About

Jesus Christ, tumblr. You. I’m trying to wallow in self-pity here and you bombard me with posts that hit far too close to home. It doesn’t help that my project at work is about a man who’s tormented by dementia and memories of a dead girlfriend. It’s a blitz from all sides!

Can a man be left alone to brood over his dark thoughts, just for a little while, long enough to forget or numb the mind enough to get by?

“No,” (says the mind, but let’s pretend you said it).

I know.

I had an About Me page until a few days back. It had some info, little tidbits to satisfy basic curiosity. Stuff like a desire to get a motorcycle license or the fact that I work in video games. Small stuff, little things that might make the reader think, “Cool.” They were the things I wasn’t afraid to share. It’s part of a mask I’ve worn for a long, long time. Easy peezy. Impressing people is not that difficult, nor is charm. Charm can be learned, picked up through observation. It is the recourse of someone whose natural instinct is to observe and not interact: learn what sticks, imitate and own it, then pile it on, thick and syrup-like. It is most successful if all who are present are intoxicated, of course.

I employed that charm when I attempted to discuss heavy matters last night after many a bottle of Sierra and Anchor Steam, a car bomb, and I think there was a kamikaze. The folks around me heard, at least a little, and provided well-wishes and requests to “Relax, man. Relax,” because almost no one wants to hear these things. Most people just want to be happy, and I can’t blame them. Happiness is a very pleasant place. I like to be there myself.

Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Supertramp, spent two years wandering alone, experiencing and living and momentarily enjoying the company of others. I greatly admire this adventurous spirit, this willingness to leave behind a life that is full of pain and confusion. However, when on the verge of death from starvation at the end of his journey, he wrote the following (as portrayed in Into the Wild):

01

(via Things I Love)

I think about reality a lot. The reality of things I’ve done, those whom I’ve helped and the ones I’ve hurt. They seem unreal, some of my actions. Many things in life don’t seem real. Take, for instance, the universe. Things sometimes seem too coincidental, too poignant. They seem like they’re meant to happen. Is this wishful thinking, someone tweaking the matrix, what? Reality is real, isn’t it? It can’t be anything else.

I think about death a lot, too. It sounds depressing so I don’t make it a topic of conversation.

Are we real?

(It can’t be polite to constantly ask people if they’re real).

The spark that led to this bit of self-reflection is an experience with someone who has suddenly and unexpectedly become very important. I’ve been through it before, I knew how I might react, and yet you are reading this which means history has repeated itself. Whether I find the gall to reach out again remains to be seen. I’d like to think so (though Lord knows I don’t deserve reciprocation). I have, however, learned enough to know when certain thoughts and memories will last, and these will not shake loose. The old mainstays, lots of food and booze, will only serve to sharpen the feelings of these memories instead of dulling them as they might have once done. It is perhaps a case of maturation. I am avoiding the mainstays (last night and the occasional celebration notwithstanding), which I will take as a good sign.

There’s another tumblr post, this one a screenshot from a film (a very excellent film, mind you), that reminded me of the memories that do not slink away.

02

(via johari-window)

The memories are there. They will not shake loose.

(The universe will probably send me a glut of posts about alcoholism after all that).

I’m going to share a little story with you. My first instinct, before I decided to share the little story, was to make something up. Write about a guy in a city I’ve never been to who deals with his issues and finds a way to cope and becomes a better human being and yadda yadda yadda. Living in stories, conversing with fictional people. It’s what I do.

No one has ever heard this story. Here’s me, trying something different… something complicated.

03

(via a place that was once called Home)

It was the rare kind of bleak day in Los Angeles when the threat of rain loomed and everyone held their breaths, unsure of how to react. It was in the morning that my father, uncle, and I parked in front of the house next to the house on the corner. It was a single story, tan, stucco-coated townhouse with an additional room added to the rear, making it distinct from the rows of similarly constructed, if perhaps differently styled, tract homes. I later found old fumigation notices posted in the garage and attic that dated the house’s construction to 1944. I wondered about all the people that lived in the house before me. I wondered if the kids had ever dug a hole beneath the bushes in the front, or if they had ever felt sad and cried for seemingly no reason. I wondered if the moms cooked good food because they loved their kids, or if they had ever yelled after a long day of cleaning and cooking and dropping the kids off at baseball practice. I wondered if the dads had been good at fixing things and liked to play basketball. I wondered if they had been stern, impatient, and angry.

