I am
What to do
What to do?
So many to choose from
enjoying but a few.
The tiny pen, darkness delights
The wonderful image
breezing blues and sun-drenched reds
thirst-quenching greens.
The heart of the creator
The hand of the poet
The feet of the soldier
The eye of God.
I AM
What to do?
What to do ...
Whatever you choose
The gift is for you to decide.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
And the wind cries Mary ...
The following experience was written one night
while contemplating the meaning of Jimi Hendrix's song,
The Wind Cries Mary.
In this case, life imitated art right before my eyes.
while contemplating the meaning of Jimi Hendrix's song,
The Wind Cries Mary.
In this case, life imitated art right before my eyes.
The song is amazing. Somehow it's about falling out of love and then realizing you have a whole new frightful world to set foot in. It's about breaking down a wall and encountering a new prison to escape from. There is a sense of hesitation, a nagging tear in the heart like there's nothing so scary as facing this room alone.
"Don't be silly " the bird chirps in a muffled voice outside my window. "We seek order just as much as we don't . . . .
. . . I just took a step away from the computer and 25 minutes or so has elapsed. There was a girl and a guy arguing outside my window and I tuned in at the exact moment when she was being pulled by her hair, screaming on the sidewalk floor. I'll remind you it's almost 2am!
She looked like the scene from fight club when the narrator is being pulled by the hair around a parking garage and it is being captured, scene by scene, on security cameras. Yet, there's no one around but one man in his boxers--vulnerable and deranged--and a camera. The pulling and the struggling between the two (between the one) seems so real. Their torture is self-inflicted just as much as it is conceived outside of themselves.
And that's what these two misfits were (one in the same, of the same flesh). Now I can say that they were misfits because I too have been a misfit once or twice in my life. And I feel a little guilty for describing this duo's painful romp around the small corner of a city block for 25-minutes-or-so in the early part of the morning, a simple taste of comedy, sexual frustration, drama, childhood pain erupting through adult veins, weakness, and strength.(click here and find the scene at about 1:44 minutes into the clip)
But c'mon it was a scene. A familiar scene of dysfunction that rips through most people's lives. It was like watching TV. Like watching a movie through and through. They each played familiar roles, and they played them well.
Something in this duo's cry, which they each decided to make public, was akin to the pain we've all felt as abuser's and also as victims. Eventually, after much back and forth, hollering and begging, they gathered up the pieces of the broken night. Before they started for home, they shared an embrace, some tender kisses, sobs, and muffled "i love you's".
And when this climactic romantic point ended, and it ended just as quickly as it came, she followed his stagger about 20 feet behind him and his little weanie dog on its leash. Something tells me that one day, the wind will cry.
Jimi Hendrix
The Wind Cries Mary:
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footsteps dressed in red.
And the wind whispers Mary.
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife.
And the wind, it cries mary.
The traffic lights, they turn, uh, blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags down stream
cause the life that lived is,
is dead.
And the wind screams Mary.
Uh-will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last.
And the wind cries Mary.
The Wind Cries Mary:
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footsteps dressed in red.
And the wind whispers Mary.
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterdays life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife.
And the wind, it cries mary.
The traffic lights, they turn, uh, blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags down stream
cause the life that lived is,
is dead.
And the wind screams Mary.
Uh-will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last.
And the wind cries Mary.
(Original post created on 2/29/08).
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
LACMA at night: Miracle Mile area of LA.
Coming home late one night and I had to snap a picture of this scene. Never really liked the piece but something caught my eye as I drove by.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Collective Scream: Sex and the City
AGGGGH!!! Have you ever felt like finding some rooftop perched high above the city to scream? To just let out everything all in one breath. To inhale newness. Ever desire to sink away to some high place in the mountains away from the mundane and from that endless gulp in your throat, to find a calm that soothes the soul?
As a teen I imagined another world much more rewarding to the soul than within this skin. It was a wanting to escape that was deeper than words can describe--the scream much further than the lips.
With the summer comes beautiful release. But more also comes in the form of the all-too-familiar craziness of realizing that a future lies ahead and you have no idea how it's going to be resolved.
Meanwhile a past barks at you, which makes it so much more enjoyable to idle in the present--to live in the present and make the best of all situations and especially to make the best of summer.
The summer is a time of release--we sweat more, the sun peels our skin and reveals new layers--and for this we have to take in more. We gulp down more liquids, we rest more (is that why sleep feels so good in the summer?).
We even desire more--food, dance, the cooling sensations of flesh on flesh, warm lips, bright smiles, hearty laughs, and music that caresses the soul. Like a chubby kindergarten runt building a deep bridge in the sand just before the tide, I lap for the last remaining sunlight before the summer is over and fall sets in.
