Stupid

What is it about retarded home videos that we always get the impulse to share them, knowing that nobody would find them funny or interesting except for the people in it? And simply acknowledging this stupidity doesn't make it less stupid if you still do it, you know? It might actually make you seem more stupid. I mean you really gotta be stupid to be unable to resist being stupid...

Scene: Two-Headed Boy

EXT. EMPTY CAFE - DAY

Jules (31) sits patiently at a table on the patio. He is reading a paper and drinking tea. Nico (24), his cousin, staggers in and sits at the table.

NICO

Sorry.

JULES

Don't worry about it.

NICO

I was just at the bookstore. It was so crowded, I couldn't take it.

JULES

(still looking at his paper)

What'd you get?

NICO

Nothing. You should have seen it--bookstores are like the new bars now. I can't stand the fake ass conversations people have in there, it's disgusting.

Jules closes his paper with a sigh.

NICO

(cont.)

People are so in love with what they know...

(beat)

What, am I boring you?

JULES

You're not boring me. You're just very negative sometimes, that's all.

NICO

I'm not being negative, I'm just telling you what I saw.

JULES

All right, go on.

NICO

No. Nevermind.

(beat)

How's Marcy?

Jules chuckles.

JULES

She's good. We're good. Her stomach's finally starting to show, everything's heatlhy--look, finish your story, I didn't mean to cut you off.

NICO

It's alright.

JULES

Listen--I'd rather you talk it out instead of keeping it in the way you do. You know, you repress everything, it's not good for you. I want this to be a nice meal.

Nico takes out a cigarette and lights it. Jules sits patiently as he watches this process. Nico takes a drag before he begins. Jules frowns.

NICO

I was just looking around you know? And I was going through the Hemingways when I saw a copy of Siddhartha out of place in the H-E-M's. So I took it out and kind of skimmed through it, reminiscing about the book when this girl--I don't know where the hell she came from--but this girl comes up right next to me with those stupid ass black plastic glasses that everyone's got, wearing her grandmother's clothes or some vintage stink, and says 'hey that's a great book'.

Nico takes a deep drag, anticipating a reaction from Jules. Jules does not say anything.

NICO

(cont.)

I just can't stand that kind of look, and that kind of talk. I can't stand any look. Why can't someone just look nice, and not have to look like something, you know?

Nico takes another deep drag. Deep drags are the only ones he takes. Jules' patient composure is slowly fading on his face.

JULES

So, what'd you say?

NICO

To her? Nothing. I kind of nodded and went back to skimming the book.

JULES

Jesus.

NICO

What?

Jules shakes his head.

NICO

(cont.)

Hey, what was I supposed to say? How am I supposed to respond to that? 'I like it too?' Who gives a shit.

JULES

Yes, that's exactly what you say! If no one gives a shit, why make a big deal about it?

NICO

It is a big deal. When I hear these people talk, I just don't believe them. I don't think they're lying to me exactly. I just think they're lying to themselves.

JULES

What? Who are 'these people'? How can you know that? How can you possibly know that? That's the most arrogant, childish thing I've ever heard.

Jules quickly regains his patient composure. Nico flicks his finished cigarette. Jules follows it with his eyes as it lands not in a trash can.

NICO

I don't know, I just know. It's how people are. They just want to say things that sound positive about themselves in front of other people. They'll take any opportunity they can get to do it too. I swear, somewhere along the road, somebody in everybody's lives came by and convinced them that they weren't good enough the way they were, or that they wouldn't be happy in their lives if they didn't become something else. Everybody's a runaway.

JULES

A runaway?

NICO

From themselves, and who they really are when they're alone at home or when they're with like...their cat or something. Everyone's always putting on some beauty pageant in public, I'm sick of it--and I'm not being negative. I honestly like most people when they're being themselves. It's just almost impossible to meet people who're like that. The worst part is, I think most people have like, rationalized their entire lives, you know? Everything they do or like, to fit some ideal that isn't them, but they genuinely believe they're being honest. They'll find any rationale to like anything, it's CRAZY.

Jules is attentive but his eyes move as if he is thinking of something to say.

NICO

(cont.)

All I'm saying is, I just didn't get the feeling this girl really likes books, or that she really is a nerd even though she dresses like one. I would love for her to be a real nerd--I love real nerds, but I fucking hate fake ones.

JULES

How do you know she wasn't a 'real nerd'?

NICO

Because real nerds are kind of embarrassed about that kind of stuff. Real nerds runaway from that kind of stuff. They'd rather wear nice clothes and get drunk and shit because most people think that's more attractive than reading a book. They're doing whatever they can to not seem like a nerd.

JULES

That doesn't make any sense. Then why would this girl that talked to you try and be a 'fake nerd' if real ones try and get away from it?

NICO

I don't know, probably because someone made her feel stupid or inferior at some point in her life, and she's runing away from herself by trying to read books like Siddhartha and feel smarter about herself. That's why she had to tell me it was a great book--she needed people to know she was smart or whatever the fuck kind of people read that book. It's all bullshit. I bet you there are real nerds at the bar getting fucked up every night, sleeping around, and then secretly reading Siddhartha at home with their cats or dogs and not saying anything about it to anyone.

JULES

And that's who you want to meet?

NICO

(frustrated)

NO, because they want to be something else too. Everyone wants to be something other than who they are.

JULES

Why can't a 'real nerd' genuinely want to go out and have a good time at a bar?

NICO

Whatever--that's fine. I just don't wanna be there for that. I just don't believe they really have a good time; I think they'd have a more comfortable, better time at home. It's so obvious, and that's fine. I just wish they knew that it was fine. Jules, this isn't even about nerds anyway--what the hell are we talking about? I'm just saying, I want to meet someone who isn't proud of who they are or who they aren't. Someone who just...is.

Jules chuckles a bit.

NICO

(cont.)

What--is that funny to you?

JULES

No no. It's just...do you hear yourself? You act like you just figured out some sort of hidden truth in life or something. What, you want to meet people who act like themselves? Who are honest? WHO DOESN'T? Everyone feels that way, get over it.

NICO

I'm not saying I'm the only one that feels this way. I'm just saying it's more important to me than it is for most people. I wanna meet someone who'd be kind of embarrassed to admit they like Siddhartha to a complete stranger, you know? I want to meet someone who isn't so proud of what they like, or act like they like, that they have to tell me that before they tell me their name.

JULES

What the hell do you care about some stranger's name? Look I really don't think that's what it is all. Not everyone thinks the way you do. Some people just want to have a simple conversation about something they're interested in.

Nico sighs and turns his head away. He reaches for his cigarettes.

JULES

(cont.)

You can't just expect everyone to be like you, kid. I know it's hard, but when you start to think everyone acts a certain way, you gotta start thinking that maybe it's not them--it's you.

Nico lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag.

NICO

Well, what does that prove? What're you telling me--that I should start running away too? That I need to become more like them because some girl at a bookstore made me realize I'm fucking CRAZY because I didn't want to hear about her thoughts on Siddhartha? You know what? FUCK SIDDHARTHA. I don't even like that book--does that make me crazy too?

JULES

You don't like Siddhartha?

Nico gets up.

JULES

Alright, sit down. Look, no one's calling you crazy.

NICO

No but that's how you're making me feel.

JULES

I'm not making you feel anything--don't put this on me. I'm just trying to be a good cousin, just trying to be honest. What would you rather me say? 'What a cunt. Who does she think she is, giving her opinions to strangers--especially in this country?'.

NICO

Fuck you Jules. Are you enjoying this?

JULES

(calmly)

Relax, relax. I'm just trying to get it through to you that these aren't original thoughts you're having, and it's dangerous to think so. A lot of people feel the way you do. You're not crazy, and you can't be so narcissistic as to think that you are crazy, as if you aren't just like everyone else. Get that out of your system, because the whole world is crazy. Every one is crazy--you just have to learn to accept it, because it's all you've got.

