Am I sorry your sky went black?

I led a death caravan today. Sounds out-of-the-ordinary, but if you were a spectator, it wouldn't be. I think that's how the world works sometimes. It's good at disgusing itself and as much as I'd like to blame humankind for being oblivious, I think some things are meant to be masqueraded. It's definitely not a good thing, but it's just how it happens.





Back to my story, I woke up to a gray sky, and lo and behold, it's still gray. It felt like something out of a horror movie that takes place in some misty woods with the "heroes" left to find a mansion looking very out of place or some rustic sort of groud that ultimately harbors what used to be their safety, but now has become nightmare. It was a goth metal music video and a delicious slasher brought to life. I noticed just after the light on Lomita as I was trekking down Western. I didn't notice completely, but I did confirm I was leading something by the time I passed Narbonne High. They being the enemy school back in my high school days, I found it ironic I discovered my cabaret just after passing their quarters. The misty sky was still streaching the bruises it sustained over night, with clouds colliding so softly as if falling apart over each other rather than partaking in combat. So there it was in the rearview: a giant metal snake, perhaps a metal dragon, curving along the road behind me--it slithered in a rhythmic way, with each section of its body curving at just the right time. It was silver looking like it had a tongue ready to flicker to get a taste of me. I was a few feet ahead with the asphalt a decent restricting gap behind me and it front of it. It wasn't entirely silver, it just had a silver head (which was something in a Honda or BMW) with a bit of red, black, and I believe blue connected by a single spinal column. Surprisingly, it was completely even--just the same size fragments of its body with no distortion except in color. It stayed perfectly behind me and eerily, no one stepped in my way for miles. Up until Torrance Boulevard, it twisted and slithered, getting longer with each attracted piece clinging and following. Some little parts crawled away like disoriented black beetles. Was I being attacked? Where was this giant confounding snake headed?

Perhaps the strange occurences in life of a significance in some way, but it's meant as a secret, like an ancient language or transcriptions to the dead sea scrolls. There had to be a reason I chose the scenic route. There had to be a reason no one ever passed me. There had to be a reason for the way it moved besides proper physics. There had to be a reason for all the silence. And what of the dull and morbid cabaret that allowed me to lead it so far? I turned onto Artesia, and one car kept swining back and forth in front of my little drones as if it were willing to slay me if given the chance. I stopped and its breaks stuttered, flashing on, fluttering, flashing off, fluttering then flashing on again. It was a nervous little thing that finally stopped a bit too far away from me and lost its nerve completely. One more turn onto Crenshaw with the dimness of the morning staying relentlessly painted to the sky. It could've been raining ashes and snowing all at once, but the sky was completely still. When I arrived at EC, I stepped out and actually looked up like the cliche victim of the perils of a dark sky. I could feel the air swell thick in my lungs and on my skin. Perhaps I could've held it in my hands and brought it close, but instead I trembled. I, the leader of the most deathly looking display I'd ever seen besides the obvious scenes of death and the like, trembled at the silence. Of all things, I felt a slight fear and submission toward the silence of the gray and empty parking lot. After all, all around me was a sea of cars all potential pieces of a caravan the next morning or right after class. Who were all these people, anyway? And what of those in the caravan? Why did they come together in such a way? I know it wasn't on purpose, but the sheer obscurity of it must've had a reason--or been a reason--of some sort.

The only company I had in the midst of the lot was the low and foreboading buzzing of the electric wires along the telephone poles, strung in black like the knitters at the beginning of Heart of Darkness (Joseph Conrad), who sat there knitting mindlessly, leaving a heap of black fabric to grow larger and without shape. There was this strange power as the silence was cut with the buzzing like I was about to be plucked by some force coming from above--as if I were about to be brutally slain and practically massacred until I was nothing but an accomplished red target on the asphalt. I always feared that parking lot. It's not that it was unsafe, but the scale of it and the fact that there is so many strangers...a woman can never be too sure, especially when what has been sure has not always been pleasant (and I'm speaking specifically, although I do not wish to be specific about this). Being as worn as I, I don't think I could necessarily fight off whatever any stranger threw at me. And don't mean just any stranger, but a stranger--the shadow type of stranger who comes so quickly, he is faceless and without breath and only human desire and form to be recognized, only to dissipate in the confusion. Once I was out and close to class, the silence changed and therein lied the end of it. For some reason, I doubt anything this strange will happen again in the same manner, and if it should, it shall be far away.

