"Man's mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions."

His name was Ozzie, like the muppet, and I knew him more for his class clown humor and chuckle than anything else. It was my final year of high school and I got stuck with Ms. Glusman for English, an octogenarian renowned for the jiggling jowl at her jaw and gruff approach. The class was a motley crew of misfits, thugs and jesters, with nary a single x-chromosome to be seen. I never expected to learn anything in that class, I figured if I go through the motions, read what I have to and hand in what's asked, I'll be fine. At some point midway through the semester, Ms. Glusman had us read Native Son by Richard Wright. I read it eagerly, having previously read Black Boy, and when the time came to discuss the end and what we had learned from the book, I thought I knew it all (life since has been very humbling). Ozzie, who had only opened his mouth most times to take a jab at Glusman, chimed in on the book when prompted about foreshadowing. He explained that the scene at the beginning of the book involving Bigger, the book's gargantuan protagonist, and a cornered rat was foreshadowing for what would occur between Bigger and the Chicago PD. I was humbled, my ego had dismissed this kid as just another numbskull.

It made a strong impression on me, the fact that this kid whom I had written off could be so insightful. It's led me to teaching and I'm a big advocate that the sky's the limit, even if your wings get clipped at birth. It's no secret that socioeconomic factors such as wealth, class and a parent's educational level all play a role (read Freakonomics, it will open your eyes). The reality is that if you get a crap hand, chances are you won't be getting the pot. That doesn't mean that, with education and strong motivation , you can't transcend your upbringing. That doesn't mean that your Einsteins, your Bruce Lees, your Malcolm X's aren't the same children I see in classrooms everyday.

It used to rankle me. I used to get into that argument, at least once a year, with my cousin Lucho. See, he's of the ilk that think that those same ghetto kids dreaming of doing something big or impactful are just indulging pipe dreams. I don't, everyone has potential, be it artistic, intellectual or physical. If I didn't think that these kids I see everyday can't silence the naysayers I wouldn't bother, but I see, I hear and I've come to love my little sixth grade muppets, all thanks to Ozzie.

Un 'Naco En España: Crazy Eyes

We chatted through OK Cupid way before I ever came to Madrid, in anticipation of my arrival. Despite a slew of messages, she asked me all the same questions in person that she had through messaging, something I find incredibly annoying. This cooky Casanova and I finally made plans to go out on a date in her rural town of Villa de Olmos, last minute I googled how to get out there.
After grabbing the 3:45 bus on a Sunday to the boondocks of Madrid, this was rolling hill after cultivated hill of farmland, I arrive in her one-bar town. (I was the only person that got off the bus and the fool in sight.) She traipsed out of the one bar and I could see in her eyes, as well as the cackle of her laughter, that this was gonna be an interesting date. I was broke at the time, like Dave Chapelle's character in Half Baked, but luckily all she wanted to do was go for a walk on a back road and chat. As we strolled down this gravel road I started to take her in, she was raven-haired, with bangs and medium-length tresses. She wore tight black pants, and had a great body from the hint of it, something that weighed into my decisions later, as well as a purple hoodie that looked restitched together but what was most telling, and unnerving, was her hysterical laugh.
She spoke in a near incomprehensible Spanish accent, so I had to pay attention extra well, and would burst into giggles at her own jokes, which weren't that funny from what I garnered. Case in point, she mentioned how she went on a date with a guy and didn't find him attractive once they met in person. The point of him coming out to her was to have sex and so she wasn't sure how to get rid of him. How did she get rid of him? She slept with him and kicked him out soon after. This announcement was followed by, you guessed it, cackles of glee (and my own nervous laughter).
Despite her being clearly off-kilter, I made a move and tried to kiss her. (I was thinking about the tight, black pants.) I was met with a "what the hell are you doing?", not the first time I've met blatant rejection so I took it in stride, maybe it wasn't the right timing. We continued conversing and she invited me back to her place where she shared a flat with her dad. I met her dad and his African girlfriend, a colorful character from the brief glimpse, and we talked, I showed her pics from my albums on my comp while I chewed on cardboard, day-old pizza she'd fed me. I thought, she brought me back to her crib, her pops just left, my bus leaves in an hour, this is it, this is the moment. She was sitting next to me, her left leg near my right hand, and I figured I'd stroke her calf, see how she reacts. She growled. I'm not making this up, canine sounds came out of her mouth and she told me to watch it, she bites.
Thirty minutes later I was out in the cold, watching the sun set on this sleepy, little farm town, waiting for the bus and thinking what the fuck was I doing there in the first place.