NICO

Gee, that's great advice. Boy, I've never thought of that.

JULES

(ignoring the last statement)

Look--do what you want. I'm just saying, you just can't take it so seriously Nico. Even if what you're saying is true--about the girl at the bookstore--how do you know that who ever you think she's running away from isn't somebody you'd really like? You can't just expect everyone to immediately be willing to show you who they are. You have to earn it. And come on, you're a bright kid, you seriously think all these people are tricking you? That they're that good at putting on a show? People are only conscious of certain things about themselves--not everything. So they are always acting like themselves to a certain extent. Forget the clothes and the image and all that. Those things have never been important to you anyway. People do what they can to feel okay about themselves, there's nothing wrong with that. It's not like that girl was insulting you or anything, right?

Nico agrees in silence.

JULES

(cont.)

You're just going to have to start taking some chances once in a while. With people. It doesn't mean you're running away from yourself or anything. It just means you're willing to accept certain things as they are. It's your only hope to find some happiness in life, kid. I'm sorry but that's the truth.

Nico stares out of the cafe, onto the street of people walking by.

NICO

Yeah...

JULES

(smiling)

What is it?

NICO

It's just hard. I get so discouraged with people so quickly.

JULES

Yeah...we all do. You just have to concentrate on the better things. I'm not sure the kind of person you think you're looking for even exists.

(beat)

And you have to be okay with that.

(beat)

I mean, you're not even that person.

Nico chuckles.

NICO

No?

Nico continues to watch the people passing by.

NICO

(cont.)

I don't know. I mean, I don't know if you're right...

(beat)

but I want you to be. And I want be able to believe what you're saying one day, the way you do.

Jules chuckles. Nico looks at Jules, and smiles for second.

JULES

All right, come on, let's do something more enjoyable with our mouths--let's eat. Where the hell's our waittress?

END.

Excerpt from SIDDHARTHA:

"I learned through my body and soul that it was necessary for me to sin, that I needed lust, that I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary world, some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it."

When I Finally Met Mr. Salinger With A Smile

I recently re-read CATCHER IN THE RYE, and was halfway through FRANNY AND ZOOEY when I closed the book and decided I couldn’t finish it. I was disappointed once and for all with J.D.S and went straight to expressing my frustrations:

“December 8, 2008--First and foremost, I want to state— specifically for this author— that I think the only healthy way to read most novels is to engage the text with expectations or, more assertively, intentions of having an internal conversation with the author about what’s being said. I think it’s dangerous to dive into the sink of an author’s mind, or soul, especially Salinger’s, as a dry sponge, seeking— and ultimately— sinking for guidance or identity. I’ve never believed you can learn anything of real value in life by having read it. I think we sometimes mistaken articulation for creation when it comes to literary revelations. I believe every person can find the same truths found in novels, films— or any art form— in their own lives and experiences, no matter how mundane or insignificant they seem. Bring your own story when you enter someone else’s, or else you might allow theirs to completely render your own, in which case, fairy-tale neuroticism or romantic nihilism becomes your reality. Just ask Mark David Chapman. Or try. (Twenty-eight years ago today, Marky sat on a sidewalk reading CATCHER IN THE RYE as Lennon bled to death at his feet.)

I believe Salinger, in the sense that I think the guy’s honest as hell. Not just as an author, but as a person. There is desperation in his writing that implies it isn’t a choice, but a necessity in his life to make something of what he sees, even if it’s verbatim to the thoughts in his head when he peers out of the window of his aching skull. I’m never convinced any of his characters— third or first person— are real, but rather hand puppets for his social and spiritual commentary. More so than any other fiction writer. Because of this, I trust that everything in his writing is there because he believes it, not because it’d make for a better story.

With that being said however, I must confess— I don’t believe IN Salinger. Witless as that statement might sound and I, insecurely hoping you are aware of the subjectivity of what I’m about to say, would like to try and expand— more so for myself— on why I generally feel inexplicably unsatisfied upon closing a Salinger book.
I think the problem lies in the unfortunate (yes, unfortunate) fact that I relate too much to Salinger, as a person. I relate to what he writes about, but not his actual writing. It feels too verbatim to himself as a person. Salinger, the recluse from New York City, writes about alienation in New York City, i.e. the world. There’s nothing wrong with writing about what you know, but as an author you have unlimited freedom to explore the different possibilities that might be illuminated from what you know, if that makes any sense. It seems like Salinger has nothing daring to say, other than how he feels. So, when you already feel just like him, his books say nothing— I’ve already said them to myself. As much as that sounds like an affectation, it’s how I feel.

The worst part for me is that he tells these stories through younger adults, where it’s justified to feel helplessly uncomfortable in life. It feels like a cop-out. Yes, it makes his books easily accessible, and relatable, which is why he has such a following. But what more can I say about Salinger other than “he gets how I feel”? Aren’t we looking for something more profound than just a confirmation of the lonely things that eat away at our minds?

Salinger was 32 when he wrote about 16 year old Holden Caulfield. He was 42 when he wrote about 20 year old Franny and 25 year old Zooey. Salinger was an adult, and still is. So what happens to all this angst and alienation when you grow older? Does it ever go away? And if it doesn’t, how does one continue to exist? I just wish he took on a full novel through older characters, and took on the responsibilities and challenges of a perspective that comes from age and experience. I mean, what happens to Holden ten years later? What happens to Franny and Zooey when they get to their thirties? How come no one ever finds any light in his dark and decaying worlds that supposedly represent this one? I think it’s easy, or easier, to illustrate internal and external conflicts. I think it’s brilliant to be able to suggest a solution. Unless, that is what he is suggesting— that there are none, in which case, I ask— what is there worth living for? Because that is what we’re all searching for in our lives. It’s a big reason why most of us read.

I understand not all books are meant to have a solution to anything. I believe if I asked Salinger today, he would tell me if it appears as though there is no clear optimism in his writing, it was a choice— not an inability. I would believe him whole heartedly. Please understand I am merely exploring my own preferences, and not conducting literary criticism. I definitely by no means would ever call Salinger a bad writer. The cautious reveal of Franny’s background relationship with Zooey and the rest of the Glass family, and their history in the “Zooey” part of the book was sensitive, justifiably creative, and most importantly, effective. I do not question his talent as a masterful story teller and would have loved to see him write more plays, which is what FRANNY AND ZOOEY is in my opinion.

Ultimately though, his characters and ideas exist in a vacuum and for me. They cease to exist when the pages are turned.

“If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything.” – Franny

Ironically, I believe that, even though I personally can’t see Salinger as a ‘poet’. But that means nothing, except for what it means to me.”

And then I decided to actually finish FRANNY AND ZOOEY after being urged to do so by a friend I trust.

And I read:

“But I’ll tell you a terrible secret— Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddamn cousins by the dozens. There isn’t anyone anywhere that isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know that goddamn secret yet? And don’t you know— listen to me, now— don’t you know what that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”

and went straight to my computer and had the impulse to delete everything I wrote the night before, because he did exactly what I wanted him to do: ‘leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything.’ He gave a daring glimpse of hope. I felt foolish for being so impatient, and realized how ridiculous it is to even try to articulate opinions on something as ineffably complex as a novel. But what’s the harm— it’s all innocently stimulating. I wanted to explore some ideas as to why most of the people I've spoken to that regard this book as one of their favorites are female, but realized it was something academic and uninteresting, and decided to let the book rest peacefully away in my mind, and felt very content. I wish I could find Salinger hiding in the woods today, and have a conversation with him before he dies. I’m sure that’s the last thing he would want.

Well . . . but oh well.

p.s.

