Thursday, May 30, 2002

Silence: Tho Not Golden, A Good Place to Start

Sometimes I want nothing more in this world than to actually do nothing. During these episodes I wish my mind could on a sabbatical of some sort, having it return with a tan, a Hawaiian lay, and a fresher, more refined, perspective of things. Since severing myself from my head seems impossible and possibly fatal, the next best thing it seems, besides conceiving a baby with Rupert Evert, is coiling up in a warm place and shutting up.

I haven't blogged this past week because I haven't wanted to talk about my fear of moving away. I haven't wanted to talk about Garrett relapsing, his mother calling and asking about his whereabouts. I'm not in the mood for self analysis, in the mood of exposing things, letting them hang, giving them meaning. I don't want to talk about how the smell of someone's suntan lotion in a bar crowded with strangers can send me back to a time when love really was just a four letter word whose meaning I thought I had fully grasped.

I don't want to talk about any of this because I am supposed to be over all this. I am supposed to be the one who, with determined eyes and a the-moment-is-all-I-have outlook, will plunge into my future with, as Madonna poignantly whispered it, absolutely no regret.

But I guess I've been going about things the wrong way. I thought that forgetting would take care of everything, that it would give me that metaphoric new page, the go ahead to live again, but I've come to realize that it's not so much about forgetting but being able to remember and smile.

While thinking of the past and smiling seems miles away, for the moment I'm working on thinking of the past and not cringing: a less drastic yet, hopefully, liberating accomplishment.

Tuesday, May 21, 2002

Cha Cha Cha Changes

This past week has been nothing but a series of changes and alterations. First, I got a new car: 2002 Toyota Rav 4. Despite that fact that it makes me feel like a cheerleader en route to homecoming with her boyfriend, the star quarterback, rob, it's a pretty nifty, and FIERCE, car.

Secondly, I met someone. It all began innocently enough: Him, a 19 year old with hopes of being a police officer, and me, tho leaving in two months, looking to have somewhat of a romantic summer fling. And so for the past few nights, inbetween long beach pride and Pat Benetar, we had intense makeout sessions in (a) the bathroom at the Abby, (b) my car, and (c) my friend's livingroom. So I thought, "great, this is fun," until tonight that is.

An Adios Motherfucker and a Heineken into the night, I found myself in the women's bathroom of Motherload making out with George, the aspiring police officer, and as I was losing myself somewhere among his chin and meandering hands, I heard a "What the fuck are you doing?!?!" come from the mouth of the friend he had brought with him tonight. As it turns out, the bastard was trying to two-time the both of us, but unlike the angry latino who was taking about "disrespecting him in front of his face," I didn't care much. Half amused and half embarrassed, I had to laugh at the situation as John attempted to pull me out of the bathroom in the midst of the two who were ready to throw punches.

And with George yelling after me, John and I ran to my car, bumped the GAYEST music we could find, and scurried off laughing like 13 year old girls who had just seen the first penis of their lives in the bathroom stall of some seedy gas station.

I have to admit that tonight, besides being extremely hilarious in a perverse and ghetto sense, was a very eye-opening experience. No matter how intense and intimate a moment can be on a fold out couch in Hacienda Heights or a Hammock in Lake Arrowhead, with Orion beaming out its brightness over his brow, sincerity and substance really is as hard to find in a man these days as it is to find something classy and cutting edge in JC Pennys. The difficult part is being able to get our heads out of the stars long enough to see the flaws in the seams before we make our purchase and get stuck with not only an embarrassing ensemble we'd never get caught dead in, but, after a few contemplative moments in front of the mirror, with a style entirely unbecoming of us.

So what I guess I'm saying is that before any of us begin to jump any boats, or bridges, or bathroom stalls (and yes I'm referring to you John) it'd be best if we'd ask ourselves if these princes in shining armors and canteens full of Chardonay and soft kisses would still be there, attentive and always with the right things to say, if we were down on our luck, disheveled, and looking, despite our lack of appearance and bus money on the corner of Figeuroa and Expedition, for a little genuine lovin'.

It's times like tonight that make me angry that the only form of genuine love and compassion I've ever felt for another human being is lost on a man stuck somewhere in rehab who probably spends as much thought on me as he spends on figuring out how erasable pens work: close to nil.

