Tag: youth

Stalking

I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?

You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.

Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.

‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.

Stalking

I’ve spent the last month investigating things about the girl who sparked the recent changes in my being. Every revelation has led me further down the obsessive rabbit hole of lies and somber truths about psychoses, manipulation, trust, freedom to choose, and my own unhealthy behavior. I’m torn between wanting to know everything and trying to let sleeping dogs lie. How does one reconcile the nice parts of the story—those that are fondly remembered—with the simple realities? How does one stop from believing that the nice parts may have not been truth at all?

You’re sick I want to say to her face as I hold up a mirror beside it.

Now comes the burden of not merely reacting to the facts but understanding them on an objective level. Not allowing myself to be consumed by obsession, which had begun to takes its toll until the end of last year, at which point I was, for lack of a better phrase, pulled back in. No amount of vicarious release upon someone else will allow me to come to terms.

‘Time heals’ is not just a lazy platitude, but it sure as hell isn’t comforting.

The past

The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.

The past

The past really fucks with me. It causes the emotions. It makes me want to be left alone with the understanding that this is no time to ask what’s wrong, then I need that someone I care about to disrobe and sleep, and wait for me to come back with the emotions in my chest and in my hands so that I may press against to hold and feel and be a tangible anchor—a warm and safe haven—and fall asleep, and prepare for possibly a short talk, more than likely appreciative kisses and rough emotional sex, and poetic statements of affection.

Secluded places

We used to hang out at the secluded places. It was easy to find them. There were more cracks to hide in than there were streets. There was a space next to the tennis courts at North Inglewood where we could watch others bomb the concrete after it had been painted over. People only played tennis on the weekends. Sometimes, in middle school, I’d go there with a girl to scam. It was nice, you know, our lives. Suburban safety with just the right amount of stupid risk.

We greeted each other with “What up, nigga.” Daps were given if you were cool with a homie. If it was boring and there was no one around, someone would pull out a shank, or a chain, or, rarely, a gun. I remember they always looked brand new or polished, unlike what you saw in the movies. They’d pass it around like a joint, giving everyone a chance to handle them. I knew we weren’t supposed to, but all the shit we weren’t supposed to do was left at the house.

Some dudes went all out. “My pop don’t know shit. Ridin’ mah ass, nigga! Like some fuckin’ faggot.”

What people who aren’t from Los Angeles can’t understand until they go there and move around is that Los Angeles is a plural. It’s a massive collective of cities and types of people for as far as the smog allows you to see. Things seem more diverse these days than they were in the 90s, but back before I had my first job (and thus exposure to varied individuals), I’d had very little exposure to the nature of that place. The attitudes, the acceptance and the segregation. We lived in a bubble. Granted, an American suburban bubble, but still a bubble. The only white person in the neighborhood was our next door neighbor, Mary, who was kind and crass and not a white person at all, just Mary. She was a notable exception. What it came down to was the white people over in West LA or Marina del Rey or Torrance, and for us there were riots driven by leftover racial tension between blacks and hispanics from the early 90s. Bullshit, of course, because all most of us wanted was excitement and to get out of class.

None of the distinctions mattered, in hindsight. We were a part of the plural. Beaners and wetbacks and niggas and scaredass white people. The words bother me now, more than they did then. I keep them with me, though, because forgetting’s an unwise thing to do.

Senior year, we all volunteered for Earth Club. College loomed and most of our group was looking for ways to score easy points for our applications. We were driven out to Venice to pick up garbage. After the trash detail, and the free time on the boardwalk, we walked back to the beach and perched near one of the piers. One guy and girl—I forget who—started having sex. I noticed them and looked around because, fuck, who the hell starts having sex in the middle of Venice Beach in the afternoon? I was mostly worried for them, as I didn’t want them to get caught. One guy watched them fuck and I leaned against one of the pier struts to watch the waves. It reminded me of my break-up just a few months before then. It may have marked my first case of longing.