We met the previous owner that very morning. He was a great fat man with a beard and glasses, and he was all alone.

The property was surrounded by a great pink cinder block wall that added to the grandeur of the house. It is just as tall as I am now and only slightly higher than my father, but as a child it seemed like a great barrier against the world. No one could attack us. We played castle and pretended that armies stupid enough to attack were coming. They would never penetrate the defenses, the fools. The problem was that none of us, neither me nor my two brothers who are closest to my age, could climb it, so we could never see if there was anyone out there.

That first morning, the three of us walked the grounds. My father and uncle talked to the fat man for a while and I looked around. In the front yard was an enormous, perfectly straight pine tree that extended high into the sky and loomed over the front yard, shielding everything below against the rain that would never come. Now it is a trimmed, branchless shadow across the block, but back then it was wild, with branches extending out beyond our property and dropping their pine needles all across the front lawn and walkway, providing a soft pillow on which to wrestle and play tag, with the great tree as home base. It smelled of pine and although it was dry and the needles were prickly it was still a very welcome sight.

The pine tree’s companion was a thick palm tree that sat alongside the driveway on the left side of the property, standing as a knight watching over the universally respected invisible gate between the sidewalk and front lawn of all the houses. No neighborhood in South-Central was complete without palm trees and we were the ones to keep the tradition on our street, at least for a while. It seemed very old but always grew large green fronds, some of which grew so long that they could nearly touch the top of my father’s truck. The removal of the palm tree to make room for a wider driveway was the first of many losses.

When the men completed their talk we moved into the backyard and I followed along. We made our way toward the back where a single car garage stood, blocking the view of the backyard. It is there that my father began his massive collection of tools, wood, metals, bicycles, and other items that that he could never part with. My mother stored a few things in there as well but it took a while to get permission. Beyond the garage was a large patio deck constructed from richly lacquered brown oak that provided a respite from the sun and a place to sit in the summer, when it was too hot to walk around during the day. It was once barren and open, a fort builder’s dream, but years of hording and disinterest in having guests stop by for picnics and dinners led to the porch becoming another storage unit, filled with old and forgotten memories.

It was beyond the garage and beyond the back porch that it stood. It was like entering another world, some jungle paradise from the movies. The greatest forests in the Amazon could not rival it in my young mind. It was the great avocado tree, the once king of the land. Unlike the pine tree whose branches reached up and out or the palm tree that only grew anything at the top, the avocado tree grew everywhere and it grew down toward the ground. Its branches drooped, weighed down by leaves and great, big, swinging avocados, as large as the head of a four year old. Some were black and shriveled and others were green and shiny. The young ones were barely visible in comparison to those great orbs. If I picked a perfect one I could polish it against my shirt and see myself in its bumpy rind. That particular avocado tree had never been trimmed and it formed a pyramid of leaves that we could explore and tunnel through. Standing in its shadow was like standing in the shadow of a mighty temple, or of the God itself. It was our worship of the avocado tree, and unknown to us it would be the only time we could do so. My father promptly trimmed away the mess upon moving in and has never allowed the branches to grow that long again.

My father used to love to laugh. At parties, at events, at the movies, with his friends, with my uncles and aunts… he laughed. He told excellent jokes. His face turned red and he bellowed loudly, from his chest, with a slight mischievous rasp. The relationship between he and my mother deteriorated but even she could not help but laugh and kiss him when they were out in public. He was personable, adoring, and despite the fact that everyone really knew him they still loved him because that is when the rays of his good nature shined brightest.

I never did inherit his genuine charm. In retrospect, I do not think I cared to.
We still enjoyed the avocado tree, of course. It was part of our backyard world and everything could be enjoyed. We climbed it and ran around its trunk, passing by its single knothole of an eye each time, tagging the spot when we played tag or races. Our father built a swing using one of the low, thick branches, and we pushed it to the extremes that all boys push things into. We leapt from it, played jungle commander and climbed it, twirled around until we were busy. Things children do, most of which I’ve forgotten.