But the scream will persist long after the time changes and the leaves begin to fall from their trees. Because it originates in a place that I'm sure can't be found by a medical doctor or a psychiatrist or even an expert radiologist.
It beckons my ancestors, my mother and family, and especially my friends. It's a call to GOD and to love, to the future, to change, to happiness, hoping that a response will be heard in return. Little but an echo returns and I realize that in this summer the scream exists in a place that surpasses the physical, mental, and spiritual.
You know, I was able to form some connections around this time last year with some interesting characters. I was out of work. My relationship was in shambles. I was recovering from the loss of loved ones--seriously recovering like a victim of a car accident. And it was beautiful. I was talking to all sorts of random people on the street--sharing and experiencing another being and their pain and happiness and their strength and vision. I learned about myself, about Love and humanity, and how much one gains from embracing humanity by sharing in it with others.
The world that I imagined as a teen is slowly coming to being. It's an engagement. It's a deeper connection with a few where our humanity is kept out in the open--our sex and sexual preferences, likes and dislikes, our dreams, passions and our goals. It is no secret what our ideas are about religions, faith, God, racism and gender roles. We talk about film and music and our insecurities.
And we are worlds apart. But our screams become a song. A collective yearning ... a collective embrace.
Just like sex and the city, the idea of a tight-knit posse is quite alluring. I like the idea that a group can get together and share so much of themselves and really be friends instead of backbiting and murmuring and judging and tip-toeing around little insignificant bullshit. If it can be dreamed, it can be accomplished. There are friendships like this. I've been graced with such friendships.
And I believe even more is possible. There exists in this crazy, unfamiliar, and often frustrating world the ideal of connection and solidarity with others. And this mutuality gives birth to creation and something even more contagious--Love and peace. And even though my desire to scream persists, I'm stepping in and holding on, because God is amazing.
As a teen I imagined another world much more rewarding to the soul than within this skin. It was a wanting to escape that was deeper than words can describe--the scream much further than the lips.
With the summer comes beautiful release. But more also comes in the form of the all-too-familiar craziness of realizing that a future lies ahead and you have no idea how it's going to be resolved.
Meanwhile a past barks at you, which makes it so much more enjoyable to idle in the present--to live in the present and make the best of all situations and especially to make the best of summer.
The summer is a time of release--we sweat more, the sun peels our skin and reveals new layers--and for this we have to take in more. We gulp down more liquids, we rest more (is that why sleep feels so good in the summer?).
We even desire more--food, dance, the cooling sensations of flesh on flesh, warm lips, bright smiles, hearty laughs, and music that caresses the soul. Like a chubby kindergarten runt building a deep bridge in the sand just before the tide, I lap for the last remaining sunlight before the summer is over and fall sets in.
But the scream will persist long after the time changes and the leaves begin to fall from their trees. Because it originates in a place that I'm sure can't be found by a medical doctor or a psychiatrist or even an expert radiologist.
It beckons my ancestors, my mother and family, and especially my friends. It's a call to GOD and to love, to the future, to change, to happiness, hoping that a response will be heard in return. Little but an echo returns and I realize that in this summer the scream exists in a place that surpasses the physical, mental, and spiritual.
You know, I was able to form some connections around this time last year with some interesting characters. I was out of work. My relationship was in shambles. I was recovering from the loss of loved ones--seriously recovering like a victim of a car accident. And it was beautiful. I was talking to all sorts of random people on the street--sharing and experiencing another being and their pain and happiness and their strength and vision. I learned about myself, about Love and humanity, and how much one gains from embracing humanity by sharing in it with others.
The world that I imagined as a teen is slowly coming to being. It's an engagement. It's a deeper connection with a few where our humanity is kept out in the open--our sex and sexual preferences, likes and dislikes, our dreams, passions and our goals. It is no secret what our ideas are about religions, faith, God, racism and gender roles. We talk about film and music and our insecurities.
And we are worlds apart. But our screams become a song. A collective yearning ... a collective embrace.
Just like sex and the city, the idea of a tight-knit posse is quite alluring. I like the idea that a group can get together and share so much of themselves and really be friends instead of backbiting and murmuring and judging and tip-toeing around little insignificant bullshit. If it can be dreamed, it can be accomplished. There are friendships like this. I've been graced with such friendships.
And I believe even more is possible. There exists in this crazy, unfamiliar, and often frustrating world the ideal of connection and solidarity with others. And this mutuality gives birth to creation and something even more contagious--Love and peace. And even though my desire to scream persists, I'm stepping in and holding on, because God is amazing.
One day, our movies will be made and our stories will be told.
One day, I and my partner will hold our children on the beach while a bar-b-que grills in the background and our families and friends play loteria.
One day, our songs will be heard and we'll sing in unison.