My pop and I used to drive along La Brea to get to West LA. He had a gardening route and paid me a whole thirty fucking dollars a week, until I got my own job. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I dragged ass in protest. There was one time when my eighty-some year old grandfather—his father—came with us to lend a hand, and I fell asleep on the drive there. I woke up when they were halfway done to see my grandfather raking the leaves I should have been raking. I pretended to sleep because, hell, I don’t know. I was tired. I was tired of doing things I didn’t want to do and feeling like nothing would ever change. I was angry that life seemed like one chain after another, whether it was class, race, sex, money, violence, drugs, or any of the things that I never bothered to think about until I had a mind willing to deal with it.

Secluded places

We used to hang out at the secluded places. It was easy to find them. There were more cracks to hide in than there were streets. There was a space next to the tennis courts at North Inglewood where we could watch others bomb the concrete after it had been painted over. People only played tennis on the weekends. Sometimes, in middle school, I’d go there with a girl to scam. It was nice, you know, our lives. Suburban safety with just the right amount of stupid risk.

We greeted each other with “What up, nigga.” Daps were given if you were cool with a homie. If it was boring and there was no one around, someone would pull out a shank, or a chain, or, rarely, a gun. I remember they always looked brand new or polished, unlike what you saw in the movies. They’d pass it around like a joint, giving everyone a chance to handle them. I knew we weren’t supposed to, but all the shit we weren’t supposed to do was left at the house.

Some dudes went all out. “My pop don’t know shit. Ridin’ mah ass, nigga! Like some fuckin’ faggot.”

What people who aren’t from Los Angeles can’t understand until they go there and move around is that Los Angeles is a plural. It’s a massive collective of cities and types of people for as far as the smog allows you to see. Things seem more diverse these days than they were in the 90s, but back before I had my first job (and thus exposure to varied individuals), I’d had very little exposure to the nature of that place. The attitudes, the acceptance and the segregation. We lived in a bubble. Granted, an American suburban bubble, but still a bubble. The only white person in the neighborhood was our next door neighbor, Mary, who was kind and crass and not a white person at all, just Mary. She was a notable exception. What it came down to was the white people over in West LA or Marina del Rey or Torrance, and for us there were riots driven by leftover racial tension between blacks and hispanics from the early 90s. Bullshit, of course, because all most of us wanted was excitement and to get out of class.

None of the distinctions mattered, in hindsight. We were a part of the plural. Beaners and wetbacks and niggas and scaredass white people. The words bother me now, more than they did then. I keep them with me, though, because forgetting’s an unwise thing to do.

Senior year, we all volunteered for Earth Club. College loomed and most of our group was looking for ways to score easy points for our applications. We were driven out to Venice to pick up garbage. After the trash detail, and the free time on the boardwalk, we walked back to the beach and perched near one of the piers. One guy and girl—I forget who—started having sex. I noticed them and looked around because, fuck, who the hell starts having sex in the middle of Venice Beach in the afternoon? I was mostly worried for them, as I didn’t want them to get caught. One guy watched them fuck and I leaned against one of the pier struts to watch the waves. It reminded me of my break-up just a few months before then. It may have marked my first case of longing.

My pop and I used to drive along La Brea to get to West LA. He had a gardening route and paid me a whole thirty fucking dollars a week, until I got my own job. I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. I dragged ass in protest. There was one time when my eighty-some year old grandfather—his father—came with us to lend a hand, and I fell asleep on the drive there. I woke up when they were halfway done to see my grandfather raking the leaves I should have been raking. I pretended to sleep because, hell, I don’t know. I was tired. I was tired of doing things I didn’t want to do and feeling like nothing would ever change. I was angry that life seemed like one chain after another, whether it was class, race, sex, money, violence, drugs, or any of the things that I never bothered to think about until I had a mind willing to deal with it.

floral couch

When I was, like, five, I was sitting on the floral couch and looking at the old shag carpet that the house we’d moved into came with. The large woodgrain television may have been turned on, and not because I remember it, but because the televisions were always on at our house. But anyway, I was looking at the shag, and I threw up. I left a little pool of vomit nestled between the cushion and the crotch of my shorts. It was vaguely similar to orange cream soda. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I started crying. Pop got pissed, of course, and made me feel like shit about it. Mom, though, she came in and cleaned it up so I could stand and go bathe.