Kryptonite to my Superman

I remember when Superman first met his kryptonite. My dad had a stroke, or maybe it was a heart attack, the memory is hazy as I was still a teenager. When you're that age, ailments are still kind of an abstraction, as all ailments are, mortality isn't a concern of the young. The point was, I'd never seen my dad sick. Really sick. He'd always been a tall, strapping man (in my eyes), with thick forearms and thicker calves, to look at them you'd think he played basketball his entire life (sadly, I didn't inherit this legacy). When I saw him sprawled out in the hospital bed, a husk of his normal, vibrant self, I was reminded he's human. Not only human, old, his body betraying him in his moment of need. The thought of my dad passing away had never crossed my mind, not even for a fleeting second.

There was an episode of the Fresh Prince that made an impression, the one where Uncle Phil suffers a heart attack. Will can't even go into the room to see him, fearing the illusion of Uncle Phil as his Superman may be shattered. This was what came to mind when I saw him there and things certainly changed after that, not just in my mind but also tangibly. Soon after he stopped driving a car, his eyesight giving way to cataracts. His gait became a hobble, his flesh loosened into a wrinkly sweater, his long-winded stories became longer winded, somehow (instead of his Herculean calves I inherited this trait).

I won't have him forever, or anyone for that matter. When my pal Leo recently dealt with the passing of his sis, Brenna, I sometimes found it difficult to find consoling words for him (and was reminded that youth isn't a deterrent for an early demise). When my cousin Uli recently suffered the loss of his pooch, Chewie, whom he loved more than most humans, I again felt achingly speechless. I saw my dad laid out in the hospital today and was reminded that who knows when his time will come and it makes me wonder, what's worse: a sudden loss or the deterioration of an individual?

I suppose there's no right answer, everyone at the end of the day wishes for more time, there's never enough (even if my dad's most common phrase is "hay mas tiempo que vida"). I guess it's about enjoying the time you've got and holding on to those memories that bring a smile to your face. Every Superman has his kryptonite, right?

A letter to Brenna

I've been thinking a lot about you. The impact you had on me, what your last moments were like, what your last year was like, all the drama, all the suffering, what did it all mean?

I remember when I first met you. I was a boy, far from a man, far from my own person, a child playing at adulthood. You were a rave girl deity who knew everyone in the electronica scene, you'd go out to Limelight and whatever other clubs were hip at the time and was still in hs with us! Here I was pushing to extend my curfew to 10, 11, meanwhile you were partying it up harder than most twenty-somethings. Your brother Leo was a reflection of you, in many ways, the coolness, the self-assured swag, it was that assertion that drew me and held me captivated.

I remember the first time I went to a club, you got me and Leo into Pyramid for Konkrete Jungle. I was 17 and green, amazed that you knew the bouncer, the promoter, the bartender, the dj and several regulars in attendance. On one of those occasions  I asked you to hold my glasses for me while I jumped in the cipher to do some breakin'. When I came back and asked for them back, you gave me a blank stare and began looking through the pile of jackets next to you. It wasn't til we reached the bottom of the pile and pulled out two pieces, that were my glasses, that I began to cry, right then and there in the middle of Pyramid. (Any one that's had to wear glasses, with very poor sight, and poor would understand my sentiment, it meant I wouldn't be able to see properly for at least 4 days, would have a headache for the duration and my folks would tear out my hide, quite possibly.) Bren, you were indifferent. That's just what you were like, sometimes just not giving a fuck, but it makes me smile thinking back on it (and cringe at the crying part).

If you had an exalted status then, you became mortal one night as I was laying in the living room of your parents home in SI, watching HBO, trying to drift off to bed. Leo had long gone to sleep, but you came down in your boy shorts and tank top and we just talked, you confided in me that night and I felt honored that you did. After that, I'd see you from time to time, somehow Leo was always cutting my hair in your apt, or we were visiting your loft to see this rabbit or your new dog, that poor rabbit .... haha. (You weren't the best with pets, I think we all know that.) Hell, remember that time I ran into you at that Adidas SoHo party? I met Harold Hunter because of you, not a big deal to you but to me, I was a little starstruck, for sure.