I find it terribly ironic that any of his books are taught in any sort of academic institution. I’ve always had a suspicious idea that CATCHER IN THE RYE is being taught in high schools so kids can be forced-fed their views on the “dangerous” novel by— for the most part— idiotic teachers, knowing hell and well that most of us at that age aren’t developed enough to think for ourselves. How can we possibly learn about rebellion and alienation in a classroom . . . at SCHOOL? If you research the history of the censorship of that book, it makes no sense for it to be now taught in almost every public, government funded school in the country unless the motive behind it was to control the ‘meaning’ of that book. Ironic, also, is the fact that Salinger himself shouts urgently in his writing to stay as far away as possible from the academic institutions that exist in this country.

Walden In the City; Montreal

I sleep about nine hours a day now. Nothing keeps me awake, nothing wakes me up. I can’t remember my dreams in the morning. I do most of it awake. I haven’t spaced out this much since I was a little boy. It’s exactly what I was looking for, exactly what I expected. I’m sure when I told my friends and family that I was leaving my distracted life in quicksand LA to go relax and rehabilitate myself in New York City, most must have thought I was lying or being stupid. I’m not sure I even believed it at the time. Regardless, I am happy and healthy in solitude for now.

I'm excited to be taking a train to Montreal from the 17th - 21st, where my Mom’s friend’s family lives. Although, the trip has been tainted by my knowledge that a little lady I once knew will be there too. Tainted might sound bitter, but only because under different circumstances, it could have been something great. If only life could be filled with simple, sensical good times, without the baggage and social guidebook. Instead, it’ll be an awful joke on me. I must laugh along however, because what else is there to do? One must remember that life has a laugh track that plays out of sync with the intended jokes, and you have to find humor in that. Worst of all however, is the fact that I impulsively informed her of this joke upon my awareness of the situation. I'm sure she didn't find the humor in it either. I can't recall another person that has caused me to be this irrational and idiotic, but I can't help but still bask in awe of what has happened to me since our encounter. It's something out of a Tolstoy novel. We do not choose these things, and so therefore, I do not regret them. Things have a way of deciding themselves.

I hope it's colder than fuck.

Bear Meat

"I read somewhere...that the sea’s only gifts are harsh blows and, occasionally, the chance to feel strong. Now, I don’t know much about the sea, but I do know that that’s the way it is here. And I also know how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions, facing blind, deaf stone alone, with nothing to help you but your own hands and your own head"

- from "Bear Meat" by Primo Levi, 2007

It was read in the movie "Into The Wild", but the article was written fourteen years after Mccandless died, and has nothing to do with him.

"how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong, but to feel strong"

It's a beautiful statement.

Relationships Age 23

Nice faces framed in perfectly placed hair wrapped around shapely heads that rest on petite shoulders sway across sidewalks everywhere. I see them and can appreciate the aesthetics, like I would with a golden bed of leaves fallen around a winter tree. I wonder why my dick is now detached from my eyes; why pretty stops at pretty, as if there is nothing beneath the clothes, nothing to disguise. Interactive magazine ads. None of the these bars are making any sense anymore. I want to have fun when I'm in these dark caves, but from these conversations, I think we have a different idea of fun.

"Where are you originally from?"
"Where do you work?"

But I honestly don't care, really. Must we fish for common interests when they aren't apparent at the surface? I want our behavior to meet each other, not our words, and I want it to be an accident. I know enough to know I hardly ever, EVER, meet anyone interesting. Funny--yes. Entertaining--yes. Easy to get along with--yes. Interesting? Hardly. Respectable? Nope, and all I want is to be genuinely interested in people I can respect.

I exist with people that I love, and our conversations come from fostered and nourished love. Silly and sincere, inebriated with a familiar spinning loopiness that never gets old. Lust is a different wavelength. It bores me tired.

Listen, I understand my dick goes inside your vagina, it'd feel nice for us both, but what's my brain supposed to be doing in the meantime? I'm just as surprised as you are that I don't think it's worth it anymore--for my brain to endure the time before, during, and after my dick gets to feel good for a little bit. I know from past lives, in love is in the only thing stronger than my brain; the only thing that can silence it and let is rest. It's the only way for my dick to feel guiltless and free, and that's the only way I'll do it. I can't get drunk enough to believe anything else.

Another human being is not the only cure for loneliness. I think at this stage in our lives, or in mine, we should be building ourselves independently, through new, 'relationshipless' experiences before we try and make sense of one together. It is so hard to co-exist, mostly for practical reasons, even for soul mates. A good relationship can change your life, but they are a waste of my precious time if it isn't building towards a future. It's how I feel right now. I could be spending that time doing cartwheels in Alaskan summer hills. Human beings aren't the only things that can affect you deeply, I think we tend to forget that.

I'm just saying--I used to have to share my bed a lot. I wake up easier now, where ever it may be.

Things

1. Do not walk too close along the sides of buildings. Most air conditioners aren't installed properly, and fall from stories above to kill people without warning.

2. Brooklyn--"Yes, but I'm pretty on the inside."

3. Always carry a bag. You must be prepared because you have nothing but your legs in this city. You can only be part of it; you don't control anything.

4. Midtown/Theatre district pizza--$6.00 slice.

Anywhere else--$2.50 slice.

5. Public transportation = gift of time for reading. Anna Karenina, I'm fucking finishing you.

6. It's hard to explain how strong my Californian pride is, even though this has been always been my favorite city.

Flushing and Knickerbocker

Found place first day. Lucky. East Williamsburg. L-Train. The only duplex inside building. First floor and basement. Three bedrooms. Huge. Our own patio deck. Brand new everything. Rooftop view of Manhattan skyline. Ma, we got lucky. We'll be alright.

I moved to New York City.

Scenes From The Mist

Van Gogh

I went back to your house when you were away
I came with a flashlight and tools to fix your frame
I cleaned the glass from the window that I broke
I wiped the blood and left without a note

This will be the last time I will see your house

I walked alone down your street to my car
I closed my eyes and kept my balance in the dark
I used my arms and felt the gravitation of the moon
I used my arms because I no longer held onto you

This will be the last time I will walk down your street

I got in my car and turned the headlights on
I drove through the fog and played your favorite song
I erased myself from the starry night of your town
I said goodbye to the best thing I ever found

This is how I left your town



Scenic

The highway shines like a black ocean
I can see the distance we traveled
There was no movement, no emotion
Let's just remember to keep the windows clean
The moon blew a tunnel through the clouds
I saw the silver gleam on this machine
I figured it all out
When the air is cold, I'll turn it down
You mentioned something about the weather
I heard you wrong but still offered you my sweater
What a difference a week makes
The backseat rattle I never cared to fix
You said you couldn't hear it
The precious little things we were willing to risk
I still believe it's going to add up one day
You're all I want to remember

Then,
From the shadows of your eyes I saw
You're not depressed
You never hoped for the best
How dare you



Carrier

In California

I felt the fall
The flourescent sun, the scraping wind
The air getting thin
It makes it harder for me to run
Still I pack my bag, and when I think
I'm done
It's still an empty sack
I have nothing to take
Nothing to leave
Soon I'll join my letters
We'll be lifted in the air
I'll miss the world when it disappears
Eventually when I fall
I'll be looking east
On the shore of the Atlantic sea
I'll push my waves towards your beach
And our eyes will meet
Just look to the west
As your day begins to set

When it rose at my feet

I left a message in the sun

To be bloomed on your beach

And this is how we'll speak


Receipt

I come home and I can't move
Endless cushions and crumbs
Soft pillowy feathers and foam
Comforting for the skin
I can't move
I can still see you sitting slouched
Long and braiding your hair
I wonder if any strands fell from your fingers
I wonder if you left any of them there
Fuck you


Stones

The cold wind from the ocean
Came in one swift invisible motion
I felt it's earthquake boiling through my chest
The shivers blowing clouds from my breath
My teeth clapping and asking for more

We sat next to each other and formed a circle
Your hands wrapped around nylon strings
Your hair danced as you sang a song
I felt calm and the earth was gone
We floated in outer space
And everything went black
Except for the glow of your face
You were pale but I still felt your warmth

I remembered now, earlier
How you almost slipped and fell
But you stood up on that rock
You had so much grace
Balancing and waving your beautiful limbs
I hung on the side of that cliff
And forgot I could have died

and then I did

Enjoy

Our stay on Earth is not long enough to question the universe.