Once, my brother and I misbehaved. We had just returned from working the gardening route that my father worked on Saturdays. We pushed lawnmowers and raked leaves while most kids stayed in to watch cartoons and eat colorful cereal. We envied such activities, and learned the taste of bitterness early in life. The taste was that of dirt and it smelled like grass. The  equipment had been returned to the garage and we were using the last hours of the day to play, have some fun, and get dirty before we had to go in and take a shower. In the course of playing we did something we should not have been doing, whatever it was. It was bad enough, though, that my father got upset. The man preached a working life but sometimes it seemed like a hard day’s work affected him in the same way it affected us, leaving him bitter and temperamental.

He called us to him and made us stand together, side by side, as he pondered what to do. Punishment was a necessity. Children had to be taught how to behave, much like he had been taught, much like a pet. We most certainly feared the belt above all things and waited silently for him to swiftly deal his judgment and penalty, but he took longer than usual to decide. He seemed distant and deep in thought, which was uncharacteristic of a man who was always quick witted and made decisions faster than most people could speak a word. He finally walked away and returned with a bundle of brown nylon rope. He had settled on an old form of punishment that was common when he was a child. It was something we had been warned of many times when he regaled us with tales of the times his father had dealt cruel and brutal justice unto him. He was to walk us over to the avocado tree and tie us to its trunk, like pirates tied to a mast. My brother and I were unsure how to react at first, but as he guided us along by the shoulders the full weight of the punishment sunk in. We were to be bound, left immobile and at nature’s whim, until he decided we had learned a lesson.

We were raised to be loyal and do as we were told. It is a wonder that we did not end up in the military, particularly the oldest of us, who were brought up in the house of loyalty and order. We would have made perfect soldiers. At the time, however, as young children loyal to our father, we simply allowed ourselves to be led along and began to cry. Our cheeks and eyes turned red, our mouths contorted as we pleaded to be released. We would never cause trouble again!

“You should have thought of that before” we did whatever we did.

So we stood, each of us on one side of the avocado tree.  A chubby dark-haired boy and his skinny little pale brother, covered in dust and grass stains, wept and pleaded. He loosened the rope and used one end of it to lash us to the trunk of the avocado tree, walking around between the two of us until we had rope around us from chest to ankle. He placed the rest of the rope on a side of the tree farthest from us and secured it, then walked away.

We wept and called for forgiveness. There was no attempt to move or free ourselves. He walked by later with a beer in his hand to see how we were doing, and watched us. He grinned and watched us squirm. We cried and we cried, and he laughed and he laughed. We eventually freed ourselves when we realized that he had only loosely lashed us to the trunk. We avoided him until that evening when he walked into the bedroom where we sat watching television.

“Did you learn your lesson?”

I suppose we did.

My father once asked me, many years later: “You were scared of me?” His face was contorted, as if in bewilderment. His question was sincere like his every word and action.

“Of course,” I told him.

“Why?”

“You know why,” and he let it be.

It still stands, unlike the palm tree or much of what used to be a garden and is now converted into a bare concrete foundation. Years of pruning and trimming, in addition to the simple passage of time, have reduced what it once was. It now leans awkwardly toward the pink wall in the direction of the neighbor’s roof, almost as if it is reaching toward something else, something away from the property. Sap and other mysterious goo leaks from the dreary eye in the center, and the base of the trunk is coated a bright white from years of insecticides and powders and other protective measures meant to stave off infection and disease. Its wild, unwieldy canopy has been reduced to a polite gathering of leaves and twigs. And despite it all, the shadow of the avocado tree still cast its claws across the yard and the back porch. The shadow reaches out on those late summer days when the sun rises directly in the east and my father wakes up early to rake the leaves from beneath the tree, alone.

And that’s my little story.

A grain of sand has purpose. It clings to its kind and provides support for walkers, nutrients for eaters. Being tied to a tree, that had purpose. A malicious purpose, a lesson, humor, who knows what, but it had to be something. Writing this, it has a purpose. My purpose is to feel something and confront it, whatever it may be. If I was to surmise a purpose statement it would be this:

Give me self-realization or give me death.