When Leo gave me the news that you were diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, I was in disbelief. His tears, his sobs were real enough, though, and I knew by the way he described it in his car that he too knew that it meant a likely end. That was about a year ago ... we were only a year apart and yet you were already standing on the precipice of death, how do you accept that? Did you? What does that feel like, knowing you might die... I can't fathom that. My father has skirted perilously, my friend Asif was taken suddenly at the tender age of 25 and still, I can't begin to imagine what that's like.

I wish I was 20 minutes earlier. I arrived to the hospital ten minutes too late, I saw you for the last time, laying pristinely on your bed, surrounded by a small group of your loved ones. Sometimes I wonder why you didn't let me see you that time I was with Leo and Jess outside the hospital. Sometimes I wonder what might've been had you pulled through. Other times, I think about Mikela and what life will be like for her, without her caring mother doting on her. Who's gonna give me a second opinion on haircuts or outfits or get me into swanky clubs, who's gonna shun me one day and seek me out the next, who's gonna keep Leo's ego in check, haha. I wish I was 20 minutes earlier... but I gave you a kiss on the brow and let you rest.

Bren, you were no saint, but that's what I liked most about you.

The City That Slept (a stroll through downtown NYC)

Last night my plan was to finish my workout, eat my sister's shrimp scampi, which was delicious from the few bites I had, and relax with Book 4 of Game of Thrones (the Iron Islands await.) Suddenly I get a call from my cousin Uli telling me that him and Miguel, another cousin, are going to the Squarepusher concert and need me to ride in the car with them, since the police are only allowing cars with 3 people or more onto the bridge. Begrudgingly, I decided to get some air and join them, initially thinking that I'd ride with them over the bridge and take the F back home at 63rd and Lex.

Once in the car, after a few tokes, I decided that I'd go for a walk. The Squarepusher concert was at Terminal 5, formerly Exit (that's my generation), over on 56th between 10th and 11th, so I figured I'd walk up the West Side Highway and figure it out from there. With a Phillips in my pocket and a Bud forty in my fanny pack, I set off downtown, dropping off my cuzzos at their electronic escapade. By the time I reached the piers, I was cursing myself for not bring my foldable bike or my camera Or the portable battery I use to charge my phone on the go (I was at 15 percent in the car, so Instagram would have to wait).

I walked down West Side Piers until I passed 34th and saw the darkness stretch in front of me like a curtain wall. Have you ever watched that episode when the Bundys go to the UK? It was like I was stepping into Lower Umpton, it hit me that walking down the West Side Piers seemed like a bad idea, especially considering that the only people I did see were cyclists and bums on cycles (I felt sadly inadequate by both demographics.) I decided to start making my way east, my destination was Union Sq. At 30th I crossed the West Side Highway, I chose that street because there were large floodlights focused on a fenced off parking lot. As a city boy, my first instinct is to seek luminescence, like a moth to a patio light. Instead, I realized I needed to remain in the shadows, avoiding the piercing lights of passing cars. I clutched my screwdriver as I passed canyons of Chelsea buildings, slowly settling into the drear. Chelsea, where I would normally carouse with friends on Thursday nights at art gallery openings, was deserted. I thought that 23rd might be more populated so I trekked on...

... and found the children's park, Chelsea Piers and the rest of that end of 23rd street pitch black. There wasn't a soul as I made my way east on that once buzzing thoroughfare and though I imagined New York the way it was during the blackout of '03, it was nothing like it on this third day of darkness. I passed luxury condo receptions lit by candles, yuppies with flashlights in hand or headlights wrapped around their brows and tourists strolling by, curiously people-watching, speaking in their strange tongues. At 23rd and 8th I finally saw some semblance of civilization, cops were managing traffic in neon vests, using orange batons. I also noticed buses running this far downtown, so I figured I should make a mental note of it (I wasn't looking forward to walking 42 blocks back to the Terminal 5 area.) I continued down 23rd, passing skeavy types, wary while passing underneath scaffolding, the cold, the gusts an afterthought. Is this what New York was like in the 70's and 80's?