Nickel Nickel

That one night sophomore year of high school, when Max, Jacob, Alex, Jack and I spent the night at Nickel Nickel playing unlimited video games after it closed and I sucked so bad at Crazy Taxi but was good at that speed boat game...that was the shit. I remember thinking about how lucky I was to be able to play arcade games for free. A couple years before that, I used to take a bunch of quarters and go to the Yogi's Amusement by myself and play I don't even know what. When I lived in Huntington Beach, I went to one of those nickel arcades for the first time. I went with a couple friends, maybe Long Hong or something, and my Mom came, and even when everything was just a nickel, I still felt bad when I went to my Mom and said I used all my nickels. I felt guilty I didn't play longer.

90210

This sunny fall reminds me of the summer of my seventh grade when I stayed at home every day and did nothing but watch television and video tapes from sun up to sun down. I feel like the original 90210 is going to be on in a few hours. I remember now how silly and stupid I was. After the episode when one of those idiots on that show was strung out on coke, I went into the kitchen, lined up a line of SUGAR, and sucked it into my MOUTH and thought I was cool. This is what this fall is reminding me of.

Fires

The side of the bed he sleeps on is now wrinkled, faded and stained. The thread that was aligned, he separates them in his pain and he turns, and beyond the things he can't see in the dark, the glow of a mouthful ignites fires to his face and he sweats and he waits, but it stays and keeps his eyes open, even when he thinks he is asleep. He reaches for his phone but only to check the time. There is nothing he can say. Time passes and days pass and even in his dreams, he does not walk alone with you. He does not touch your lips or raise the small hairs on your wrist. Your eyes never soften and he never feels the warmness of your breath floating from your lungs as they take the air around you and turn it into something sweeter. His imagination is an old man, and he's already dead and he doesn't know it. All he sees is you sitting alone by a fire, and there is no ground to step on, no sky to climb towards. He only watches you and sometimes you see him too. You look just like him. Dawn comes and he gets out of bed and drips to the sink. The dirt on the floor crawls to his feet and nobody laughs. He takes a shower and it's no fun. He forgets to dry his arms and stares into a mirror. He can't even formulate opinions anymore. The days turn into nights but he walks around in it anyway. Synapsis fire and muscles pull stretched from tendons with ligaments woven in joints that burn body parts with no high or happiness, just painful existence as he puts on his silly clothes and opens all the closed doors to make room for his path. Yet he knows it makes no difference where he goes. On the street he sees bodies slouching around aimlessly, sweaty flesh sugary sacks that hold like unclaimed baggage forgotten by the elderly. In a moment your face replaces this unfortunate imagery. It feels like music whispered secretly in the ear of his stomach. It plants seeds in his chest that blossom into feathers and he feels like an eagle, flying, but with chicken wings. He soars high above frozen clouds and for a moment before he falls to his death, you mean everything in all of him. But then he leaves you alone because he remembers, he is alone. He can feel his face and wants a cigarette. The air is thin and now the grays are pulled from the sunshine to make ashy clouds that form for him the ashtray he thinks he needs. Here is your fire, here is his cigarette. He inhales what you burn of him and now he's dizzy, coughing nauseously. His teeth are rotting and his gums are diseased, yet it's the only way he wants to breathe. He feels like he's dying but he doesn't believe it's real. He has found something. He knows he will stay awake, he knows there is still the rest of the day. But more than anything, beneath the soil, the blackened coals and the dead autumn leaves, there is a happiness that hibernates inside his bones, simply knowing that you exist.

In that, he will be okay.

Said

me: i'd be the shit in high school right now.
james: ya. i'd be the shit in middle school right now too.
-
kavan: it's alright, the man is a genuis.
me: fool whatever, i'd bang on stephen hawkings if we played basketball.
-
me: damn mike, those ipod speakers are amazing, how much were they?
mike farhat: i don't know, they were handing them out at the grammys.
me: oh.
-
katie: you know mg, if we lived in baker, we'd be home by now.
(passing through baker)
katie: mg, if we lived in rancho cucamonga, we'd be home by now.
(passing through rancho cucamonga)
katie: if we lived at this stop light, we'd be home by now.
me: katie...
-
laura: i can't fit into my favorite dress anymore. i'm like swimming in it now, i'm gonna gain weight so i can wear it again.
-
james: it's time for us to get quiet and listen. and once we hear, we will speak to the world. hell yes. we will bring hay bails on stage to sit on and perform for hipsters. horses and pigs all over the stage, the pig is on a rotisserie. it's a live slaughterhouse folk concert. the order of the spinning pig. im signing out of gchat now, i need to read the bible.
-
the electric six: i've got something to put in you. yes, i've got something to put in you, at the gay bar, the gay bar. :o
-
tyler: i hate how they have that green line when they swim. it's so stupid, i don't get why it's there- it means nothing. (the world record pace line at the olympic swimming competitions)
-
james: hell yeah, so you played her a song?
me: no...i couldn't remember any.
james: damnit michael. your ass is impotent.
-
laura: i love you. i'm sorry i'm saying it while walking in front of you and facing the other way, but you know what i mean.

Count Up

Suicide can be a turtle in disguise.

Dance with strangers in the dark.
Drink something unusual at the bar.
Go home
,
Realize

Writing anything is retar-

forks

A)
get born.
get big.
get friends.
get fun.
get funny.
get educated.

get enlightened.
get real.
get a clue.
get mad.
get sad.
get empty.
get filled.
get drunk.
get high.
get sick.
get a note.
get gone.

B)
get born.
get big.
get friends.
get fun.
get funny.
get hurt.

get scared.
get distance.

get disguised.
get clothes.
get chicks.
get tits.
get married.
get divorced.
get married.
get divorced.
get numb.
get gone.

(C)
get born.
get big.
get friends.
get fun.
get funny.
get educated.
get discontent.
get out.

get focused.
get creative.
get to work.

get money.

get healthy.
get wise.
get married.
get children
get anniversaries.
get gone.

D)
get born.
get big.
get friends.
get fun.
get funny.
get enlightened.
get confused.
get scared.
get neurotic.

get desperate.
get god.
get reasons.
get explanations.
get married.
get children.
get community.
get peace.
get gone.

E)
get born.
get big.
get friends.
get fun.
get funny.
get a degree.

get distracted.
get tired.
get a job.
get a routine.
get married.
get neighbors.
get a van.
get vacations.
get health care.
get stable.
get content.
get gone.

F-Z next page

Bend, Oregon

December 29, 2007. Some time after 10 PM.

The snow on the ground quit and turned into ice and the town was quiet. But unlike the dreamy nights in the forest or the desert, people could still be heard in the distance, operating their machines and staying as far away from me as possible. Goddamnit, what a nightmare. I sat in my car and watched my breath disappear and reappear from the frost that formed like cancer on my windshield. The hotel parking lot was a graveyard and I felt like a ghost- the only ghost in this ghost town, haunting nobody but the reflection in the mirror. This can't be permanent, I reminded myself. It's too silly to be. I had driven to Bend to visit what turned out to be an imaginary lover who had been real everywhere except the actual town she lived in. Back in October, we had spent three nights together in California, happily sharing our daydreams and imaginary things until we were convinced it could become a reality. Now, my imagination was falling apart, and her broken pieces laid cautiously on the sheets of my empty hotel bed. When I finally met her again, she was a stranger, with a stranger voice than I had imagined, a stranger face than I had imagined, a stranger faith I hadn't imagined, a stranger without the love I had completely imagined. She found Jesus and I found...out. To hell with this place. I started my car- to hell with you- and with the clockwork of self-loathing and shame, the first few simple blues notes of Bright Eyes' "We Are Nowhere" moaned from the frozen speakers, and I let it play. You must choose wisely the songs that make these moments of your life last forever, because they will never sound any other way. I pulled out of the hotel and began my pathetic parade of hide-and-go-seek along the Christmas carcass streets of Nowhere. I was good at seeking, but she was even better at hiding.

