Awkward and embittered, said: "Shut the door when you go."

I never imagined anything like today to happen. For a while, I have been quite immersed in the concept of a new semester, which to me would also signify an end to what I had. With all the new starts I intended to make, I would inevitably shut it all down and carry on in ways I fancifully imagined.

Upon learning the ways of life throughout my first two years of college, I met him, a bit thrown by him. I was curious, bewildered, pushy, and above all, I was softened. I am aware of my faults and that I am perpetually meant to have an eyebrow raised, just as I am perpetually meant to provoke it by my everyday speak. It was in the instance I realized what I saw him that I knew that all rules had exceptions. Being a journalist, I always knew that, but sometimes it was unclear unless it was physical. I will admit to my flooding heart, my half-open eyes, my graceful and longing sighing, my undying need to draw ever closer--and I will admit that perplexities that make this different than anything I have felt or wanted.

Today was never meant to be, just as Friday, Saturday and Sunday showed me they weren't either. Today was one of those days that wasn't supposed to exist, but because time and it's abounding steamroller nature, it had to, no matter how misfortunate it was going to turn out. My first morning hour on these days consists of what seems to be the strong foundation of my day--without it, things seem to veer off in the wrong direction, as my footing will be missed. Instead, in my disheartened state, I was a bit of a wretch and perhaps should have been more direct in my speech, as opposed to trying to play with the trickery of language. My day was a monotone gray until my third hour. In all the majesty I perceive these moments to be, I was at ease. That's the trouble with perception. It is mostly imagined and is never an indicator of what really is, what has been or what's to be.

"Shut up."

That's all the was said, for the first time ever such a strange atrocity filled the mouth of someone I worried was not like the rest of us. Yes, I worried. When I imagined to myself and when I derived from action, no matter how I wanted to pull out an opposing emotion, there seemed to be a blank. I know about these things. I know not to trust what seldom appears and what seems as though it cannot be. Because usually, it doesn't appear and never is. Either that or perhaps these things are too elite for human grasp. Still, I was intoxicated by this curious predicament and sat myself to its side for as many days as this new semester allowed. It happened perfectly every time until today. When I cowered over this concept, I cowered in joy and in worry. When I cowered today, I cowered in fear, something I vowed to never do for the likes of a seemingly godly principle ever again. I assumed all too quickly that there was one way, one soul that could not cast me into the darkness. Perhaps I am wrong.

I used to care so much about others, that despite the situation, I would love them so much that I would care more about them than the situation. Now I care too much about them, but I see the situation in a much, much larger scale than it deserves. This is what humans do to other humans.

As I left and saw him drive away in a last act of random fate, I thought I could catch him. But I was far beyond catching anyone today. As all the worst possible drivers in the world got in my way and increased the distance between us, I remembered what he said he was doing. I figured I would see him trekking north as I went south down the freeway. I wish I realized sooner that I would not be catching anything today.

Here comes the sun. It feels like years since it's been here.

I knew my time perception was way off sync! Last I posted, I was under the impression that the ed board dinner and staff luncheon were a long way away. The day after was the dinner and the day after that was the luncheon! At that point, I still could not comprehend how free I was. Even with all the chaos with the newspaper, I feel terrible that it is gone. A part of my is running off to bigger and better things just waiting for me next fall, but a part of me wonders where time went. Time moves so quickly, and when it doesn't, everyone breaks their backs trying to get it to move faster and right out of their lives. Maybe this is why I sometimes miss the guru. The guru slows and even dulls time, so that moments last forever. Too bad the guru compromises a lot of things in order to allow for that to happen. No matter; now the semester is finally, truly, coming to a close and it is too late for any of us to do anything about it. It looks like the new semester will be quite promising, with anxious journalists pounding on our newsroom door to get their word out there and spread their passion across the page just as we do. Now is the time where I may rest my wings and figure out in which way I wish to bend the world.