I made my way down 5th ave, there were def some cars rolling by, so I figured it might be better if I went down Broadway, only to find it deserted. The only light emanating came from the floodlights ahead that were showering Union Sq with a clinical glare. I thought I might find some hippie types lounging about but no such luck, there were work crews taking girders off trailers, the reflector tape on their vests flashing brilliantly as cranes hovered overhead. I continued down University Place, past Bowlmor and University Diner, past Reservoir and onto 8th st, past groups of NYU kids giggling along the sidewalk. I cracked open my forty finally, guzzling it down amid the shade. Washington Sq was dead, I was half-expecting Will Smith to come out out his brownstone opposite the Arch. B & N, Pieces, Greenwich Ave was a ghost town, the bohemians had evacuated the Village. By this point I was quite accustomed to the atmosphere, my thoughts drifting off to what it might be like with company when a woman, with presumably her bf, walked by, commenting how crazy this is. It was, the city that never sleeps became the city that slept.

La Luna De Tu Cara

Full moon's radiance, sweet explosion
Busts every time your smile greets me
Two beams flash warmth from almond delights
Mahogany curtains frame the stage

¿Porque, Luna, me niegas tu sonrisa?

Worker done, navigating undulating pathways
Racing headlong, defrosting in her smouldering gaze
The tides of yearning swell with promise
That I might bathe in the falls of your malaise

Ay Luna, no me nieges tu sonrisa

Moon scimitar, crescent unsheathed
Radiates violence, blood orange moon
Dual beams flash menace from almond terrors
Mahogany curtains close shut on alabaster stage

Sin tu sonrisa, no ayo luz en el abismo

Vicarious living through novels

So I'm almost done with Life of Pi, a book that took me a while to get through. Initially, I found the protagonist obnoxious and found the first 100 pages a rough going. I've put that book back on the shelf, literally, about 3 times during that time and this last time I restarted it from the beginning, so as to look at it in a new light as well as have a more fluid lead-up to the point where I'd read to. It proved worth it as I finally delved into the book with a fresh perspective.

There are some books that are like that, the book that I finished before this one was Pygmy, a book written by someone that grew up with a Far East linguistic approach that was applied to English, and so the writing was, at times, tedious to decipher. This book was far more straightforward and what I immediately liked about it was the rich, dense prose, a staple of mine and writers that inspire me. He's also very philosophical, something that I've enjoyed since I was a teen. What turned me off, in the beginning, was the slow start, midway through the plot takes off and carried me to the point where I can't wait to find out what's going to happen next, when will he be rescued, how, how will he react ... there are lots of questions swirling about my noggin.

What I found myself thinking today as I rode the J train was how involved I feel in the book, as I read about his horrid suffering I can't help but feel it, really feel it. It reminded me of when I was reading Shantaram, of the protagonist and how he would pick at lice all day in an overcrowded Indian prison, of his bouts with heroin and opium, of the hardships of living in a slum in Bombay ... all these things I could feel, not just see with my mind's eye.

I took a break from reading, from writing, from that aspect of myself because I felt saturated in it, like a glutton walking away from a feast. As I begin to enjoy a good novel, as I begin to write again it's inspiring to not just read great literature again, but to immerse myself in the Pacific waters of it.

Ruminations (El payaso triste)

There are a few thoughts rolling around my head ... I just found out that my cousin's uncle passed away. I didn't know him well, though I'll never forget his smile, I recall him being a very genial guy, very affable. It got me thinking about my own dad, all the trials and tribulations we've been through, how eventually I'll lose him too. Nothing in this life is forever, our family and friends, we, I, take things for granted. I'm not familiar with that, that type of coping, my cousin Uli has lived with it for most of his life and though I try and ease the pain, I try and understand what he's going though, I'll never truly know until Death raps his knock on our door.

It kind of makes the ordinary pains of my life petty, but I know that that pain is all I know, it's relative, isn't it? The loss I live with has its own melancholy, its own distinct mourning. I can't believe it's been over 2 years and I'm still harping on about it, I realized the other day as I mentioned her yet again, that I haven't let her go. Why is letting go so hard? Why are some memories welcome while others lay oppressive siege to my heart, Troy without Helen.

Don't think I'm trying to equate the pains, either, it's just that I've decided to embrace the phantasms that haunt me, the doldrums that plague my nights, the solace that smothers my waking life. How am I to exorcise these poltergeists if not through the power of the page, the release of the ink, the acceptance of my pain. As a person that wants others to have a great time around them, I'm selfish with certain emotions, even my close friends don't often hear me talk about being depressed, about what's really going on my head but most of the time I feel like un payaso triste and that's okay, I suppose.