One day ... one day .... one day.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Paparazzi in Los Angeles
The other night I'm giving a friend of a friend a ride home in WeHo. Upon our arrival to his spot one block south of Santa Monica, a light flashes. Did someone just take a picture of us? Nah, no way!
The flash was subtle. And at that moment, I'd bet a ten spot it was aimed in our direction. I scanned the street in my gangsta 'who da fuck takin' pictures of me?!' stance. No one there but some shirtless guy in the shadows walking in the opposite direction. I followed a faint ting of wine glasses, laughter, and women in mid conversation to an upper apartment window 30 feet away. Ahh, it must be them.
I eavesdropped for a second but couldn't hear what they were saying. It'd be nice to be a fly on that wall. Women, like men, talk some funny stories in all-female space. Men aren't the only pervs on this planet. (I digress ... we'll save that one for another post).
Flash! Another light. This time it doesn't bother me as much but I use the instance to entertain myself until my homeboy returns. Maybe the flashes are coming from CIA operatives following me and these other guys--the ambiguously gay duo who fight off injustice in plain clothes and frequent restaurants in LA. Or maybe my friend's friend has a jealous boyfriend and has hired some technologically inept gumshoe to take pictures of us dropping him off. It seems your partner is doing this other man's laundry -- see the big bag that looks like a stack of dirty clothes.
Fifteen minutes later my friend returns to the truck -- maybe it was a quickie. We pull away from the curb and I tell my friend about the flashes.
Flash! Another damn light!! I look to the left and I can't believe what I see. It's the shirtless paparazzi! The guys been lurking there in the shadows this whole time, snapping pictures of us arriving, me chilling by the truck, and now he's got a picture of us leaving. I slam on my brakes and put the truck in reverse. My friend says, 'Oh God, testosterone in overdrive. What are you doing?' I can't resist the need to get to the bottom of this. In one swift motion I back up and pull my camera from it's case. I tell my friend to take a picture of this guy to see how he likes it.
We share some brief but extremely awkward niceties. The guys strange--to say the least--but just another LA character. What you gonna do.
This is the first picture taken through my sunroof by my nervous passenger.
This is my first picture taken in a 'how do YOU like it?' manner, which didn't quite produce a response I expected.
This is my final picture, not really understanding what the hell is going on here.
The flash was subtle. And at that moment, I'd bet a ten spot it was aimed in our direction. I scanned the street in my gangsta 'who da fuck takin' pictures of me?!' stance. No one there but some shirtless guy in the shadows walking in the opposite direction. I followed a faint ting of wine glasses, laughter, and women in mid conversation to an upper apartment window 30 feet away. Ahh, it must be them.
I eavesdropped for a second but couldn't hear what they were saying. It'd be nice to be a fly on that wall. Women, like men, talk some funny stories in all-female space. Men aren't the only pervs on this planet. (I digress ... we'll save that one for another post).
Flash! Another light. This time it doesn't bother me as much but I use the instance to entertain myself until my homeboy returns. Maybe the flashes are coming from CIA operatives following me and these other guys--the ambiguously gay duo who fight off injustice in plain clothes and frequent restaurants in LA. Or maybe my friend's friend has a jealous boyfriend and has hired some technologically inept gumshoe to take pictures of us dropping him off. It seems your partner is doing this other man's laundry -- see the big bag that looks like a stack of dirty clothes.
Fifteen minutes later my friend returns to the truck -- maybe it was a quickie. We pull away from the curb and I tell my friend about the flashes.
Flash! Another damn light!! I look to the left and I can't believe what I see. It's the shirtless paparazzi! The guys been lurking there in the shadows this whole time, snapping pictures of us arriving, me chilling by the truck, and now he's got a picture of us leaving. I slam on my brakes and put the truck in reverse. My friend says, 'Oh God, testosterone in overdrive. What are you doing?' I can't resist the need to get to the bottom of this. In one swift motion I back up and pull my camera from it's case. I tell my friend to take a picture of this guy to see how he likes it.
I scream out. 'Hey man, what's going on!? Why the pictures?!'Are you fricken kidding me!? I grab the camera from my friend--whose practically peeing his pants--and snap a few shots in his direction. What's the shirtless paparazzi do? HE POSES!!
He answers, ' Oh, I just like taking pictures. It's a hobby of mine.'
We share some brief but extremely awkward niceties. The guys strange--to say the least--but just another LA character. What you gonna do.
This is the first picture taken through my sunroof by my nervous passenger.
This is my first picture taken in a 'how do YOU like it?' manner, which didn't quite produce a response I expected.
This is my final picture, not really understanding what the hell is going on here.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
6th Street near Fairfax
This is one of my favorite short drives in LA. When the sun is just right -- around 7pm or near setting. There's amazing glow in the trees. Passing through it, towards the sun is memorable.
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