Today my heart is still fluttering with anticipation and unspoken words, but perhaps before Christmas, I will be so calm as to actually move forward with my persuits. After all, all the butteflies he has given me could most likely enable me to fly, even if my proverbial wings are bent back in a resting position. Oh, lovely Christmas...filled with the joy I seek throughout the year and gain only for but a month or so, with no recolection of how to get it back after the holidays are over. I enjoyed a brisk trip to the mall all by myself after ed board today. Me being an intense social butterfly when I can made lovely conversation with the mall employees and even seemed to form a connection with one. And speaking of connections, there is one still so intense like a fire that I cannot seem to pull together. My nervous demeanor mixed with the all-too-lovely ambience of the winter and holiday time somehow clashes each and every time I lay my eyes on him, speak to him and get closer to him. Maybe this winter, Christmas time will bless me with enough courage to at least get a few words in so my heart won't be so wild with curiosity and worry. I always seem to be longing for a winter romance now. Something seems to be telling me that before the Christmas bells toll and before the winter air rolls away, I will have the chance to have what I want. On a silent evening in the chill in the midst of all the festive colors and songs, maybe there will be hope for me under the lights and stars of a long winter's day.

I keep waiting, anticipating you.

And so it ended. Just like that on windy and cold Wednesday night, although I didn't realize it much. I knew of it; I was plenty aware, but all I wanted was nothing more than to come home and wash it all off. Then the next day, a lovely Thursday morning, after pleseantly being able to leave class early and sit in a lonely newsroom, save for Filip and Tony to eventually follow, I knew it was really over. The last issue of the semester was officially behind us. The usual "The End is Near" notice with the remaining days all planned out as if we were going to be shipped off was taped on to every available wall in the newsroom. The hell and stress that was the smallest staff we ever weathered was done. Completely done.

The days coming were a bit of a load of stress, dampering my good mood, but suddenly, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving break came. I masterfully defeated my tests--of which I had three of (yes, one for each of the classes I take on Tuesdays and Thursdays) and I was home. I barely remember the week at all after the paper was done. It appears I have centered and kept track of my whole life based solely on the paper. Somehow, like a sundial, despite confusion that may come of it, I knew exactly how to read it the entire time and therefore was able to take hold of it as well as the rest of my life. And yet, sometimes it feels empty, as if the paper was the only clock I had to remind me of my week, what day it was, what time it was and the future to come. Still, I do have a sense of direction that has its focus on the final events this particular Union staff will face: the ed board dinner and the staff luncheon. This is the official good-bye of the semester. Strange how it always comes about a week before the true end of the semester, but nonetheless, once it's over, we will all begin shutting down until the dawn of a new staff and a new semester.

As for everything else, it feels like it hurts even though I know it doesn't. My heart cries, the stress burns and sometimes I long for a little comfort, preferably the human-type who can relieve my loneliness. Perhaps sometime before the semester ends I will feel this sort of fulfillment--in fact, I know I will. With every milestone this newspaper goes through, the feeling always resurges. Forever will I know why journalism is worth it to me. I understand that my time perception is terribly off because of the lack any more upcomming issues and nothing but finals to dull and desensitize me, but I do hope that I will still be able to skillfully play my hand and lay my cards down so carefully that I may be indulged at my whim. Perhaps I will gain more confidence in one adrenaline-induced moment. Alas, more confidence--how strange for a journalist to say! But honestly, it seems along the lines of the norm for the end of the semester to feel that sort of energy rushing at you as if you never had it before. After all, the anxiousness of it all is ensuring I will not be able to hold myself down much longer. It's time to jump.

And I'm hungry like the wolf (pt. 2)

The alarm buzzed at 6 a.m. and I was definitely not ready for breakfast. It took another hour, right when breakfast was being served across the street at the Titan Student Union way out in the middle of Cal State Fullerton. I slowly lifted out of my bed at the Marriott, with Suzy still lying on hers. I began to consider bypassing breaksfast entirely and just showing up for the presentation of which I had to attend to participate in my first competition of the day: news writing at 8:45 a.m.

I sat in some nervous stupor as we entered the Pavillion at about 8:30 a.m. I sipped my on my coffee and shifted around, searching for some fellow Union staff. I refused some sustinance and took part in some light-hearted pre-competition humor until the Pavillion doors opened and the Union made its way to the front. Throghout the speeches and the like, my fellow competitiors and I eagerly scribbled down every last word that was said in order to take it back to the competition rooms in the hopes to slay the competition. Journalism is a lot like that, you know. Once again I found myself in a chilly competition room and the countdown began. My story ended with three pages. My next competition was immediatly after: news judgment/page layout. I was certain this would not turn out well. After all, the only reason I was entering it was because my adviser wanted me to--right? Despite the fact that I had been reassured since the morning before that I would do well in this particular competition, there was not a bone in me ready to believe it just yet.