Obsessions

I'm reading Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby and I can't help but relate to his obsession, which is football. Not that my obsession is also football or sports, even though I love the two and enjoy playing on the weekends or following Barca's latest scores, not to mention my beloved Jets (who have a great season to look forward to), no, my obsession changes with each season and with each article of my wardrobe that becomes de rigueur, I recall torturing gf's with my love of underground Hip Hop, at least it was, quite a few years back.

The thought popped into my head when I was mulling over the latest parts of the book and how he mentioned that his obsession scarred those around him, now ex-gfs would be forced to think about him, for better or worse, every time that Arsenal was announced in the news. I wonder if I have that same effect any time Sage Francis or Aesop Rock are come on a speaker, any time Anticon or Dose One play a show, any time El-P appears on the cover of some indie mag. Don't get me wrong, I still like a lot of that music, in some cases love, but my obsession has waned in recent years, in many ways it's nostalgic when I hear certain songs, though they don't hit me with the same impact. One such case, Watching Water by Alias, probably one of the most depressing tracks out of the Anticon stable, this little ditty got many a play on my discman-cum-iPod. I used to love how it would make me ruminate and it didn't hurt that most times I heard it, I was already lifted, now when I hear it it just reminds me of Celina, of skiing benders ending in Bushwick, of raucous coitus and drug-induced debauches, of misplaced adoration and naive notions of romance. Watching Water .... more like watching a tempest. It's funny the associations the mind makes without any conscious prompt.

I don't obsess over the latest Anticon album or their latest show (the last time I saw Dose perform, it was at Union Pool, easily about 3 years ago), but an obsessive always has something to fawn over. Lately I've been all about spending inordinate amounts of time on my comp and Conan. Yes, Conan. Forget about the sub-par Arnold flicks (even if I can still enjoy them), forget about the sub-par movie that just came out (I feel bad for the star in that, I really liked him in Game of Thrones, too bad he picked such a shite movie role), the Conan of the comics was one that was equal parts brute strength and cunning. That's what I love about him as a character, he's complex, he has a code despite being a reaver, a thief, a pirate, a merc, a general and, ultimately, a self-made king. The first time I was made aware of the comics was when Vic, my role model growing up, gave me a beat-up copy of the Savage Sword of Conan. The artwork was a bit backwards for the times, the cover art was always on point, but what I liked most was the stories. Even then I always had a knack for rooting out a good yarn.

I've been fortunate that it's gotten me back into reading, strange as it may sound. A writer that isn't reading?! and isn't writing, either?! Well, just like sometimes a football player (and, by that, I mean Soccer, I can't tell you now many silly convos I've had with people about this little detail) needs to take a season off to heal and look back on the previous seasons, I needed time to clear my head. Agatha Christie novels were my last obsession, that woman can write a dope mystery novel, lemme tell ya, Ten Little Indians or And Then There Was One, that story is just so complete, it's amazing. Not that I'd ever want to write like that ... but reading Nick Hornby, identifying with his twenties slacker and knowing that I need to exercise my writing as much as possible instead of finding any other thing to do but that in order to avoid ... I dunno, failure, disappointment, rejection, disapproval ... it can be hard. Really fucking hard.

So Here I Am .... title to Bloc Party's track that currently has 30 plays on my iTunes as of the time of this writing .... trying to get back on the horse. Like Conan of the paperback, always looking to the frontier, to new adventures ... geez, I've gotta get out of here, my upstairs neighbor's playing bad techno and all I hear is the 100 bpm thumping of my reverberating ceiling and walls. FML. PS1, perhaps?

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else

I think that I just may be over her. It only took almost two years, dozens of hours spent listening to sappy breakup songs and hundreds of hours replaying memories for clues.

For some reason, every time I went to Logan, I thought I might run into her. Me, there with a shoddy sign crafted at the airport to greet the new campers, watching all foreign arrivals fresh out of customs, she would appearing from behind the automatic doors. My pulse would turn to lead, deadening with each passing second. Shocked, she would stride over.

"What are you doing here?"