Wednesday never ended

I know it's Sunday. It's been exactly one week since Redondo, only with a few altercations. But despite the day, this is about Wednesday. I was tempted to write on Wednesday, then again on its tail end of which I wasn't sure what day it was. Then again on what I came to know as Friday, and again yesterday...but now I have bearings and conclusive thoughts. So this is not about all that was missed when I was dormant. This is about some possibly psycho neurotic trip without the aid of foreign substance. It's about a time where there was no real differentiation. This is about Wednesday.


There was something in this Wednesday that made everyone feel a little bit better about everything. Truth be told, it ended on a rough note, but nevertheless it was enjoyable. Enjoyable isn't always the word we'd like to use when describing Wednesday, especially on the newspaper staff. Interesting, maybe, but not enjoyable. That was the first bit of forshadowing that I was in for something. It was nice to see everyone look more animated and in full-color as opposed to ready to drop. Maybe it was John making pencils penetrate the ceiling or maybe it was just that we were all on a roll with our humor that day, but we were happy. Yes, happy. The simplest of all defining terms of euphoria, but it was just that. It was almost as if we were young again. Everything was funny, everyone had something random to say or do, time went by almost too fast and we were all pleased just to have the company. In the end, the paper looked pretty good and we were off at 9:30 p.m., the earliest I've ever seen and it wasn't so bad. Of course, we were all tired. That's always a given, even if there's an element of fun. After turning myself around dropping off Cristian and Robert at Cristian's car, I had fun curving around Prairie Avenue to get myself on the right path home. I considered taking a drive through the PV hills before making my way back, but I decided against it after realizing how late I'd get home and my slight uncertainty of where the exact route I wanted to take was. In addition, I wanted to get home as early as possible (as far as Wednesday nights go) so to ensure my last night with tia Ney was a great one. And what of my sour note on production night? It was nothing so great that it could've created a significant imbalance in me, but it was quite the irritation (and sometimes still is, but not so much now). I got talked down that ledge by two good people. While it is in my guilt to say they became unwittingly involved (and I was unwitting myself as I got the news that someone believed them to be proprieters of whatever misery they claim to have experienced). I ended my night earlier than I wished as I was preparing to get up at 4 a.m. the next morning.

The night came and showed no mercy on me until 2 a.m. leaving me only two hours to compose myself and get ready for tia Ney's take-off.

It was in those two hours where something interconnected. I woke up at 4 a.m. and realized it was still Wednesday. Crazy? No, it was exactly right. Everything from earlier was so clear as if there was no pause between them. I don't necessarily believe there was. We left when it was still dark, but for some reason it's always brighter at LAX. There were still some clouds of indigo blue as we got there and unloaded the suitcases and began descending upon what appeared to be the right section of the Tom Bradley Terminal. For those of you not from L.A., first thing, I feel sorry for you, and secondly, the Tom Bradley Terminal is exclusively for international flights and is perhaps one of the better terminals at LAX with its giant schedule board with extravagant names on them rooting from both the coutries and the airlines. After looking around the initial level for the Mexicana ticketing counter only to find gray and lonely terminals, we were about to step outside and hope for the best when we ran into a single woman vacuuming the mats in front of the doorway.