My EIC brought me a broadsheet layout dummy page. I began sketching and selecting stories in the hopes that my schooling was serving me well. My EIC finished first with only 10 minutes to go. When I was done, I had no idea what I was stepping into. Suzy had left somewhere on foot, leaving me waiting in anticipation over if we were going to make it back to the hotel in time to check out without them charging us for another night. It smelled oddly like some, as if all the stress-filled college students charged out the Titan Student Union doors to have a cigarette. I paced. Apparently, everyone could see me through the clear glass doors of the Pavillion area of the Titan Student Union. I got a text: "Stop pacing," it said. I stifled my laughter and continued to wonder where the smell was coming from.

"Are you lost, little girl?"
Shit! Now I was in for it!

Nevermind, it was only Ivan. But what we he doing there? A fire broke out on the hillside--two of them, as a matter of fact. He was up there taking pictures. It was still not visible from behind the larger building of Cal State Fullerton by the time Suzy called and told me to start heading back over to the hotel. Our room was on the fifth floor. We pulled aside the curtain to see what was out there as if we expected to see War of the World come to life before our eyes, right outside our window. What we did see was a wave of smoke created by two separate fires intercepting each other. One could barely see the flicker of yellow and orange in the midst of the terrible black abyss that was the smoke and ash rising from the hills. In little time, the rain of ash and smoke billowed over Cal State Fullerton and the Marriott. As soon as we stepped out to prepare to go back to the TSU, we felt a burn in our faces. It had only been a half hour since we had last been outside. This was a JACC we would not soon forget! When we arrived at the TSU, it did not appear strange, even as we made it into the Pavillion. After a bit, however, we noticed the atmosphere had a red glow about everything in its wake. We made it to one last lecture before it was time to getting ready with the smell of the fire creeping in from every crack and crevice despite all efforts to calm its effects. We didn't know it yet, but the sky was turning a fiery color and altered the state of the daytime light.

We walked back in the derious sunlight and began to prepare for the awards, determined to be the fanciest school there. We admired our awkward sun and burning red sky just a bit before entering the hotel again, with the daunting scratch and burn of the smoke wrapping around us. The sun sat high like a mighty, angered God ready to commense deforesation by means of incessent fire in order to rock us out of our competitive demeanor. We monopolized the bathrooms near the pool for our vanity until Suzy and I were ready to load everything back into Filip's car. We stopped by Starbucks, myself looking like an absolute loon to most considering the elegance of my dress. It was cool in there, but it did the trick at keeping the smell of smoke out. I did my part in America's unviersal jumping on the gun and got myself a Christmas drink, a venti at that, of which I took my sweet time consuming. There was a slideshow full of images crazy students took of the fire. Then the moment of truth. The Union came away with 20 awards by the end of the night. As for me--I took third place in broadsheet layout. Imagine that!

For the most part, there was a calm air about everyone. It was incredible that such a small staff prevailed so greatly. A staff of only five writers and only eight of the nine editorial board spots filled took on the competition and came away with an award in almost every catagory. We hopped on the 91, me encouraging Filip to race Miyu down the freeway. And there, long conversation ensued about practically everything. It was calming to sit back and watch the road go by, leaving the fires behind us, and calmly expressing what seemed like everything I could ever say. Finally, in what seemed like one heartbreaking moment, Filip and I arrived at my house. It was a moment in which I wished time could go backward and I could relive the entire weekend. Jouralism opened new doors to me that weekend and showed me how much higher than the clouds it was. It was meant to be--the people there were all my exact clones when it comes to personality. The ideas, the innovations, the conceptual prowess was all meant for me. Journalism was all mine that weekend. And with its comforts, as well as the comforts of my staff, I knew I was meant for it all. For the love of journalism.

And I'm hungry like the wolf (pt. 1)

Friday morning I was all ready for JACC with enough time to spare. With too much clothes in my suitcase and not enough money for the hotel in my wallet, I was off with a couple of friends. Soon enough, the payment for the hotel was done and over with and we were soon on the third floor of University Hall at Cal State Fullerton, looking over the buildings that even towered it. It was nice to see everyone together. Not to mention, that by lunch, we had already been such networking freaks that the student-worker at the Roundtable Pizza they have on campus gave us a free personal pizza. Not to mention, the girls who were there looked awesome.