I relived this fantasy everyone I found myself at Logan with that same sad sign ... and she never appeared. Perhaps through that same fear I changed my mind about the arboretum, Jamaica Plains, but that was also intertwined with my own laziness. I was pitifully wistful in my time Boston, I've never been tigeraso, and so, taking in my penchant for romantic songs and ballads, I spent a lot time talking about her to whoever would listen. Telmo's heard my stories, so did the teachers, who were all women, her memory would not leave me alone. It wasn't until I was aboard the upper deck of the double-decker Megabus en route to NY that I realized that I had left her behind. It only took almost two years. Flash forward to NY, rediscovering its delights and catching up with friends, it's now that I'm entering a sort of renaissance. I've been on five dates since I've been back and even using the word "date" is strange, I've never been one for dates. My usual m.o. is that I meet potential partners through friends, family, school or work. As a given, that means that you can usually skip the awkward asking out in favor of something more vague and non-committal, like getting a cup of coffee our a bite to eat. The dating thing isn't so bad, though, and like with anything it takes some practice. I get nervous as hell whenever I know I'm gonna meet a complete stranger but after a couple of good dates, you get used to it. I have plenty of guy friends that tell me that I just need to "stroke anything that moves", yes, this is what dudes really sound like, and I get it, it'll help (or at least scratch that itch). What I needed was a bit of catharsis, a change in environment and a little courage ... and some patience for good measure.

Traveling to Boston

I'm literally taking the scenic route. Sandwiched here between the window and some dude (I had an opportunity to have both seats if I'd pulled an asshole move but I couldn't bring myself to do it), I wonder what the coming weeks will be like. I'm def the adventurous and so this is something I've really wanted, getting out of the city. I can't help but feel anxious ... I wanna be there already!

Given that when I get back I'll need to register for classes and the coming semester will be incredibly stressful, I think I'll need to go somewhere, preferably cheap. I think El Salvador beckons me home. :)

I wonder...

Everyday on my way to work I pass a warehouse on the way to the subway. Everyday I see an east Asian man standing outside it, sometimes he's smoking a stoge, other times he's speaking aloud to an imaginary person or pacing. He always looks sad, he may be a burn victim because he doesn't have a nose.

He wears a Yankee cap, bent and low over his eyes, and a persistent frown. I wonder what his life is like, where he grew up, what he does when he goes home, his loves and losses. I will wonder all these things all over again tomorrow as I pass him by on my last day of work.

Avocadolicious

I used to hate avocados.

Growing up in a Central American family here in the States, this was pure blasphemy. Consequently, I endured plenty of ass whoopins', shocked expressions and ... more ass whoopins'. In fact, there were very few reasons for not getting an ass whoopin', but I guess that's a story for another time.

It would help to mention that I was a momma's boy (emphasis on "was") and I was also bratty as fuck. There were a lot of conflicts going on in my head, being more Salvadoran or Central American than American was certainly not one of them. That meant that I ate my eggs with ketchup (still do, on occasion), picked the veggies out of my omelettes (my dad must've hated that shit) and ate toast instead of tortillas.

I remember a convo I had with my cousin Lucho, we were in his parent's kitchen and I saw him break out the Wonder Bread (anything else would be un-American) and an avocado. That's it. I'm waiting for the cold cuts to make their appearance but no, he starts carving up that avocado, slicing it up and and placing it between the slices. The entire time I'm looking at him with disgust and curiosity, I couldn't believe that my own flesh and blood loved avocados that much (he was seriously raving about them). It hit me, maybe there was something to it I was missing ...

Skip ahead to now. I figure that avocados are healthy, so why not eat them regardless of my not liking them (I've taken this same approach with radishes, spinach and just about anything that I wouldn't eat as a bratty momma's boy). Little by little, I started liking them, I'm still not head over heels about them .... then again, I just ate an entire one sans anything.

I guess I don't hate them anymore.

Pantoum #27

overcast sky blinding, bright gray

landscape of contradictions, high contrast

smog rests on the horizon, lazy feline

collapsing its corpulent corpse upon steel needles

panorama of parallels, high contrast

boiling with increasing effervescence

resting its corpulent corpse upon steel needles

Wednesday weds weekend to weekend

boiling with increasing intensity

will we find elation everlasting or fleeting?

Wednesday weds Tuesday and Thursday

peaks, valleys, plateaus, traveling

will we find elation everlasting or fleeting?

overcast sky blinding, metallic gray

mountains, ravines, plains, daily journeys

smog lies on the horizon, lackadaisical kitty

Walk On

I interviewed to be a para (para-professional, sorta like a teacher's aide) this past Thursday. The interview went really well, I think I not only one them over with charm but also with my desire to become a social worker. It's funny, but I was basically offered the position, though, because the administrators at the school wanted to incorporate the parents more into the mix, I had to be interviewed by the mom of the kid I'd be working with. Right away. An hour into interviewing, we're shuttling down Fulton heading towards to the DOE's offices on Livingston. The mother scrutinized my resume more than the administrators did, but I appreciate that she was so involved in her child's schooling, how many parents can we make that same claim about?