I'm not angry, bitter, or disappointed really---Just willing to put 400 somewhat miles between my past and the hope that something better is waiting for me down by telegraph street, by the street vendors, the dirty sidewalks, and a city not yet tainted with memories...

Friday, May 17, 2002

'cause we are all made of stars baby

finals are over, and the drinking has commenced. i plan on beginning a new Belligerence Record: 4 nights in a row. i don't exactly know if it's something to boast about, but i feel as if i've deserved the right to kill off a few brain cells and some of my dignity. right?

also, ive made my decision: i'm going to berkeley. it was a very difficult decision to make, but in the end, i realized that there's more i need to leave behind here than i need to hold onto. and i can't help but feel a little selfish for wanting to leave the friends i've grown to love and depend upon, but this feels like something i just have to do. i just hope that in two years time, i won't look back at this and curse myself for being so stupid.

for now, it's long beach pride, the new moby cd, and, hopefully, rum and cokes galore.
summer's here and i intend to milk it for all it's worth...

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

Finals Week

I've one final left in the way of my independence from SAC. So, here I am, almost 3am, hacking away at a semester's worth of biological jargon. The funny thing is, I've been having mental flashbacks of past sexual encounters while studying. Midway through the history of reptilian evolution, I get an image of throbbing penises swaying in the vicinity of my nose. It can be quite distracting, believe you me.

At any rate, i should get back to phylogeny and taxonomy, or swaying penises as it is. Tomorrow's my last day at school...I was hoping for a cinematic moment as I left my last class and treaded through the parking lot, my head full of memories and sentimentality. But I don't thing that's gonna happen.
(a) i'll be really grouchy 'cause of lack of sleep.
(b) run to car to get home to sleep
(c) rather be looking forward to 2 dolla drinks at Oasis tonight...

who needs sentimentality and cinematic moments anyway?

Monday, May 13, 2002

Sigh of Relief

It's done! My chapbook, which has been christened with the name When a Man Doesn't Love a Woman, is finally finished. And, for your pleasure, here is the opener of my somewhat fictitously based love poems:


“Tell it to someone who was born yesterday,” my mother would say
and hoard the electric wire of our vacuum in bands around her elbow.

“I love you won’t clean the carpet,” she’d say with sweat on her forehead
as if the obvious needed explaining in our home.

But there were things that went unexplained, like the time dad wasn’t
seen for weeks and she did nothing but dice onions in the kitchen

and mop the floors as if she were expecting something sacred to emerge
from them. For my mother, comet and baked lamb were as religious

as baptism: A way of being reborn through ammonia and lemon juice.
It’s funny to think of it otherwise now; to picture her sitting

at the head of the table, our hands clasped together, and her saying
anything besides, “that fucking oven burns everything,” eyeing

the potatoes to her right. For a Greek woman with a history of donkeys
and 13 brothers, summers in Argos and fending off arranged marriages

for packs of sheep, sentimentality was as foreign as suntan lotion
to an albino: something threatening, useless, as harmful as UV rays.

So on those nights when I lose myself in the kitchen somewhere
among the Windex and sharp knives, somewhere among my mother’s

Kiss The Greek apron, listen to the way I whistle beneath my breath,
listen to the way my bare feet leave imprints on the wet tiles,

to the sound of the celery crushing beneath the weight of my hands,
of milk being poured in bowls, of tomatoes being washed,

listen to the oven sending out its vibrating, red heat--- listen to
the way they say your name, listen to love being both obvious and silent.

Saturday, May 11, 2002


There's something irreparably defective or damaged within me. I have yet to pinpoint its origin, but I can feel it begin to work on my bones the way arthritis does during the first hint of upcoming rainy weather. It almost feels like being buried alive. In cement. Without any clothing on.

But then again, it's more than just mental claustrophobia or the feeling of helplessness and desperation; it's like being force fed Jell-O shots, blindfolded, spun around over a dozen times, and asked to locate Siberia on a map.