(Hey, look. He is coping with his problems, trying to learn how to be a sensible man, a better person. He asked a question and decided it feels like something real).

Princess

She sat alone on a Wednesday night wearing a sheer nightie that revealed hints of her nipples and traces of her thighs below the hem but did little to hide the slump in her shoulders or the stiffness of her knees.   She was looking at a chat window and a live feed of a man who called himself Greg and claimed to be thirty.  It may have been the poor quality of his cam but she thought she could see a lot of gray hair around his temples and loose skin under his jowls, and believed him closer to forty.

She was thankful when they preferred for her to lay back and not have to face the cam.  Sometimes, that was enough, but seldom were they that passive.  They often asked her to switch to several poses and insert the dildo in multiple places, whatever they had seen in the video clips that they had become bored enough with to pay for a live performance.  She did as they asked and made the appropriate faces when she had to face the cam, writhed her body in such a way to make it seem like ecstasy.  Sometimes the men who had cams fixed it on their crotches and she derived some giddy joy from that, despite it being part of the job, and sometimes all she could see was their faces. They never smiled.

“Are you French?  Do you live in France?” asked one man.

She did not keep track of the number of times she received specific messages but she was certain that the most frequent was, “How are you baby?”  So, she decided that her stage name would be Baby.

Baby smiled very well for someone who had performed for such a long time.  She kept her skin tight around the sinews and bones and her face was always made-up in lipstick and powder and kohl, her eyelashes flared out of her hazel-tinted eyes.  Some still paid her directly but most found her through other places, other websites. They thought she was “interesting” and “hot.”  She thinks it was only the old men who used the word “exotic” because only old men think a tan is exotic.  She couldn’t tell the age of some beyond the age they gave her in chat because they did not use cams.

“Do you do parties?  Can we meet?  I bet you would make a lot more money if you did parties,” typed another.

She never met any of her clients for public shows because although she was keen to the potential for increased revenue she was fearful of the types of people who attended such events.  She was not high-class by any means and had long ago given up the notion of being so, and as such could probably never get invited to the types of events where she would just be another girl for a crowd of rich, indifferent men.  Her fear of admirers surpassed her need to expand her clientele.  She remained Baby, behind the cam.

They wanted a friend, a pretend lover, someone to read them and know them and love them in some small way, for a little while, for $2.00 a minute.  They were of many ages, some baby-faced and sold old enough to be grandfathers.  Some were polite, or seemed polite, telling her she was pretty and asking questions when she lied about being a college student or working her way through dental school.

“Are doing well in your classes?”

“You must be dedicated to school.”

“I’m glad I can help you with your school payments.”

But sometimes it was just a chance for a man to tell her she was too hot, too amazing to waste time in school.  She could be a model or an actress or Baby girl to someone’s sugar daddy.  She didn’t want to be any of those, she just wanted to perform and earn a living.   She just wanted to treat them like lovers in some far away land and show them what they were missing.

Her mother wanted to know why she did not leave to a new place and find a job.  Her mother knew what she did for a living and her father was dead, but he would not have approved.  Baby and her mother would probably have lied to him.

“I like it here.”  And she did, she liked the city.  It made her feel small, but she never felt small back home and she liked it.  Back home she felt like nothing.

Baby was walking to the train once and thought she noticed a man staring at her. She looked in his direction and he looked away, but then she turned and continued and she felt horrible, sick to her stomach.  She felt like stabbing the man with the knife she kept in her bag.

She laughed out loud frequently and always asked “how do you want me?” when they chatted for too long.  Some liked to do that, prolong the show, show interest in her as a person, but she could never figure out why.  She once asked a male friend who knew about her profession.

“I don’t know.  Probably lonely.”

“Yes, but why do they just chat and chat and chat?  They are paying for a show and just wasting their time.”

“No, that’s what they’re getting.  They’re buying your time.”

Baby thought about that and said, “I’m not a whore.”

Her friend shrugged.

“I know you’re not, but I know you.  They don’t.”

Baby sighed out through her nose and smiled apologetically.  She did not like to discuss her work but sometimes she could not help herself. So very few people understood what it meant to perform for men.