"Esta alla abajo. Puedes usar las escaleras."
What does that mean, you ask? "It's downstairs. You can use the stairs."
So that's exactly what we did. We dragged the suitcases all the way downstairs and all the way to the very end of the terminal. After that it was mostly quiet and I felt my eyes begin to drag a bit. At about 5 a.m., we decided to see if the McDonald's above Tom Bradley's initial floor was open as we didn't check in the midst of our search. Of course, like I said, everything was open. It was dim and we even mentioned the minimal lights to one another, but I liked it. I stared out the window and watched the planes land in the distance as they belted through the indigo sky made all the more epic by the enormous windows that touch from top to bottom, with each panel perhaps the size of a standard window, on either end of the top floor. Until about 6:15, we talked about the newspaper and exchanged last minute information until I finally had to let her go. We walked her down to her gate and in a matter of seconds, it was as if she was already back in Mexico.


We stepped back outside and the sky was almost as blue as it usually was. But it was that beautiful blue that's a bit on the periwinkle side. It was the kind of blue that comes just before the sun breaks away. It's the kind of blue that's under the complete control of the sky--no sun, no other element except the sky and its own accord. There's something in a sunrise that makes someone see and feel so much, and there's even more to a sunrise at LAX. It may seem as if the modernization may be a damper, but the only real damper is knowing someone, or perhaps yourself, is leaving. While I'm not particularly upset when I take off for somewhere else, I do think of everyone else who is leaving behind someone for a good while. I'm one for travel, but the airport isn't always designed for that. The airport is just that--an airport. It has planes to take people to other destinations, but nowhere in its description does it say it has to be amusing. So it was that Wednesday continuation (that I couldn't necessarily call Thursday because it just didn't feel like the past had fully ended) that made me feel for everyone leaving their own ground into some place full of life, but not their own. But taking a moment to stop in front of the terminal gates and look up into the sky, there's a calm demeanor to it, even more so than when looking out the window in one's own house. It's inexplicable, but somehow in a place catering to voyages to new and familiar places give its own unique sunrise as if the sun it presents is one completely different from that of which we see every day.

I passed El Camino on the way back. I didn't pass it directly because we were on the freeway, but I knew in a few hours I was to go back the way I just came, only this time, I wouldn't get to go by LAX. Tia Ney wasn't coming back. It was an okay day when I got there a few hours later. I couldn't fall asleep in English because we were prepping for debates and by the time Verge's class rolled around, I was suddenly wide awake. I was getting hungry around 9 a.m. because I ate at 5, but after forgetting about it, I suddenly wasn't hungry. Even when faced with food directly, I was suddenly "too full" to eat it. I did manage to meet Deborah Chesher, a rock n roll photographer in the 70's and she was outstanding. I came home expecting to tumble down, but I just couldn't do it until 6 p.m. I even got hungry before I got tired again and I felt like perhaps I was in some sort of realistic Twilight Zone. Perhaps I was caught in two realms and suddenly Wednesday was finally becoming Thursday. I haven't the least of what I was feeling, but now I know for sure the day would be so much more interesting with just a few more hours added on. I napped until 8 p.m. and found I couldn't get to sleep by the time night rolled around, so I stayed up for a shorter time than I imagined. Tia Ney was home safe by then and I was star gazing as usual.








The night was mine.

The kids are alright

I find I always compare everything to wings or the ocean. Today I got to Redondo and I had nothing to say. Everything, in a way, was just like how I explain everything else. We pulled up, and of course the beach had a weak pulse today seeing as it's Sunday and nothing is ever open beachside on Sunday. Despite that, there seemed to be a few drops of life (actually, a vigorous amount of life) swarming the confusing walkways. After realizing it was Sunday by about the fifth store with the door smack shut in our faces, we decided to see what we could find. Trust me, there's a lot out there--food, clothing or not.