Afterward, since I knew a pal of mine, X, works for the DOE, I decided to see if he happened to work in the same building and as it turns out, he was just down the street. As we took a stroll down Cadman, enjoying the beautiful Spring weather, we chatted about the new gig, going to school late (we're both in the process of attaining our degrees, though I'm pretty sure he's farther along) and talking about our aspirations. We also talked about futbol and getting gear for it. I've been obsessed with it recently, it's my new love and I'm completely absorbed in becoming a better player, anyone that knows me knows that team sports aren't really my thing. Watching Messi play and others like him, Drogba, Xavi, Ozil, Rooney, Bale ... the list goes on, all those players exhibit such skill, with their feet, no less, that I'm inspired to push myself to see what I can do.

I left X at the post office on Cadman, continuing to walk down to the High St. stop on the AC line. It's been a while since I walked around that area, if I'm not mistaken the last time I was there, walking along the park, was with Skye, we'd walked over the Brooklyn Bridge to pick up her cousin Maria who was staying at the Hilton on Tillary. I have fond memories of that area, I used to work at Plymouth After-school with Shola and his crazy ass friend Peter, our supervisor, who turned out to be unstable, in our collective opinion. (Oh Peter ....)

While on the platform, I walked down to the end so that I'd be in the first car and after letting a C train pass, who should I run into? Cassie Cass, all grown and shit. There are so many stories with her, sneaking Bacardi into venues, of house parties around Brooklyn, crazy stuff that you're supposed to do in your early twenties, and now she was telling me that she's going to school for Construction Management. Every one grows up, everyone slows down, and chances are if you don't, it'll catch up with you, you can't be 21 for ever, not saying you shouldn't be young but some things, some memories I def don't care to repeat now that I'm .... in my late twenties.

The moving didn't stop once home, I rushed over to get a haircut, jogged home for a shower before heading to my last tutoring session with one of the more bright students I have/had. On the way back home, I walked from the 82nd St. stop on the 7 to 74th, thinking a lot about what I'm going to do once I start this job. It'll mean a healthy amount of income, I can finally save a good amount and possibly, if I'm really disciplined, head to El Salvador (ES) for a month or maybe the entire summer and get acquainted with the mother land finally. I could work on speaking fluently while being completely immersed in my native tongue, I could see the beauties of my heritage that I've only seen in pictures and heard about through memories from family members. I could stay with fam, have queso salvadoreno with casamiento every day and pupusas .... AH, PUPUSAS! I've heard stories about how much better they are over there .... if they live up to the hype, I think I'd find myself hard-pressed to make it back. I could visit the coastal beaches that line the Pacific, climb volcanos like Izalco, go zip-lining and hike through a real jungle ... the wanderlust in me bubbles at the thought.

It's funny to think that just two weeks ago I had a different mentality, a different mood, my outlook on my future was much bleaker. Through hard mental work, through the discipline of working out nearly every day and letting those endorphins lift my mood, through working through my bullshit, my procrastination, things are changing. They're coming together, they're making sense, I can see a light at the end of the subway tunnel. One of my favorite quotes, it's from Danny Inosanto, Bruce Lee's number two, is simply "Walk on". It's so simple and yet, it says a lot. To use a swimming analogy, it's not enough to tread water, you need to swim, how will you get to the destination you want if you let yourself get swept up in the current? Hmmm, maybe I should have named this post "Swim On".

an oldie, catharsis in process

The other day i was reading this old piece, new by relative standards, and was pretty surprised at my own inventiveness (yes, i'm brazenly tooting my own horn.) It should be noted that I'm highly critical and I do think this piece needs some revision, though I don't have the answers to that revision yet (there's a part I already have in mind, it's just tough.) Anyhoo, enjoy .... and i say it's part of my catharsis because it's been about a year and half and i'm still not over my break-up ... but I feel like by doing things like this, I'm letting her go and letting the work that was inspired by her be released from the emotions that have swirled about it.