That’s about all I remember.

floral couch

When I was, like, five, I was sitting on the floral couch and looking at the old shag carpet that the house we’d moved into came with. The large woodgrain television may have been turned on, and not because I remember it, but because the televisions were always on at our house. But anyway, I was looking at the shag, and I threw up. I left a little pool of vomit nestled between the cushion and the crotch of my shorts. It was vaguely similar to orange cream soda. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I started crying. Pop got pissed, of course, and made me feel like shit about it. Mom, though, she came in and cleaned it up so I could stand and go bathe.

That’s about all I remember.

exhausted

I return exhausted, frustrated with the state of my body. Though youth has allowed me retain my strength, I have little stamina to speak of. It becomes work to remain physically dominant. Energy no longer rushes forth as it did in the great floods of the past. I look in the mirror and see my once lush hairline thinning in favor of pasty white skull. I take note of the first couple of light hairs in my beard and watch as the surrounding field becomes lighter, tinted red, chestnut, and gold, all leading to the inevitable gray bush. I flex my hand and my coarse skin shines beneath the sunlight, allowing me to see the many fine lines and scars. My body tenses and I feel muscles flare up beneath layers of fat, layers which have been stored for a winter that has never come. The weight of age begins to feel like one. I consider my future, my assets and holdings, what I would leave for the wife I couldn’t fathom and the children who seem to call on me from some distant date of birth. I remember my past and its opportunities taken and missed. Time moves onward.

What is age if not an opportunity to gain an understanding? Never a full understanding, but simply an accumulation of experiences that form the concept of a life. Will the past be fondly remembered or despised? Will it be regret or rejoice? Of course. If life has been good, how can there be grievances? And when faced with continual disappointment is there a reason to venture forth at all? It is all answered with every passing minute, and hour, and onward to days, weeks, months, years, until each step forward becomes less a burden than a blessing. An opportunity to look back on one’s time and remember that it has happened, but not lament that it has passed. If alive, live.

I do not know if that is possible—accepting the progression of time. Not for some, I know. Not for me, once, sometimes still. But I look out across this river near here called the Willamette, where ships, boats, kayaks, and canoes flow along its wide expanse, and watch them move onward, whether they choose a direction or not. I feel the wind whip through my hair and wonder what it would feel like if it wasn’t there. I feel my muscles and see a sun that has watched over every moment in our time. I see a future that is ever-changing and think that nothing lasts forever. I blow warm air into my palms and smile because it’s alright, it’ll last as long as I remember.

exhausted

I return exhausted, frustrated with the state of my body. Though youth has allowed me retain my strength, I have little stamina to speak of. It becomes work to remain physically dominant. Energy no longer rushes forth as it did in the great floods of the past. I look in the mirror and see my once lush hairline thinning in favor of pasty white skull. I take note of the first couple of light hairs in my beard and watch as the surrounding field becomes lighter, tinted red, chestnut, and gold, all leading to the inevitable gray bush. I flex my hand and my coarse skin shines beneath the sunlight, allowing me to see the many fine lines and scars. My body tenses and I feel muscles flare up beneath layers of fat, layers which have been stored for a winter that has never come. The weight of age begins to feel like one. I consider my future, my assets and holdings, what I would leave for the wife I couldn’t fathom and the children who seem to call on me from some distant date of birth. I remember my past and its opportunities taken and missed. Time moves onward.

What is age if not an opportunity to gain an understanding? Never a full understanding, but simply an accumulation of experiences that form the concept of a life. Will the past be fondly remembered or despised? Will it be regret or rejoice? Of course. If life has been good, how can there be grievances? And when faced with continual disappointment is there a reason to venture forth at all? It is all answered with every passing minute, and hour, and onward to days, weeks, months, years, until each step forward becomes less a burden than a blessing. An opportunity to look back on one’s time and remember that it has happened, but not lament that it has passed. If alive, live.

I do not know if that is possible—accepting the progression of time. Not for some, I know. Not for me, once, sometimes still. But I look out across this river near here called the Willamette, where ships, boats, kayaks, and canoes flow along its wide expanse, and watch them move onward, whether they choose a direction or not. I feel the wind whip through my hair and wonder what it would feel like if it wasn’t there. I feel my muscles and see a sun that has watched over every moment in our time. I see a future that is ever-changing and think that nothing lasts forever. I blow warm air into my palms and smile because it’s alright, it’ll last as long as I remember.