 2013

I think I’ll drink tonight, I’ll pretend I have something worthwhile cooking in my brain and speak of all the books I have yet to write and all the movies I have yet to watch. 

There’s nothing wrong with carrying around your fears and crudely soothing them with poison. I’m a drinker Monday thru Friday and take the weekends off, but not today. I have a budget strictly for it and plan on making the most of it. Drinking alone isn’t all bad, I enjoy the sound of my music and the smell of food cooking. Food I took the liberty of marinating and dressing up to suit my palette. 

It’s date night. 

Date night with myself. 

The time of the month when I indulge in my own presence. 

The time of the month when I’m not bleeding and I’m not emotional.

I’m stable and starving.

I take real good care of myself then.

I set the table and let Miles Davis set the mood. 

This whole gender role bullshit always had me twisted up in a knot. I never wanted to give into the feeling of being a woman. I thought it weak and benign.  I could never be those things correctly, I thought. I could never live up to all the woman I’d see in the streets, on television, read about in literature or was even friends with. I lacked some sort of Venus aspect. My mutable masculinity permeated my every move, the tone of my voice, the way clothes hung on my body, the way I held a fork or smoked a cigarette. 

But someone would come along, I’d tell myself. 

Someone would look at all those things and make me remember my worth. 

But no one ever did come along.

I waited and waited.

I searched and pulled away in hopes that maybe someone would see me from afar and feel this unbearable pull towards me. That weight in the pit of the stomach, the need to stare into my eyes until they could see their reflection in them, until they could count how many specks of black adorn my brown retinas. 

That close. 

That deep. 

Until I could smell their breath and taste the pungent aroma of cigarettes. 

That close.

Closer even.

I’m 38.

At this age, one should have a career, perhaps a family, a husband, some savings.

I have managed an office job, some plants, a beautiful husband, and a dwindling savings account.

I think about death too much. My face resembles overgrown jungles and my body, a volcano. Bubbling, erupting, dormant. 

I wasn’t made right. 

There are bits of me that need a fresh coat of paint. 

Yellowstone has been active and the geological layers are weakening. This eruption is overdue and honestly I’m ready. I’ve found the love of a lifetime and everything else, even my writing career, seems frivolous. The temperature would plummet and we, as Californians, would die. 

We are not equipped for cold. 

I am however, used to it. Mostly from my mother and my father. They are experts at being cold. They’re good people, if good means making sure I had food and a roof. But cold cold, like a harsh Chicago winter that my husband often describes, I wouldn’t know about those kinds of winters because I am ignorant to real cold. I just know the coldness of home. 

I am not alone.

It’s a shame really.

That they didn’t get to know me.

I’m fun.

Funny.

A good conversationalist.

Witty.

Passionate.

Engaging.

They missed out on me.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

It’s the only way I can deal. How does one deal with neglect? With the lack of motherly love?

I must sound like a baby that never got breast fed. 

I’m everything but. 

I indulged on the tit. 

Sucked on it, till it deflated. 

Tried to be a good daughter, always.

Failed.

Never good enough. 

Never.

So my adequacies are just, at least in my mind.

I keep moving on.

Always moving.

Always slow.

Always steady.

Summer is coming to Los Angeles,

and I am hopeful that we will survive it.

You wouldn’t know it looking through our window lately though, this “rain” is ridiculous and honestly it is starting to annoy me.
I am hopeful that our love is strong enough to endure the cruel cruel scorching hell that becomes my apartment during those brutal summer months.
Well, OUR apartment.
I have died on the cross in this apartment.
Created whole worlds, attempted knitting, made cupcakes.

 

He is afraid that his love of baseball will be the end of us.
…but the sounds of baseball make me feel warm.

Nostalgic.

Brings tears to my eyes.

He reminds me of everything that was good and safe in childhood.

He will never know the impact his essence has on me.

How much I love that he is everyone and everything I’ve ever loved wrapped into a whole.

 

HipstamaticPhoto-537061717.153070

I sleep with demons.

Sometimes they’re so faint, I forget they’re near.

I don’t carry them on my shoulders like I used to though, instead they’re infatuated with the idea of making cameos. They have their own agent, make their own schedules, take 2 hour lunches.

They’re scum. 

They can feel when I’m soft, calm, warm. They can feel when I’m melting into comfort, that’s when they come. That’s when they know they’ll really leave an impression. I’m not surprised or even upset when they come. I do however cry, because the feeling of defeat is overwhelming. 

Imagine thinking you’ve killed something, only to have it resurrect over and over again. 

I’m one of millions. 

I’m not special. 

I was born.

I grew up.

In-between, some fucked up shit happened. 

I kept growing.

More fucked up shit.

Patterns.

Patterns.

Patterns.

Then one day, you see it like a mathematical equation and try a new method. An easier method. One that doesn’t require so much erasing, so much of everything.

Confidence swells, and your ego and pride get fed, not much, just a snack, something that satiates, and you feel like a savage. You’ve pilfered these demons, they’re dead. Gone. Butchered. 

Only.

They’re not. 

They’re the cockroaches of the subconscious. 

They will outlive me, I’m positive of it. 

So I get dressed, write down these words, and hope that this delicious ‘May gray’ lasts a little longer.

You have to trust the void.