Baby once dreamed of being a dancer.  Perhaps in a musical or in Las Vegas, where pretty girls with long legs could get a job doing beautiful things, like dancing.  She wanted to live in the towers, at the very top, where she could wake up on a blanket of fur and look out across the city and the desert and the mountains, like a princess surveying her kingdom.  She spoke of this to no one because she knew that she would someday run away from her life of boredom, of beers and sad boys who would not grow up until they got someone pregnant. She refused to be the girl who would make a boy grow up.

Greg typed, “You look so hot baby.  How old are you?”

She remained slumped but smiled and typed, “23.  Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful,” he typed, and she shook her head slightly.

“So sweet but I meant how do you want me?” and she included a smiley face to acknowledge her mistake.  He told her and she kneeled in front of the cam, smiled wide and stretched one hand back onto the bed, baring her soul with the other.

Princess

She sat alone on a Wednesday night wearing a sheer nightie that revealed hints of her nipples and traces of her thighs below the hem but did little to hide the slump in her shoulders or the stiffness of her knees.   She was looking at a chat window and a live feed of a man who called himself Greg and claimed to be thirty.  It may have been the poor quality of his cam but she thought she could see a lot of gray hair around his temples and loose skin under his jowls, and believed him closer to forty.

She was thankful when they preferred for her to lay back and not have to face the cam.  Sometimes, that was enough, but seldom were they that passive.  They often asked her to switch to several poses and insert the dildo in multiple places, whatever they had seen in the video clips that they had become bored enough with to pay for a live performance.  She did as they asked and made the appropriate faces when she had to face the cam, writhed her body in such a way to make it seem like ecstasy.  Sometimes the men who had cams fixed it on their crotches and she derived some giddy joy from that, despite it being part of the job, and sometimes all she could see was their faces. They never smiled.

“Are you French?  Do you live in France?” asked one man.

She did not keep track of the number of times she received specific messages but she was certain that the most frequent was, “How are you baby?”  So, she decided that her stage name would be Baby.

Baby smiled very well for someone who had performed for such a long time.  She kept her skin tight around the sinews and bones and her face was always made-up in lipstick and powder and kohl, her eyelashes flared out of her hazel-tinted eyes.  Some still paid her directly but most found her through other places, other websites. They thought she was “interesting” and “hot.”  She thinks it was only the old men who used the word “exotic” because only old men think a tan is exotic.  She couldn’t tell the age of some beyond the age they gave her in chat because they did not use cams.

“Do you do parties?  Can we meet?  I bet you would make a lot more money if you did parties,” typed another.

She never met any of her clients for public shows because although she was keen to the potential for increased revenue she was fearful of the types of people who attended such events.  She was not high-class by any means and had long ago given up the notion of being so, and as such could probably never get invited to the types of events where she would just be another girl for a crowd of rich, indifferent men.  Her fear of admirers surpassed her need to expand her clientele.  She remained Baby, behind the cam.

They wanted a friend, a pretend lover, someone to read them and know them and love them in some small way, for a little while, for $2.00 a minute.  They were of many ages, some baby-faced and sold old enough to be grandfathers.  Some were polite, or seemed polite, telling her she was pretty and asking questions when she lied about being a college student or working her way through dental school.

“Are doing well in your classes?”

“You must be dedicated to school.”

“I’m glad I can help you with your school payments.”

But sometimes it was just a chance for a man to tell her she was too hot, too amazing to waste time in school.  She could be a model or an actress or Baby girl to someone’s sugar daddy.  She didn’t want to be any of those, she just wanted to perform and earn a living.   She just wanted to treat them like lovers in some far away land and show them what they were missing.

Her mother wanted to know why she did not leave to a new place and find a job.  Her mother knew what she did for a living and her father was dead, but he would not have approved.  Baby and her mother would probably have lied to him.

“I like it here.”  And she did, she liked the city.  It made her feel small, but she never felt small back home and she liked it.  Back home she felt like nothing.

Baby was walking to the train once and thought she noticed a man staring at her. She looked in his direction and he looked away, but then she turned and continued and she felt horrible, sick to her stomach.  She felt like stabbing the man with the knife she kept in her bag.