But dammit, I can barely remember where we first stopped. I'm thinking it was that one peaceful store with all the relics, incense, sea shells and books. I think that's right. There's just so much to remember. Anyway, we moved on from there, and I'll tell you--that place was surreal to a pleasurable extent. So we hit place after place, each time deciding $100+ was too much for pretty much anything. I didn't quite get to any real thinking until we crossed the street for about the 10th time. There was a man. An unkempt haphazard kind of man, scratching and pulling on his clothes. He sat like a lily. Yes, a lily. And I know everyone thinks the crown jewel, the craning flower out here is the beach. Perhaps that is true. What is more serene than the ocean? Or the night? Or both at once? But taking time to examine its people is never a beautiful thing. After hearing the tired dragging of the tongue with every "oh my God" and "I'm trying on this, but it's like..." or "and like he said" and "and like she said" and "ugh" and "yeaahhh..." one tends to feel as though their spine is out of place. The ocean practically glimmers with life, yet the wayside beach mongers and rich snob trash are nothing but a shade of gray and a damper on the salt and waves. Back to this man, he didn't say anything. Nothing at all. Maybe it's because no one cared to look at him. Maybe it was because he didn't need to say a thing. Maybe it's because he couldn't say a thing. Yet even still, I will always wonder, no matter how simple it seems, how he's stuck so vividly to my thoughts.

Two blocks down, there was another man. He was the talker. He talked a lot. In fact, he talked so much that he even talked when no one was around. Ironically he sat in front of an army-like jeep making it look like he'd gotten off the ride to hell that was Vietnam (he was certainly too weathered to be coming from Iraq. Then again, war weathers a man, and for all I know, he could've been but 30 years old). Anyway, I wanted to catch what he was saying. Dammit, it could've been brilliant, but I couldn't understand. That brings me to my novel idea--perhaps when I explain, I understand because it's my own state of mind. But perhaps what I'm explaining is really all wrong, only we don't even know it. After all, it seems every time something is explained, something new comes or is seen that makes us rexamine everything.

I did find a nice place called Harmony Works and bought myself a new CD that's proved quite nice on me. Angelique Kidjo--what a woman I've grown so fond of. And of course there's my purple tank top I'm kind of proud of. Yet the tangible seems to mean so much less than the intangible.

Today I realized how the simplest of things can fix the grandest of problems. Part of the reason I rushed out was to avoid the scrapping sound of my fingernails against my skull should an unwanted visitor come. I would say whom, but I choose not to. I like being in this state of not even remembering the dreary nature that sometimes is of life and dreams. Time is the enemy, the battle, the blood, the triumph and the beauty. Today I learned how beautiful life is, but not in the way you'd imagine it to mean.

"Put on all your beads and your beautiful jewels,"

says the groom to his new bride.
But, his first love tells her,

"your smile today could turn into tears tomorrow."

Beauty is not everything, you know

(Angelique Kidjo; "Sedjedo")

My heart always speaks before I know what it'll say

Let me make it radically clear...I hate Anthony. All posts prior to this that happen to have his name in it, besides the ones I've cursed him in, disregard. I make myself sick just looking at them. To think I could've ever thought such things. And at this point, his little "confusion" is just irritating. Make me believe what you want me to believe, but that's all I'll ever do. For once in YOUR fuckin life, I'll believe you, but it'll be take it or leave it because I certainly won't act on it. And why not if I believe you so much? It's just that I can never be too sure or too careful with you. ¡Bastardo!

Anyway, moving on to something worth speaking on. Did anyone out there know they took the gray wolves off the endangered species list? Curse those fucks! Do they not have any idea what they're doing? Obviously not considering yhat since I last read about it, people in Idaho and Montana have killed 35 wolves in 28 days. Goddamn, that's more than one wolf a day! What is wrong with people? Are we that violent, bloodthirsty and cruel? Who in their right mind can look at an animal and lose their heart? Tell me how that innocent animal is supposed to defend itself against a gun, and I might give you credit. For now, consider the freedom fighter in me fully awakened.
This is going to be the Canadian seal harvest all over again. I'll write a letter to someone every damn day if I have to. This needs to stop, especially since wolf season (that makes me sick to even hear) is this fall. How ironic, the time of my birthday is the time where brutes massacre my favorite animal. No, it's not happening. The population was supposed to be up between 2,000-5,000 before they even considered taking them off--so why? How would they benefit if an unstable species is wiped off the face of the earth? I thought they got money if they kept an animal on the list.