It seems my whole day of workshops and walking back and forth from CSU Fullerton to the Marriott across the street lead up to my copy editing competition at 9 p.m. That is, after the welcome reception, in which we all met as a complete group for the last time away from the (sometimes) prison that is the newsroom. After the sports boys left for their competition--sports writers wrote about the Fullerton women's basketball game and the sports photographers took pictures--it was only two long hours to go until my competition. The room was cold and quiet, with nothing but the frantic rustling of people turning pages in their Stylebook. It was done. I was pretty confident, so after a satisfying dinner, I waited until midnight when my roommate came in from her critical review competition. There was still much stress in the air for the day to come, but now that I had been in competition mode, exposed to what the surroundings would be like--there was nothing to do but wake up ready to fight. For the love of journalism.

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say

Everything went sour last night, or so it seems. I was on edge because of all the holes left on my page and 9 p.m. inevitably coming. I hissed once at the agitating business of what seemed like looking over my shoulder began. I would sooner have expected to be spanked or put in a time out before the night was done than to have any compliance with all of it--but I did. Because I care about the feelings of others far too much. I cannot help but see everyone as a distorted reflection of me. We may all be off in a myriad of ways, but everyone still feels and thinks, as do I. So I said nothing despite the eminent headache, which did pounce on me that night, although I did not act on it. Early on, I had massive amounts of coffee and everyone had the usual laugh--and yes, I am telling this story backward, I will flash forward soon. So there was that and a shakey jolt in my hands in an attempt to dull the onslaught I knew we were all in for. I took precautions for that, simple ones that I won't bother to mention. And maybe I shouldn't have smoked that cigarette earlier that day. At least someone cared to notice.

In any case, production night finally ended with a disgusting feeling of failure in my stomach. It was then in my humbling state that I took a moment to remember the morning. I have a good bunch of people on my side, even in the middle of my pained thoughts in which I seriously considered leaving next semester: A thought that continued well into this morning. There may not have been any phyiscal contact as I have been wishing from anyone since years ago, but that morning was quite calm, even in my frenzy to locate my writers and the articles they were writing. In my advanced pace and racing mind, I was hushed. I know it, because as I think about it, I could have very well destroyed anything that could be clenched in my hands, but I didn't. The morning was actually one of the last times I smiled the whole day. I understand that in my moments where I am completely uncollected, no female on this planet likes me, but I did not need approval from one group of people. I had my own, in a strange non-destructive way. I believe it's called self-esteem. I think butterflies have it. That is why they fly so freely and elegantly.

The night, that is, the one after the newspaper production, was one the likes of which I have not seen in a while. I believe it was freezing cold, but I did not notice. I was too content in my own endeavors and so immaculately impressed by other things that not even Mother Nature could speak to me. I just yammered on and on, most likely incoherently, much like I do in the confines of the newsroom, but this was different. I suppose every night is different for me, but I'm talking about a different kind of--well, different. This kind of different was the things I thought I understood years ago. It is the kind that made me realize the things I thought I wanted were only pieces of the puzzle and that I really wanted something entirely different, and that something had a good way of disguising itself as other things. This is the kind of different in which I noticed the stars and every little twinkle and glow, instead of just the sky. After the paper was out last night, I felt more like a human and less like a creature. It was one of those colder nights that still feel warm regardless. I think I finally know what I am doing.

Tomorrow is JACC. I will be writing, as I assume I will be feeling, seeing and thinking more than usual. Last night and yesterday morning are things that come by so quickly, but will transcend the days to come. I owe a lot of it to particular people. They will recieve much from me in all forms henceforth. I am following the course.