She laughed out loud frequently and always asked “how do you want me?” when they chatted for too long.  Some liked to do that, prolong the show, show interest in her as a person, but she could never figure out why.  She once asked a male friend who knew about her profession.

“I don’t know.  Probably lonely.”

“Yes, but why do they just chat and chat and chat?  They are paying for a show and just wasting their time.”

“No, that’s what they’re getting.  They’re buying your time.”

Baby thought about that and said, “I’m not a whore.”

Her friend shrugged.

“I know you’re not, but I know you.  They don’t.”

Baby sighed out through her nose and smiled apologetically.  She did not like to discuss her work but sometimes she could not help herself. So very few people understood what it meant to perform for men.

Baby once dreamed of being a dancer.  Perhaps in a musical or in Las Vegas, where pretty girls with long legs could get a job doing beautiful things, like dancing.  She wanted to live in the towers, at the very top, where she could wake up on a blanket of fur and look out across the city and the desert and the mountains, like a princess surveying her kingdom.  She spoke of this to no one because she knew that she would someday run away from her life of boredom, of beers and sad boys who would not grow up until they got someone pregnant. She refused to be the girl who would make a boy grow up.

Greg typed, “You look so hot baby.  How old are you?”

She remained slumped but smiled and typed, “23.  Why do you want me?”

“Because you’re so gorgeous, so beautiful,” he typed, and she shook her head slightly.

“So sweet but I meant how do you want me?” and she included a smiley face to acknowledge her mistake.  He told her and she kneeled in front of the cam, smiled wide and stretched one hand back onto the bed, baring her soul with the other.

drunk musings

They say it’s the fuck, the act, that makes life worthwhile, but no, friend, no. I do not mean to be contrarian but your thoughts on the matter are twisted and limited in scope. You are missing the story, the principal reason for living, which is detailed in acts 1 and 3: the before and after. The before is the flirtation, the anticipation, the pure need that both can feel and transmit to the other via pheromones. That’s the science, baby. We thrive on smells and touch in the right places. Have you felt the skin on the inside of woman’s elbow after kissing her neck and lipping her ear lobes? Then there’s breath, warm, and perhaps tinged with wine and weed.

The act itself, it is bestial, it is raw. It is skin, flesh I prefer to call it, on skin, moisture, the dew that drives the dearest purring and groans faintly resembling that coveted set: “I love you.” It may also come in the form of “I fucking love you so much.” It is oh and uhh and Oh My God. It is the fuck.

The after, now that’s the one. The after is the resolution, the culmination of both expectation and doing. It is the moments of reflection and intertwined limbs, no longer eager to act but ready to lie prone and vulnerable. It is true that if you want to see a man at his most emotional then you catch him after the act (but quickly, make haste!). It is also true that if a man wants to see a woman at her most beautiful and loving he should catch her in the after, when she smiles weakly, not much of a smile but better than any other smile he’ll see her with. It is what women, all women, of all types, give to men as a gift. It is sometimes a gift ignored, after skipping the opportunity to lie with woman, in the after, when all life is full of hope and the future is glistening.

drunk musings

They say it’s the fuck, the act, that makes life worthwhile, but no, friend, no. I do not mean to be contrarian but your thoughts on the matter are twisted and limited in scope. You are missing the story, the principal reason for living, which is detailed in acts 1 and 3: the before and after. The before is the flirtation, the anticipation, the pure need that both can feel and transmit to the other via pheromones. That’s the science, baby. We thrive on smells and touch in the right places. Have you felt the skin on the inside of woman’s elbow after kissing her neck and lipping her ear lobes? Then there’s breath, warm, and perhaps tinged with wine and weed.

The act itself, it is bestial, it is raw. It is skin, flesh I prefer to call it, on skin, moisture, the dew that drives the dearest purring and groans faintly resembling that coveted set: “I love you.” It may also come in the form of “I fucking love you so much.” It is oh and uhh and Oh My God. It is the fuck.