Bend was much more livable than I had imagined. The main streets were as wide as any suburban town in California and familiar traces of consumer symbols lit the corners of parking lots and gas stations. In the daytime, the people were friendly and active, expecting to exchange nothing less than human warmth and sincerity in every cold winter encounter. The sun was a golden mother to her children in Bend, and you appreciated every touch of affection from her in the short hours she watched over you. In fact, I really liked the town as far as towns went. But now it was dark, and it was cold and I was alone. What does anything in the daytime matter when night is here?

The pavement was laminated with invisible ice. I drove cautiously and consciously, fearing an accident above anything else. I felt as though I had already betrayed my family and friends by being in Bend. I had driven through Mt. Shasta in a blizzard to get to her. To die or lie in a hospital bed on account of this trip would have be unforgivable.

From the Red Lion Hotel, I made a right onto 3rd Street, which was the main road in Bend that turned into a highway as soon as you left town. There were hardly any cars on the road. The few that passed by left me no consolation in my isolation. They appeared to be machines, not driven by human beings, but self-sustained lifeless pieces of metal, emotionless and invincible, patrolling the area for intruders and cry babies. I left the heater off. I preferred to shiver in my sleeves.

I had planned to finish this but it's been weeks and I realized, I have no real feelings towards this anymore. Anything beyond what has been written would be forced as a narrative, and there's much more interesting fiction to be written about than this. For better or for worse, this is as done as it can be.

last thoughts on bob dylan

it all finally figures itself out. there are those few weeks everyone talks about, when dylan first moves out to new york city, disappears and comes back with the talent of Bob Dylan. it makes no sense to the people closest to him, no one learns that fast. rumor is, he sold his soul to the devil for his talent and fame. the same has been said about robert johnson in the 20's, who also disappeared one night at a mississippi 'crossroads' to get his guitar tuned by 'the devil'. he would come back and become the grandfather of rock 'n roll and a blues legend, but would die at the age of 27, inexplicably, at a similar crossroads in mississippi. he followed through with his deal with the devil. dylan seemed possessed from 1961-1966. it's the only way to describe it. the shy jewish boy from a small catholic town in minnesota legally changes his name and out no where gets a massive addiction to attention, gains unhuman confidence and possesses infallible talent and musical instinct and becomes a legend, not only as a musician but as a symbol. he walked around with an invincible spirit as if he knew what the outcome of his music, his actions, his life would be. writing perfect poetry about the perfect struggles of the time, then getting stoned every minute and rewriting rock 'n roll, putting common ideas of human struggle through nonsensical stream of conscious lyrics that somehow walked the impossible thin line of being completely accessible to everyone. and then the motorcycle accident happened. and he was never the same. not only was he not the same, he became the complete opposite of everything he was during those years. but i get it now. he was supposed to die in that accident. that was the deal he made with the devil. but he backed down. and bob zimmerman would do something like back down at the last second. and that's why he lost all his talent after the accident. he crashed on july 29, 1966, exactly 5 years after he was first broadcasted covering folk songs on the "saturday of folk music" radio program in nyc on july 29, 1961. it also explains why he's had such a struggle with faith after the crash, becoming a born again on and off, on and off. he fears for his death, and what lies ahead for him. i've always said he should have died in that crash. surviving to become what he's become doesn't make any sense. but now i see. phony. devilish talent, hellbound coward.

pears

live and you learn about the tales of other women you chased after, all the ones that had careers and left you alone because you let yourself disappear. say you weren't ready for this modern age of mirrors, where everyone sees themselves for everything they fear. well let yourself find it out, and let yourself love and keep together everything and everybody that's near and dear, everyone and all your friends and family and the girl or guy you should be with but are too afraid to think it can be that clear and that logic can be that sincere. well what are you waiting for all these nights? you're worth every penny and tear.

return

i am the grand canyon of discontent. i don't know what to do mama, i just wanna enjoy things and be friends with friends. i value that more than any idea or ideal or perspective or project. some days are long and lonely, and we all can't be morrissey.

how i learned to treat you right

or let me tell you about myself by the way i tell you about my dad.

(do not read this at all unless you read the entire thing. i'm very serious.)

for the few of my friends that have been unfortunately blessed to meet my dad, they can all testify that at some point, gan sr. has made them feel so unbearably uncomfortable it's made them question their friendship with me. but at the same time there have been instances where my dad's made them laugh from pits of their sense of humor they didn't even know existed.

this is what i thought: 1989. when i was a baby boy around four years old, my mom temporarily left my dad and i in beijing to go to grad school at purdue university in west lafayette, indiana. during that time, i remember very few things, all of which are very near and dear to me but are irrelevant to what i'm communicating right now. i will say they were neutral and seemilngly insignificant. the only one i will mention is that i do remember sitting on the handle bars of my dad's bike, riding through tianamen square during the protests and riots and seeing the tanks and fire all along the streets. that's interesting enough i suppose. the serious point here is that i terribly missed my mom and couldn't understand where she was. it was on a basic level like what you see with animals on the discovery channel. i knew my dad was there but this awareness only magnified the fact that the other half was gone. this is all in retrospect of course, at the time i only felt but couldn't describe. well finally, when i was five and a half, my dad and i sat on a big plane and landed in a different place in a different time and i found mama again. i mean i really found her. out of a big crowd and all. i saw her before my dad saw her and before she saw me. i'll never forget seeing her and immediately running towards her, no conscious thought just pure animal instinct. i remember my mom having tears because i'm sure she was afraid i wouldn't recognize her or something crazy like that. and i didn't understand why i hadn't seen her for so long but when you're hugging your mom at an airport you don't have to ask questions.

as joyous of an occasion as our reunion was, it was the definitive moment everything changed between my father and i.

we lived in indiana from when i was 5 and a half until i was 7 and a half. we were more poor back then than anybody i've ever met since. and the older i became, the more my dad had to remind me. after a while, i realized we weren't going back to china and be with my huge family of cousins and relatives. it was indiana fields and white people and unexplainable isolation from now on. not only that, but my mom and dad were hardly around anymore. mom had to work on her masters and dad had to make money. i had to go to kindergarden and come home alone every day. our whole family lived in a single room in the basement of a big victorian house. we basically lived in a college dorm while my mom was going to purdue. we had a share a bathroom and a kitchen with the rest of the basement tenements. most of the time when i came home from school, i was too afraid to walk down the dark steps that led to the outside door of the basement. so i would wait outside until one of the neighbors came home. sometimes though, i'd wait for hours until my dad came home on his bike. he'd immediately yell at me and get mad at me for being such a coward. he yelled at me for many things. i cried a lot too. i always have. i still do. i appreciate it terribly though. i think there's something very wrong with people who don't cry. life is filled with nothing but crying and laughter, it's the only two things that are honest and matter. my dad laughs once in a while, but he doesn't cry. anyhow, so all of a sudden, at age 6, i felt extremely uncomfortable and had to grow up fast. children shouldn't be forced to adapt at such an early age. worst of all, i had to do it without my busy parents for the most part. being a neglected child is not an excuse. it's a reason, and it doens't always have to end up making a mess. it takes a while to get there though. when i started stealing toys from stores, my parents finally caught me and my dad beat me across the floor. i'll never forget me scrambling on all fours as he kicked me off of them. but this isn't about me though, this is about my dad.