I've come to the conclusion that most people live in a fairy tale. It must be true because how else could they come up with these extravagantly thoughtless ideas? They hate doctors because "they don't know what they're doing." I suppose years of schooling gets you nowehere around here. They brutally massacre wolves because they see them as a threat. Gee, I thought all our houses were made of bricks, but then again, you never know when they'll attack your poor dauther (her name is Little Red, by the way. Jesus, this must be a joke). They say journalists lie. Oh sure, we live in fantasyland right there with you, nowhere in our schooling are we ever taught the value of truth and libel is just a little prank we made up. Trust us, we don't care. They think immigrants are going to take "all the good jobs." What, with all those aspiring janitors in the world, they're bound to destroy someone's dream sooner or later! Not that they can't go for higher jobs, oh, no, no! We're not saying that. They could rightly get an education! And so could their children! Drat, we're finished! Not that we could get our own goddamn education.


Yeah, eat that one up, kiddies. Before you become a wasteful average Joe/Jane, consdier the fact that maybe if you'd know any better, things would seem a little better for you. I have a strong belief that people with assinine beliefs did something to screw themselves over, therefore they feel the need to screw others over. Not that they necessarily know what screwed them over, but notice what kind of people usually believe these fairy-tale-gone-wrong ideals. So to wrap it up...Anthony is a fuck, put the wolves back on the endangered list, come out of fantasy land, blame yourself if you're a fuck up and for fuck's sake use a napkin....





















Please forgive me;
I was raised by wolves.

Sit with the guru

High, high where eagles fly.

Things have changed. Things have changed in ways that are beyond me, ways I can't even see and wouldn't want to see. Not that I've become a waste, but I do feel a waste in the sense that my condition has only brought on an onslaught of extra feelings, guilts, secrets and stories. Then there are other ways in which I have changed for the best. For one, I've chosen to hate Anthony with all my heart and soul. I've chosen to move on to someone else, someone I didn't even know could exist. Now it's only a ridiculous mess in my path when I think of how I could've praised, defended and loved Anthony. After all..."The more I think of you, the more and more I realized I never loved you." You would never even begin to know how much that hurt...and how much I don't even care anymore. What a jump that was. But at least it's for the better. If only I knew what I was saying.

It's not in the figurative. I know what I mean, what I want, WHO I want, what I dream and how I feel. Sitting with the guru always takes me off into some sort of paradise where the clouds may or may not be and where the air is only as fulfilling as the last. I have a feelings I'm writing the most beautiful poetic words I've ever interwoven. If only I could be so sure.

Last night I took a trip up to El Segundo to marvel at the Old Town Music Hall. Never before have I been trapped in a dream, then lo and behold it's almost as if I don't exist. How bizarre would it be if I didn't? Would I, in fact, "feed my head" if I went into some alternative space in which no creation besides my own existed. By doing something bizarre, would I open new doors? And how many would I have to open for myself before I began opening them for others?

Casablanca never felt better on my soil. The tragedy was never something I really considered when I was caught up in the romance of it. True, it breaks my heart every time she leaves him. Maybe it's that she's too much like me. Everything for me ends with a good-bye. Everyone lets go in the end. But is it not a good thing that I still have the will to grab on? It spins me around wondering how I have no fear of splitting my hand on these rocks. I worked up the word "hate," I took off into my fantasy in some spectacular otherwordly theater I'll never be able to explain to future generations.

How free my thoughts are. I have a twitch in one hand, a few in my knees, "White Rabbit" playing in the background and a few nauseating memories to fuel this attempt at a retelling and sinking hole of my imagination. I dare say, I hate this. I hate the whole freedom concept when it comes down to this. I'm trapped in my own head. So the basics are, I've learned how to turn love into hate, how to turn depression into skill and how to tread water as lightly as I possibly can. The only waste of time is myself and the things I've let myself do. Consider it done. There's only this...how can I learn from myself?

Feed your head.