The after, now that’s the one. The after is the resolution, the culmination of both expectation and doing. It is the moments of reflection and intertwined limbs, no longer eager to act but ready to lie prone and vulnerable. It is true that if you want to see a man at his most emotional then you catch him after the act (but quickly, make haste!). It is also true that if a man wants to see a woman at her most beautiful and loving he should catch her in the after, when she smiles weakly, not much of a smile but better than any other smile he’ll see her with. It is what women, all women, of all types, give to men as a gift. It is sometimes a gift ignored, after skipping the opportunity to lie with woman, in the after, when all life is full of hope and the future is glistening.

a bright wall in a dark room.: The Prestige (2006)

By all accounts, these two gentleman should be world class magicians because they are world class charlatans; charismatic charmers that can fool any audience into believing what they see, but in the face of the machine, they are the fools.  The quest for dominance is so all consuming that each man begins to believe his own lies, and the lies of the other until there is nothing left but delusions of grandeur and the shattered bits of the lives they sacrificed for those delusions.

In case you’re not aware, A Bright Wall in a Dark Room covers excellent films. They provide an answer when the question on everyone’s lips is, “What should we watch tonight?” Recently I found myself skimming their archives to see if they’d covered some of my favorite films and was muchly troubled by the absence of what I believe is Christopher Nolan’s best film to date: The Prestige. I was so troubled by it, in fact, that as I watched the film again just yesterday I thought to myself, “I’m going to request this. I need to request this.” And so it became today and as I mentally prepared my arguments I was surprised to see that my request had come to pass. Was it coincidence? Had I willed it so? Was it meant to be? Questions, pondering… It was all difficult to comprehend.

I’m afraid you must pardon me. It is just very rare to see… real magic.

a bright wall in a dark room.: The Prestige (2006)

By all accounts, these two gentleman should be world class magicians because they are world class charlatans; charismatic charmers that can fool any audience into believing what they see, but in the face of the machine, they are the fools.  The quest for dominance is so all consuming that each man begins to believe his own lies, and the lies of the other until there is nothing left but delusions of grandeur and the shattered bits of the lives they sacrificed for those delusions.

In case you’re not aware, A Bright Wall in a Dark Room covers excellent films. They provide an answer when the question on everyone’s lips is, “What should we watch tonight?” Recently I found myself skimming their archives to see if they’d covered some of my favorite films and was muchly troubled by the absence of what I believe is Christopher Nolan’s best film to date: The Prestige. I was so troubled by it, in fact, that as I watched the film again just yesterday I thought to myself, “I’m going to request this. I need to request this.” And so it became today and as I mentally prepared my arguments I was surprised to see that my request had come to pass. Was it coincidence? Had I willed it so? Was it meant to be? Questions, pondering… It was all difficult to comprehend.

I’m afraid you must pardon me. It is just very rare to see… real magic.

to the clueless boy who is taking advantage of a wonderful girl

She’s obviously in love with you.

Everyone can tell. She lived two dorms down from mine last summer and though I’d never met you, I knew every detail of your face, of your personality. She spoke of you so often that I could recite the exact way you mispronounced ‘literally’, I could list off…

This is how we remember that girl who was sweet on us in seventh grade. She had the cutest dimple, the nicest little ass. Then that lanky quiet girl, toward the end of high school. She was real nice, helped with homework, said “Hi!” so excitedly. In college, oh brother. You know? That one girl over in Los Cerritos. What was her name? Kind of dark skin, frizzly hair? She had some nice lips on her, man. She found us at that party one time, she hung on like an ornament. She laughed at everything, smiled wide. She wanted us, but she wasn’t that redhead. The one in the shorts. She wasn’t her. That one girl, Mark’s assistant. The temp in the skirts, batty eyes? Yea, that wasn’t her. The thrift store girl, long dresses, lots of bracelets. Freckles? That wasn’t her. All of them, those girls, what was their name? They weren’t Her.

This is how we gather memories to discuss in old age.

This is how we fight the weight of regret.

to the clueless boy who is taking advantage of a wonderful girl

She’s obviously in love with you.