he worked in restaurants in indiana, washing dishes and sometimes helping with the cooking. even when we moved to kentucky, my dad worked at the french quarter hotel until he cut almost his entire finger off and couldn't work anymore. he didn't have a car neither, always rode a bike. but when he'd come home from work, especially the time when he cut his finger, he seemed miserable. it didn't feel like a mood, but an actual trait. he always had this look of shame and regret on his face. it was something i'd never seen back when it was just me and him. we still spent time together, we had to with such a small family, but that constant unfamiliar look of shame and regret on his face disconnected us, especially because he'd never talk to me about it.

soon those looks on his face transfered over to my mom. the worse was when my parents fought, and naturally, i always thought it was my fault. i mean, who else could it be if i'm the only child? since as far back as i could remember, my dad would always get mad at me if i wasn't doing so well in school, and he'd always blame my mom. he'd always mention that we came to america for her and for me so i could have a better education. said she spoiled me. and maybe she did, to compensate for the guilt she might have felt for leaving us in china to pursue her career. but during all this though, my dad never once gave a reason for why he came to america.

life is long and a lot if you pay attention, and this general relationship i had with my dad stayed the same if not worse until i graduated high school. i was a terrible academic student in high school and my dad took it the hardest out of my parents when they realized i wasn't the type of student or person they thought i was going to be. i wasn't going to a good college, or any four year college for that matter, through the route our education system has us believe is ideal. you can imagine the balancing weight of guilt collapsing inside of me when you hear your whole life that your parents came to america so you'd get a better education. this guilt, whether self-induced or influenced or both, started to build to a monstrous and dangerous level. and i started to fight back.

one thing you must understand about my dad is that he's always underestimated me. i know that sounds like a common teenage statement of angst, but ever since i could remember, he'd always call me the worse names in chinese, almost always jokingly, thinking i didn't understand. but i did, and for the most part, i understood he was joking, but hearing it still makes you wonder. he also underestimated my awareness of him, as a father and as a person in this society. when i was about twelve years old, my dad decided to quit his job as a manager at an importer company to start his own business. for over a decade, he's been trying to buy things for wholesale from china, such as shoes furniture lamps folding chairs, and selling them here for a profit. he's always worked alone, and it hasn't been too successful. in fact, he hardly makes any money doing it. however, everytime he's talked to me about his "business", he's always put up this proud insecure front like he was doing something very important and was very successful too.

when i finally decided to fight back, his "business" is what i focused on. and before you formulate any judgements, i am man enough to admit it when i was being childish and wrong. but we all do the only things we can do at specific points in our lives, and it's reflecting and learning from them that makes us better, and that's what this is about. all this happened in the latter half of high school. i started patronizing my father, purposely asking him about his "business" and making him try and pretend like it was going well. i played dumb and acted like i believed him, hoping he'd feel guilty or foolish for lying to his son, and to himself. we hardly spoke at all anymore, it seemed like any communication we had was to either defend ourselves or attack the other person. i felt like my dad honestly did not love me, and genuinely believing that can lead to some bottomless pits. i felt like he was bitter for coming to america and he took it out on me. this naturally made me say things to him that, taken objectively and out of context, are horrific and unjustifiable. i became a fever to his attitude towards me and did whatever i could, said whatever i could to feel better about myself at his expense. the climax came when i started looking him in the eye and telling him that he was stupid. stupid. the 18 year old son of his, the one that he invested his one and only life in, was looking him in the eye and telling him he was stupid. the irony was even more heartbreaking, as i can only imagine now, that while my dad processed my hurtful words into something greater, he might have realized that maybe i was right. maybe he was stupid. stupid for having a son like me, stupid for giving up his life to wash dishes for me. stupid for thinking i'd be grateful. stupid for all the regret he's managed to feel.

there's tough, and then there's being tough.
my dad was being tough for as long as i knew him. i've never seen him come close to a tear. unknowingly, i might have wanted to break all the chronic callousness, even if it meant hurting him. i thought maybe if i saw my dad cry, even if i was the one that caused it, was better than never seeing him cry at all. or maybe i was just turning into an unstoppable asshole that let his defense mechanisms get out of control. whatever it was, i pushed my dad to the tipping point.

it was a saturday morning and we decided to all go out and have breakfast at a chinese place, and such an outing, or any outing for that matter, was a rarity i should have been grateful for. an argument arose in the car between my mom and dad, and as we pulled up to the place, i couldn't stand the fighting and took my mother's side. i told my dad to shut his mouth, because he was 'stupid and didn't know what he was talking about' (it's hard for me to even type that). he looked at me and asked me what i said, knowing exactly what i said. it might have been him giving me a chance to take it back. instead, i repeated it with even more bravado. my dad gave me a look that i now refuse to turn the lights on to in my head because i could die in my chair right now seeing it again. he said not a word and walked out of the car. and he walked, away from the car, away from the restaurant, and away from me. we were about four miles from my house so i assumed he'd just leave for a while and come back. my mom didn't scold me or say much, we just went inside and ate our sad bowls of rice and fried appetizers. when we came out, my father was nowhere. my mom told me he probably walked home. i was in denial and disbelief. we drove home and my father wasn't there. i ignored the situation thinking it was nothing, until my mom came into my room and said my dad was home. and that he had cried. i couldn't believe it.

when things reach a certain point of negativity so low, it either dies altogether or gets better. i never really believed my father was stupid and never meant any of the insults i said. things don't die when you don't mean for it to.

it took us to that point, to those extremes, for us to finally be honest with each other, because there was nothing left. after a few days of silence, i asked my dad to sit down and talk with me. i don't even remember if he agreed to do it, but i knew it had to be done and i didn't care whether he wanted to or not. you have to have these talks during the times they need to happen, or you else you'll look past the core issues and settle for creating a different relationship that person. you'll end up learning to adapt in a realm of politeness and pacificity, denial and neuroticsm, and that kind of relationship isn't honest to me, even if it's comfortable and easy. we must communicate. we must, communicate. when your mom and dad are all you have, it doesn't matter how scared you are to talk to them during dying times. i remember sitting in silence for minutes, trying to muster up the courage to say things that should be easy to say because they were honest right? hah. being honest, i learned, was harder to do than anything else when it comes to communicating with someone you care about. because you have to be vulnerable, and you actually have something to lose. and you admit that to the other person. but my god, guarding that honesty prevents you from gaining anything worth anything, i promise you that. it took me 18 years to realize that with my dad. after minutes of echoing silence, i finally started. i began with an apology, and it was odd. it was like we were meeting for the first time, and in a way, it was true.

i told him that i didn't mean what i said, but i also told him that i couldn't handle the way he treated me. i said it in the most non-threatening way. you have to put away all your pride and that competitive ego to "win" during talks like that, you can't be threatening if you want to meet somebody in the middle, which is the only way to win an argument. eventually, he spoke, and he spoke to me for what seemed like the first time. my dad was calm but forward with me. he was ten times more uncomfortable with it all than i was. it wasn't something he was brought up to do. we didn't have anything really specific to say. i apologized for calling him stupid, but i told him i didn't care what culture he was brought up in, i don't think a father should be able to call his son stupid if his son couldn't say it back. more than anything, i wanted neither of us to call the other one stupid. i wanted mutual respect, which was something he was unfamaliar with. sitting there with my dad and watching him listening and considering my words was something so surreal to me. right then i knew we had been doing it all wrong for the past eighteen years. there's always that segment of getting things off your chest, and when you realize the other person is actually embracing your words with their guard down, you start to feel comfortable and begin trusting them. and that's when the best communication comes. those glowing moments afterwards when you're past the problems and are talking without motives or secrets. just, talking. it felt like it was the first time my dad and i just, talked.