Go ask Alice when she's 10 feet tall

Yesterday, as Pearl and I called it, was a useless Monday. Went in to the newsroom on our day off to work on the paper and only about three other people did so in return. A writer walked out on my story and all I had was a blank page. Our adviser was right--we are burnt out. Later I sat with the guru for the first time in ages. I think I may have thrown off a few people by it, but I was too immersed in everything. Pearl and I shared a meal, too, and talked about things we never get the chance to in the company of others. I went home and pulled out my Twilight Zone box set and sat in its strange wonders and almost intergalactic theme song. I heard Rod Serling, clear and close in my ear. I lied back afterward, after noticing how long everything took and sank into some Pink Floyd while I still had the chance. After my moment, my very long moment, I was no longer watching all the world with silence and patience. Not that I burst into speech. Actually, I was quite numb in the tongue, with this feeling of film all over and heavy grip on my jaw. My tongue seemed dead as it tickled tiny feelings of numbness throughout. My own silence does everyone some good.

Today was one pain after another. No one is anything at all like the guru. I felt like I belonged too much perhaps as everyone seemed to slowly be throwing in the towel on this evening. I wish I could have driven in the peace just like yesterday, where I was not concerned about the slowing traffic or how long everything was taking. And even though I noticed everything takes such a long time, I long for the times where I don't even notice it. Perhaps this weekend, in the midst of competition and the like, time will pass slowly by itself, but gracefully over me. If only tonight could be a bit number, a bit quieter, without the thought of who is doing what and how I'm ever going to finish and what I plan on doing about anything. Time is always too fast when you don't want it to be, even when the hours drag the way they do. Until tomorrow, I suppose. Until the next time I can relinquish the time I have for something more soothing will I remember what I have said here.

Tellin' mother nature about you and me

Sometimes there are things only certain people know how to do and they do it at exactly the right time. But really, it's extremely rare. In fact, I care to say animals know how to do things like that better than us humans do. On some days when I'm especially worn, tired or dreamy-eyed, my dearest Ginger will look up at me as I am bent over saying hello to her, and touch her nose to mine and give me a single dog kiss wherever she sees fit. And some days when I come to the backyard to cry or mope around in the outside air, I will get a nibble at my fingertips. And some days where I am lazy or lonely, she will share her toys with me and raise a paw to me. Somehow, all of this means more to me than anything any human could ever do.

She is my little genius, who knows how to pick apples from high up by pushing off on a wall and sees no challenge in any "mentally stimulating" doggy toy. She's my little sweetheart who loves me and misses me every day of her life. She's my little blanket and shoulder to cry on who sits patiently as I wrap my arms around her and let a few hot tears touch her fur. She's my inspiration who gets me writing my greatest work. My love for her got me to write the piece that allowed me to be the columnist for my college's newspaper. She's my little darling who still gives me puppy eyes even when she is a 7-year-old German Shepherd. She's my sleepyhead who sleeps curled in strange positions, but still manages to get up and greet me with her half-open eyes when I go outside after a long day. She's my noble protector who still bellows her deep and commanding bark, strong and proud, and who will still protect the house with all her power because of her human-like sense of family and pride. She's my gorgeous little thing, still elegant, poised and stunningly beautiful despite her years. She is my life and love for everything she could give me and more. She is worth more than most humans could ever hope to be their entire lives.

And I will stand in the rain on the corner

I think finally realized how light I am when it comes to these things. This whole world could be flooding and I would be above the water. I love the rain, but even as it poured on Saturday, I thought only of him and each little patter and pound was another thought of him or a bit of my imagination running wild all over the whole thing.I was happy to not be driving; it gave me time to think because for some reason, my head is clearer when cloudy, gray skies are present. It felt like my heart was sending my blood in a loop, in and out of my heart like it was fluttering in the breeze along with the scarce leaf which tumbled down from the sky or sloshed in a puddle, damp and slightly a mess.

I had money in my pocket and a warm hand to my lips, musing. What was better, however, was the knowing. I may have normally been happy knowing I had money, knowing it was the weekend or knowing the weather was a change of pace, but that wasn't it at all. All my excitement coursed inside of me because I knew he would be near there. I have driven by the place so many times my whole life, and yet it never even mattered until I knew he was there. Now any outing in the area will never be the same. Every time I drive by, my heart will settle, yet overflow. It has become just a little more special. Christmas time is coming, too, and I will probably be driving passed more often through the white and gray sky, with a chilly frost--as far as Southern California goes. Then with every rattle of the shivering palm trees and every sparkling red holiday decoration and every frigid and strong gust of wind, one of my thoughts will reach to the sky. And they will all be of him. Even in the pouring rain, it will never feel so right as to think of him.

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")