Everyone can tell. She lived two dorms down from mine last summer and though I’d never met you, I knew every detail of your face, of your personality. She spoke of you so often that I could recite the exact way you mispronounced ‘literally’, I could list off…

This is how we remember that girl who was sweet on us in seventh grade. She had the cutest dimple, the nicest little ass. Then that lanky quiet girl, toward the end of high school. She was real nice, helped with homework, said “Hi!” so excitedly. In college, oh brother. You know? That one girl over in Los Cerritos. What was her name? Kind of dark skin, frizzly hair? She had some nice lips on her, man. She found us at that party one time, she hung on like an ornament. She laughed at everything, smiled wide. She wanted us, but she wasn’t that redhead. The one in the shorts. She wasn’t her. That one girl, Mark’s assistant. The temp in the skirts, batty eyes? Yea, that wasn’t her. The thrift store girl, long dresses, lots of bracelets. Freckles? That wasn’t her. All of them, those girls, what was their name? They weren’t Her.

This is how we gather memories to discuss in old age.

This is how we fight the weight of regret.

Mojito & Bourbon

Saturdays alight and we, me especially, lit to the ceiling. There are strategically placed lamps, the angles of the light so sexy that it all becomes a magazine shoot.


Mysterious shadows, people in the mirror across from the circle of small chairs and table. It’s us, laughing raucously at things that are sometimes funny, sometimes sad. Drinking highballs, downing shots, smoking a primo in between. We used to try not to waste it, but waste is relative. No one should be serious on a Saturday.


Pose, sip, pose, laugh, pose.


“Be somebody, baby.” She likes to say that but won’t tell me where she got it. Grin so wide she’ll stretch her face wide open, show the fleshy insides. She’s good at lies and better at truth. She lays it all on her line spun from classy silk and homegrown cotton. Her eyes speak volumes but not nearly as much as her rhetoric.


“I’m glad Europe is feeling the pressure. I feel bad for the Germans.” Glossy red lips, polka dot dress, patent leather shoes, all guiding her eyes where she wants them. It’s magic.


Into the night until someone decides they’re high enough to leave, and the slow trickle begins. First Charlotte, all alone (we think she’s gay), then Sven and his Thai girlfriend, Megan. My baby and I slide into the corner, flanked by Mort (that’s his name!) and Samantha, the very tan English friends of the parents, on our right, Julie and Chi. They convinced her sister to stay in and watch him. He’s three now, and very independent, very alert.  “He’s probably the one watching over her!” they say. How sad, their whole thing. They leave next.


The English stay and we get along, well into three but maybe not until four in the morning. They’re staying across town, we insist. They come back with us because of the beauty of a condo in the city, right there.


Strolling through nearly empty streets, smiling, holding each other. My baby shivers but I have no coat, so an arm does what it can. The English walk close, too, and maybe it was me but the girl looked cute. She looked at me. She’s blonde, perhaps a real one. Before my baby and her short, boyish hair, I liked blondes.


Sundays never begin, not really. First it’s Saturday, then it’s go, go, go, then it’s Sunday all of a sudden, and sun’s out again. Sometimes I see it and half remember it, sometimes it’s there when I wake up in the middle of Sunday and slump into the shower.  Water into burning eyes, washing over alcohol and lipstick stained lips. Swiping a hand down across my face to make sure this is real.


I finish and walk into the kitchen. Silence is golden, not a peep. I look out through the kitchen window and my baby’s on the balcony, in the wicker lawn chair, on the little lawn island that we pay a short, sun burnt man to maintain.


She sees me and calls out. “Hey, baby.  Can you mix me up a mojito?”


I nod and get to work on the lime, sugar, and leaves. Gently pressing down into the glass, a little in, and little out, and I watch her read. I remember this, from a long time ago. Fascination with watching women read was new. It made me want her to see read all the time. My baby, she reads like a pornstar. I pull out the bourbon and treat myself for a job well done.


“Hey. You coming out, baby?”


I knock on the kitchen window and she looks over and smiles, waves her fingers. I pour myself another and stare out, smile until she returns to her book. My baby is frosted hills beneath canary fabric, she’s burning red and, like a strawberry, ripe for the plucking.


Her mojito is ready.


A condo in the city, the place to be on a Sunday. Our friends of our friends crash in the spare room and we lounge, grass so blue it can’t be real. Wind howling through the city canyons on its way to the ocean. Echoes in our heads.