and it led to me learning what i now know: my father is the greatest husband my mom could have asked for, and accidentally became a great father to me. let me tell you about my father the way i see him now.
he's is one of the most sensitive people i know. because of it, he's spent a lifetime building up ways to protect himself. i'm proud that i'm probably just as sensitive as him, but i don't hide it. it's helped me to ironically become stronger i think. people are afraid of their sensitivity and hide it away instead of embracing it and understanding how it flows within themselves and other people. we're all as sensitive as the next person. my dad's had a hard childhood. he's the youngest of his brother and sister, and the son of a very cold mother and tough father. he has serious affection issues.
and there are a million reasons and connections as to why he is who he is, but the simple core of it all is that he loves my mom in ways you only hear about in movies and books. whatever reasons made him feel so insecure about himself to overcompensate with that ridiculous exterior means nothing when you see the sacrificies he's made for my mom and i. and THAT IS WHAT MAKES A MAN. not money not a job. i could care less that he is unemployed. he's earned it, and is more of a man than any business man who's better at making money than making his wife happy. and you can argue that giving up everything he had (he already had his master's in china and had a great job. he was involved in international politics and teaching) and coming to america to support my mom in her career wasn't a good sacrifice or compromise since i've spent the first half of this explaining how miserable he's been. but you have to understand what people need, and as much as my dad thinks he's miserable and wants to believe a job and money makes him a man and would make him happy, what he needs is to make sure my mom is happy and do whatever he can for her. he needs to feel loved and wanted, respected and dependent on. it's what happens when you grow up with such little self-esteem- you decide that helping others is more satisfying than helping yourself. it's not a bad thing. you have to balance it, and this was the best balance his emotions could afford. being with my mom, he's the luckiest man on the planet as far as i'm concerned, and i'm pretty sure he knows that.

one of the valuable things i learned from my father is to not define people by their exteriors. not in a physical sense, but in the conscious way people express and defend themselves through their words and behavior. this is not something he knew he was teaching me, i learned it by observing him. i know now that my dad loves me just as much as he loves my mom even though he's never told me or talked about it. even through his actions, he never used to show me when i was younger. that or i wasn't aware of the ways he'd show me love. there's a good balance now that isn't corny or presumptious. most of the time, i hear it from my mom. when i was a junior in high school, i played lenny, one of the leads in 'of mice of men'. to my face my dad told me acting was dumb and a waste of time, and that he wasn't going to come see it. my mom went however. during the play, she said she went to the bathroom and saw my dad standing in the back watching the play. my mom never asked him about it, but told me later. when i screened 'the electric city' at usc and aftewards received the loudest ovation of the night from the fully occupied theater of 400 people, my mom said my dad almost cried and had the goofiest smile on his face. he never once told me he thought it was good. but he doesn't need to. those are just words.

i hope i'm not making my dad out to be some robot or something. my dad also has an amazing sense of humor. it's retarded and childish, a certain level of sophisticated absurdity not many people have. it takes intelligence and sensitivity you can't find or look for. you either have it or you don't. he only shows it when he's comfortable, and ever since we sat down and talked when i was 18, my dad's become one of the funniest people i know. we're starting to have a relationship he and my mom had when they were younger. i can really see now what my mom sees in him. he makes my mom laugh in ways no one else can, and my mom's just as funny, so it's saying quite a lot. the best part is, he knows he's funny. it adds to the absurdity of his tough, arrogant persona.

he also has an amazing will. anything he chooses to do, he will do it. his 'business' speaks volumes about him. my dad's not a successful business man because he's too honest. it's the truth. he never cheats anyone and will meet people 90% to their 10%. these are admirable traits when you are dealing with people you know and love, but the business world is about getting money any way you can. in some respect, i'm glad his business isn't a success. i appreciate him much more as a father and a great husband to my mom. he has an iron will though, and has worked hard for ten years on a business that doesn't really have much of a money payoff. he works hard because he wants to be honest and wants to feel that he's earned the right to be the man of the household. i wish he knew though, he's the man of the house for better reasons than money.

since we've both let our guards down, we've been able to accept each other with more of an open mind, now that we finally know what it is we're accepting about each other. no more walls. art and writing is something completely foreign to my dad. i am the complete opposite of him in many ways. but he's slowly becoming more and more interested in my ideas and what i do. he admires my spirit and deep down, believes in me and in the things i want to accomplish. knowing this is giving me the strength i never knew i needed to succeed, and the confidence i need to pursue it.

more importantly though, i learned to treat people right because of my dad. especially women. because of the way he treats my mom, and the sacrificies he's made. although i don't think i am capable of making as many sacrifices as him, since i am a different person and am a combination of both my dad and my mom, being able to see what a real man is and what a great husband is, it gives me a high standard for myself i'm very grateful to posses.

it's also nice to know you've had a help in your dad's life too, in making him feel more secure about himself. to give him a better understanding of who he is, and for him to keep developing as a human being. it's so tiring making up for your insecurities your whole life, i'm glad my dad's able to rest a little better now. we finally treat each others as equals. only in behavoir of course. i will never forget that he is my father.
overall, my dad's a ridiculous fool, and i love him. i tell him that once in a while in a joking voice. he never says it back, but he laughs now instead of scoffs. and i finally understand what he means.

female

the wolves of the pack are starving. the males are hopeless hunters. the female, in heat, leaves the pack and travels to find a suburban area with domesticated dogs. a large male dog, usually unfixed, picks up her scent in heat and loses all his sense of obedience and training and does everything in its power to escape the home that has loved and cared for him. the female wolf patiently waits. the chase is on. the female wolf is naturally faster but keeps a steady pace in order to keep the male dog within chasing distance. sometimes, the chase lasts for acres. when she finally comes back to the pack with the male dog close behind, the male wolves attack and kill the big male dog. the female wolf waits patiently and lets all the males eat first. she eats whatever is left but knows it is enough. she is then satisfied in heat and soon becomes a mother.

you must appreciate the female if you want to survive. if you chase them though, you will die.

lucky

two weeks ago:
i'm walking out of the downtown parking garage headed towards work. it's a routine you have to live with. around the corner walks the most unsettling people you'll ever see. everybody's got a story. it makes you feel vulnerable you're not riding in a car. it's what los angeles will do to you. this particular morning, a man wearing a turban dressed in his tuesday office attire walks towards me. he doesn't notice me and i think nothing of it until we make eye contact. i look away and keep moving but in my peripheral i notice that he has stopped. he's staring and pointing at me with his chin. i hear him call me and i turn and face him. the calm grey face he had is gone. he stares at me as if i'm bright and glowing, his right hand reaching out, his focus locked on something beyond my skin. i'm more impatient than perturbed although i can't help but notice he's reaching for my face.

'lucky,' he says. 'you are lucky.'
'right, of course,' i nod. i'm slightly above bored. he's fixated on the left corner of my forehead.
'your head. it is lucky. next week, you will be lucky.'
i finally take a step back. he's shorter than i am and needs to lean in to touch my face. it's uncomfortable for anyone.
'thank you,' i lie.

i walk away, distracted from my routine. i glance back at him. he has turned around and is headed back down his original path. before i look away, i observe him for a moment. he appears normal and walks past strangers no more stranger than anybody else. i shrug my eyes and leave.
-
wednesday the next day.
i'm walking around the corner. i never think of anything in the morning. if i am, it's forgotten like a dream by noon. except today, i'm half expecting to see my man. he, of course, isn't there. i start to think about our encounter and what was said. not many moments of it crystalizes for me, except when i hear him say 'next week.' why next week i wonder? it's specific but beyond that, it's logical. it makes a lot of sense to tell me 'next week' i'll be lucky the week before. it creates suspense and drama. i laugh on the street. the guy got me.
-
the next few days.
i'm becoming very aware of how much my mind wanders. i notice because every time i do wander, i find myself wondering what it means to be lucky. i humor the idea because however i imagine it, the future looks good. my first impulse is winning the lotto. of course. but that kind of money usually becomes a curse in stories like these. so i get romantic and think, what if i meet a lady next week? but i'd be too aware. wouldn't be 'real'. in fact, any opportunity wouldn't be real. except...money. curse or no curse, money is money. it's irrational how i immediately associate money with guilt and negativity. but as time passes now, i begin to imagine what i'd do with a lottery amount of money. my parents would be handling it or i'd be smart about it either way. it'd change the lives of everyone i knew because we would all have it. we. and i honestly mean that. and because i mean it, winning the lotto wouldn't be bad thing. wouldn't be a selfish thing. i can't buy happiness but i can find it in seeing the people i care about happier and less stranded by something as awful as money.