But none of this is making sense. They say that the manner in which we articulate (i.e., clarity or lack of clarity) is an indication of the way our thoughts maneuver themselves around in our brains. So if any of that holds true, you should have some inkling as to how MY thoughts are maneuvering themselves around in my brain at the moment: i.e., with difficulty and bruised elbows.

But then again, none of it was making sense when I confessed to Garrett that I loved him and made a go at it in a strange apartment. And even tho I sugarcoated my declaration of love by making it analogous to the Greek word philia, a camaraderie of sorts, the meaning of what I had said no longer mattered: I had sad it, and that was that. We slept with each other nonetheless that night, and now in hindsight, and after speaking to his father who informed me that he would be entering detox in two days and will no longer be able to associate himself with me for, what he said, a reasonable amount of time, it was possibly the last intimate moment I will share with him.

But all this is not a result of what has happened, and that is what disturbs me the most. There's something much deeper, something much more elusive and greater going on here, and I'm either (a) oblivious to it or (b) unwilling to acknowledge it.

For the moment there's not much I want to do; soul searching and contemplation aren't as appealing during good weather. Like a leaky faucet or rotted wood, putting things on the backburner seems reasonable until you find yourself knee-high in murky water and with the foundation of your house collapsing around you.

Wednesday, May 08, 2002

Hi, my name's Angelo, and tho I'm not an addict, my ex is:

Is what I felt like confessing tonight when I accompanied Garrett to his second NA meeting. There's not much I can say about tonight; it was both a therapeutic and humbling experience. Therapeutic because we were both willing to sit in a room with strangers and confess to the addiction that plagues him and affected/affects me; humbling because I momentarily suspended the fantasy of what I thought my life was or should be and acknowledged, as a woman spoke about losing her children to the disease , that this was the reality of my life. Like the others, my denial had gotten the best of me.

Without the speeding cars, the alcohol, the nights of excitement and seedy motels, I looked at Garrett and saw over three years of history staring back at me. I couldn't help but to feel connected, honest, and, strangely enough, alive.

Tuesday, May 07, 2002

And Who by Fire?

So my fear that garrett was lying in a gutter somewhere in East LA with a syringe plunged into his rotting flesh, tho not entirely unwarranted, proved to be wrong. After my dream of pancakes and Juliet Lewis, I got a call from him informing me that he had been quarantined in his house by rule of his parents. Evidently, the first man I ever had a relationship with is on his way to rehab. On one hand I'm glad that he will finally be receiving the help he truly needs, and on the other hand, the more selfish of the two, I'm wondering what it is that I have done to deserve such a shitty lot when it comes to relationships (such fatalistic reasoning stemming from my superstitious mother who finds answers to life's most perplexing questions in the rocky terrain of dried coffee on the bottom of her mug).

On the sunnier side of things, I wore my excessively flamboyant cowboy hat for cinco de mayo yesterday and drove from barbecue to barbecue with a bottle of tequila tucked underneath my arm. It's always been my motto that when the going gets tough and your ex's start ending up in rehabs or dropping like flies, the only thing to do is tip your hat back, sip on a cool one, and think of the future as being a hobby for Sand Castle Construction: something perfected with time.

Hope, after all, is where you find it.

Saturday, May 04, 2002


Last night I dreamt that garrett and I were living in New Mexico and were eating pancakes in an off white wooden kitchen. For some reason, Juliet Lewis was there, and she had just had an abortion. The three of us sat at the table, poured maple syrup on our dishes, and stared into each others' glossy eyes that were as silent as sand.

I am really worried about him; he disappeared two weeks ago, and no one has heard from him since, not even his parents. The funny thing is, the more I try to not think of him in my waking state, the more I see him in my dreams.

I have this inconsolable fear that nothing, not even time, can take this away.

Wednesday, May 01, 2002

Like, I ROCK

Hmmm, let's survey my list of acceptance letters:

UC Santa Barbara CHECK
UC Los Angeles CHECK
UC Berkeley CHECK

I could go on about how the trees spoke to me in an affectionate, loving, and elusive way as I walked among them today, my bare palm feeling the irregular and coarse surface of their bark, but I'm tired and sick and drained.
Of course, you could listen to The Cure's Mint Car on repeat and rest assure that I'm in my room somewhere snapping my fingers and swaying my hips with blissful abandon. . .