So Glad I Found You

So glad I found you, you amaze and excite
amazing what'll happen in six days, six nights
might I have this dance, even steal a kiss from you miss
way more than adequate, manifest beauty from head to hips
a smooch from you is napalm ready to explode
let's go to Reykjavik, wreak havoc among glaciers
let's travel the astral plane, share a pitcher with Mother Nature
let's hop on a flying carpet to the Napa Valley
or visit the Castro District of San Fran, Cali
girl, I'd gladly climb a thousand Alps just to hold your hand
or join the Northern Alliance and oust the Taliban
let's just hop on a jet and jet to Jakarta
If you were Palestine I'd gladly become a martyr
but before I ask you to commit to be mine
I think we should sip Riesling overlooking the Rhine
or survey the Serengeti, on safari spotting rhinos
or stumble around Prague like two punchdrunk winos
but before I ask you to commit to this
let me say I'm so glad I found you, you amaze me, miss....

Maybe we could hit Warsaw and have pierogis
or meditate in Mumbai like a pair of yogis
Skye, I'd book a million flights to reach you, love
or simply jack the Silver Surfer for his apparatus
and ascend the height of the one called Atlas
so At Last like Ella Fitzgerald I can sing my song
beside you on the South China Seas, you in a pink sarong
throngs of beauties could stand around but I'd never notice
like a field of weeds surrounding a lush lotus
Michelle, you know this, this ain't nothing new
I'd follow you to Kilimanjaro or Katmandu
or Manila or Johannesburg or Lima, Peru
perhaps fondue at the Louvre, jerk chicken in Negril
at the summit of the Eiffel confessin' how I feel
Venus to my Mars, this may be redundant, of course
but my body is my mosque and my minaret is yours
my body's an amusement park, you should ride every ride
at least 4 times daily, check out the slip 'n' slide
but before I ask you to commit to be mine
I'll yoke Eros for his arrows, make the year Valentine's
blaze trails on a hydroplane, graze the Everglades
play spades in Pan's Labyrinth, my naughty Artemis
but before I ask you to commit to this
let me say I’m so glad I found you, you astonish me, miss....

Inspired by Williams Carlos Williams

embers lie still
the blaze in their eyes smoldered feverishly

embers glow mild
fading grandeur, a crumbling edifice, ruins eroding

embers lay listless
flaming remnants lie still as smoke and ash

Debate on Porn

i read this forwarded email today and responded on it ... so i figured i'd post it.

Further To The “America Broke Sex” Argument

06 Nov

Susannah Breslin:

In this post-feminist era, some sex pundits have promoted the idea that “porn is good,” but what some pro-porn post-feminists have failed to do is discern between porn the product and porn the industry. As long time readers of this blog know, I have spent some time around the adult movie industry. A decade ago, I entered that world with the same assumptions as the pro-porn post-feminists. Over the years, my attitude changed. Eventually, I began referring to the porn industry as a meat grinder for the human condition. In my opinion, it is a lot to ask someone to get fucked in the ass for a living. Shalom Auslander has put it thusly: “I have never had a day as bad as a woman named ‘Cloey’ had the day they shot the video that appeared on that webpage — that is to say, I have never had a day where someone wrote the word ‘Cockwhore’ on my forehead with lipstick, tried to shove their entire fist down my throat and then ‘choke-fucked’ me with their penis until I barfed on their testicles.”

i tell ya, i'm ambivalent about porn. just like any male growing up in this country, i grew up wanting to watch porn, that taboo brand of film, and became accustomed to it. a few years back, in preparation for workshop i was about to do with a Young Men's Group, i researched male sexual patterns, sexual abuse and rape. what i found was not only alarming but also tied to porn. a lot of these are exploited, let's not get it twisted, exploited from either when they were small and were either molested or violated and found no other recourse than a life selling their body. most pornstars, if asked, were raped at some point or another, a good book on this subject is the autobiography of Jenna Jameson, a heavyweight in the porn industry.

i remember having a convo with a supervisor of mine who divulged to me that she liked rough sex ... being slapped in the face, choked, that sort of thing and i couldn't understand why until she told me that her first boyfriend had raped her. then it all made sense, in some ways and in some cases it's a perpetuating cycle.

i'm not saying that there aren't women who don't actually enjoy some of these things naturally ... but these are rare and far in between. take this statistic and mull it over, Japan, which is a BDSM mecca (Bondage, Domination, Sadism, Masochism) is also the country where, according to an international poll, women are least satisfied sexually. something like 50% of women there have claimed to never have experienced an orgasm (tragic, i know). is there a connection ... you be the judge