i felt righteous and spiritually deserving. i couldn't stop playing this future. i went on the california lottery website and figured out what i needed to do. the better part of me sincerely believed that life could work out this way. that a prophet could come down and guide you to your fate, and you find nirvana in control. beyond the joy that the $88 million dollar jackpot would bring, the prophecy, the follow through, and the understanding of all this would've equally been as valuable. a miracle. friday, i bought 14 lottery tickets at the liquor store i walk by every day on my way to work. just outside was where i was told i was a bright glowing ball of luck. it all made too much sense, i thought. i kept the tickets safe and even signed the back. i was sure. i felt my faith.
-
tuesday 'next week'.
lottery night. numbers were going to be picked at 8pm. it was also emily's last night before she went to idaho. i left the tickets in LA. i knew i wanted to be alone when i saw the numbers magically, yet not so magically match up. i was sure in a way i didn't understand. we went out to dinner. i had a great time and completely forgot about the lottery. it's things like that that'll make you feel corny. maybe i'm already lucky.

as the night went on, i felt the excitement inflating. life was about to change like it never had. i left as usual and didn't tell anyone i'd be calling them in an hour to tell them things were about to get real. i took the 5 north, which usually detours you to the 91 after 11pm. it'd been that way for months. but not that night. they wanted me home as quick as possible. i drove fast and thought how i'd tell my parents. should i call or just show up? i was listening to 'sweet jane' and singing it like it was the last time. and then i saw it in my mirror. red blue red blue red blue red blue. i was surprisingly complacent and reasonable about it. i guess that comes from being pulled over eight times in the last five years and getting out of every single ticket. it comes from the fact that i truly believed i was never going to get another ticket, simply because when i was eighteen, i decided i wasn't going to anymore.


there's something very sad about getting ticketed while driving alone in the middle of the night. my excitement was gone. i could care less how much the ticket was. it was the fact that something i believed would never happen did happen. and the problem was, it made too much sense. from the way i drive, never getting a ticket again makes no sense. but that's the world i proudly live in. in my world, i do get pulled over 8 times and get myself out of every single one of them. it's having a will and a spirit, not luck. having a downtown LA crazy tell me something that leads me to winning the lotto is something that i believe can happen in my world. i believed it because it makes no sense to most people. but now, as i drove home, disturbed by the sensibility of what just happened, i knew it was over.


it's hard to be too disappointed by anything anymore. it's all quite funny and innocent and it's wonderful to enjoy things regardless of its consequence or conclusion. but what's really nice to know is that i'm still able to believe in something that absurd and nonsensical. at least to most people. but if i really thought i was going to win the $88 million dollar jackpot on july 15, 2008, then it's not hard to believe the future will turn out magnificently. my spirit is unbreakable, and nothing's gonna change my world. what's left for lucky and who cares, cheers.

build

everyone's always cutting everyone else down like it'll make them feel bigger feel better when no one's really growing or getting bigger we're all just shrinking, we're all getting shorter. fuck all that. sick of it. help a fool out. help all your fools out. any chance you can. build up. build up. let's all build up. compliment when it's honest and accept honest compliments. encourage support help out. be okay for being happy for people. build up.

three

if life was burger king and said 'have it your way', i'd sleep for an hour a night and be okay. then i'd have this:

read / watch in the morning [in]
interact during the day and night [mix]
write / do until early morning [out]

too many filmmakers / writers settle for two of the above.
the ones i respect do all three consistently.
i have to have to, if nothing else.

[happy birthday jack 23]

in love, not you

it's difficult to converse with someone that can only hear what they want to hear. inevitably, they will fall in love with you if you keep talking to them.


but the problem is, they won't realize it's got nothing to do with you.

Dear Diary,

Today was hard. Jabar came out of the closet and immediately tried to have sex with me. I said no and he got very mad.

tolstoy

"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."

anna karenina

close book. game's over.

work

12:39 PM
incoming call

ME: hello?
JABAR: hi michael
ME: what's up jabar
JABAR: mike...what're you doing?
ME: fool i'm at work
JABAR: mike i'm really bored right now
ME: jabar i'm at work you can't just call me when you're bored
JABAR: oh but mike-
ME: maan, i gotta go
call end.

JABAR text 12:40 PM: But mike..."I want to touch ur body with my mind." (leonard cohen lyric)
ME text 12:43 PM: Oh do you jabar? What part of my body jabar? I hope not the dick or the asshole, that would be gay and I know you got those gay thoughts jabar.
ME text 12:43 PM: Jabar did you really wanna play this game jabar?
JABAR text 12:45 PM: I hate u...I'm done
ME text 12:45 PM: Oh but jabar I just started and I'm gonna get started
JABAR text 12:47 PM: U make things not fun anymore
ME text 12:48 PM: Allen ginsberg wants said "there lain the sword of the angel headed hipster". Jabar he was talking about a gay dude's dick
JABAR text 12:49 PM: Ok...leave me alone
ME text 12:51 PM: Hi jabar
ME text 12:54 PM: Jabar be my friend let's talk. How's the shop today?
JABAR text 12:56 PM: Its chill nothing much
ME text 12:58 PM: If you want I can give you some really dope audiobooks to bump at the store
JABAR text 1:05 PM: Stop with that gay shit
ME text 1:06 PM: Jabar you should sell books and gay porn at your store too
JABAR text 1:07 PM: Mike...no more U win bitch!!! Leave me alone
ME text 1:07 PM: Man jabar, I'm really glad you called me cuz you were bored, we're like best friends and shit

we really are <3

right jabar?


...

jabar?

JABAR text 1:33 PM: Ur wack

visions

breathing visions of i with faded skin, loosened and thin holding hands with a woman of light skin, motherly and feminine, glowing- the glowing mother of my childen dancing in the crayon field we're in, a lush green summer in switzerland high above the sewage gutter of the dying rest and my breaths are short but i like it that way and none of it's perfect but i know what's good. i've made my money and traded it for something of value and realized that the world is the size of the earth, not the size of silverlake or la or brooklyn or the united states or digital or technological or cultural or the culture you just can't shake, telling you defining you leading you to where and what you're supposed to be. because i learned to say no, so i'll be here, because i wanted to be here. and i smile in the sun as she walks ahead but always turns around to smile with her eyes to say hi, and i carry no books no knowledge no notepads, just feels and air. her and i, we aren't perfect, it ain't the movies we're still human beings. we fight once in a while but it's okay, it's worth it to feel the nakedness of what it takes to reconcile and i love her and knew like i've always known that i would find her- her that knows how to truly love because she loves herself as much as i love her, and knows she deserves to receive love and give love, and i never gave up no and didn't settle for anything less. and my kids, my innocent kids, truly innocent of the imagination stunting chains of american consumer horror, will start school the following year in zurich where we live. ah but for now we all are kids on these hills near our small summer cabin and we sing songs in french, in italian, in german and i look out and see the invincible snow of the alps and the blue skies that kiss the diamond lakes and heaven would be lucky to look half as heavenly as this place, and i think back years ago when i used to live in la and ny and competed in that race of who can feel best about themselves and dressed so nicely and smiled so insincerely, but always focused so clearly on making it and earning it and getting it so i could get away from all the mental and emotional cages that discretely kill the spirit of the people in those towns, in that country. i think back on it all and see what's in front of me now, and smile in relief, and smile more to think that all my friends and family are happy too, on their own or with my eagerness to help and i see them all the time wherever they choose to be, and they're happy, partially because i've demanded them to find a way to be, and living is simple and fullfilling, the way it's always been but for once, i finally see it in all its beauty.

if this life ain't for dreamin, then i might as well wake up and die