Let me Breathe.

Story I've been working on...

2009-06-14T17:30:00.000-07:00

She laid in her casket, eyes wide open, I didn't know how to react to her gleaming eyes inundated with elatedness. My aunt Maya was the most heavyhearted woman I have ever come across in my 18 years of life, yet as the flame on the burning log was about to burn her into ashes, she looked so content. I felt so haunted that a striking pain throughout my body lingered. Ever since I was 5, when my mom died, I had this strange delusion of this iron heart, yet the death of my aunt Maya, whom I didn't have a good relationship with, whatsoever, actually pained me immensely. She was a Leo, you know, she always acted like she was the sweetest treat on a plate, when I always knew she didn't like me one bit. Papa and I live in this rundown cement home in a small village not too far away from Delhi. I was just about to leave for Uni in London last week, but Papa needs me here, there's no one here for him. He needs someone to get the vegetables from the market, he needs someone to trim his hair, he needs someone to bring him his morning chai, someone who makes it just right with 1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar and almond milk because the cow's milk is not good for his stomach. Papa keeps reiterating that he doesn't need me anymore, but I know he yearns for me when I'm not here, he just doesn't want me to see him when he's weak, on the verge of death, but I'm strong. Papa was a writer when he was still in the right state of mind to actually function, now he paints. His art is devoid of all hypocrisy or pretense. His art is the most sincere I have ever seen. It scares me, his art is everything I neglected when I looked into his eyes. When I was a child he used to tell me folk tales; Palwahn the Wrestler, Gokul the Laborer, Garib and the Forty Thieves. But my favorite was always; Radha and Krishna's Love Story. Maybe because I've never been in love I have this fascination with love stories, like they are a mystery to me, an undiscovered territory of life. Death, agony, and sorrow seems so prominent in life, the love though is lacking. I mean, I love Papa don't get me wrong, I want to do everything and anything for him, but sometimes, this is horrible to say, it is a burden taking care of someone day in and day out and there is no love reciprocated back because they are in such a fragile mind state they can't think of anything but their own dysfunctional thoughts. I guess that's just how the human mind works, but of course I love Papa, but it's not the same as being in love, or at least I would think it's not. I remember my aunt Maya told me never to fall in love. She told me every man she fell in love with told her he loved her and then left her, they gave her false hope that love was sitting in the books, when really it was merely lust.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2009-04-21T13:33:00.000-07:00

Hey Buster,

I see that cloud above your head

That beard can't grow any longer.

Whistle that rhyme

Are those are your evoking thoughts?

But don't speak, don't speak, don't speak.

The fireplace is searing

There is tea on the table, yet you can't tell us your story

The indistinguishable murmurs, the "umms" and "ahhs" unease me.

You have this habit, this eruption of unseemly laughter.

Numb those feelings and don't speak

Don't speak

Laugh,

Just don't speak.

You are no dumb kid with a gun,

You were born with that tongue

Can't conjure up the words to look in our eyes

And tell us your tale,

Your momma, your papa, your sisters and brothers

From ol' grandpaps to auntie carolina

You have a saga to tell us.

Is it vital to camouflage yourself with the whistle of the bird?

The cry of a coyote is still apparent through the song,

Tell me your story.

Just don't speak, yet.

Don't speak.

Poetry: Young Man

2009-03-23T23:53:00.001-07:00

Young man lives in such poverty each breath he endures
Without an apprehension
Deficiency of angst
His bed sheets immersed in the blood
I know he sees
The Virgin Mary lies on his bed stand,
Gaping, wide eyed, Mary.
Bloody Mary, he utters to himself,
6a.m. His morning train to work,
Loud music he plays to drain out of the guilt he holds
The strangers passing by seem well acquainted with his folly
Enthralled in a woman, across the aisle
Young man is distracted,
Fingers full of rings, an exhibitionist of a sort, perhaps
Shoe laces tied in perfect knots
Creating obscure scenarios in his head he ponders,
Chopping the saloons with a hatchet
Burning her bra on a pedestal
Yet timid
Very timid
Her eyes not wavering from the soles of the rusted brown shoes, she wore
But then again, after all he is just a young man
Young man, heart of sulfur
The fiber is absent of thermo-plasticity
His back varnished in cuts
Bruised inner thighs, merely on the surface
Young man, owns a new car
The smell of his newly bought car is potent,
Without the mileage it dwells in the garage
The time will come when his vehicle will rust,
Consequent to several uses,
The blood still on his sheets
Virgin Mary still on the bedside table
Cuts still masking his back
Bruises on his inner thigh
Young man currently, sulfur heart
Hindered, perhaps but flawlessly veiled
Wounded young woman
Neglected.

(Artist: Egon Schielle)

Short Story: Hey Kid, tie them shoes.

2009-03-17T00:49:00.000-07:00

My shoelaces were untied, I knelt down on my left knee and tied them. The stranger in a black coat, has a bruise on her, knuckles. The vagabond, on the street corner of Hyde, had a glistening tear down the tip of his chin, it might have been a raindrop, but I like to imagine it was a tear for now, because then I would know he, or was it she, was not content living the life that was not meant for her, or was it him. I was in a book store this morning, a conventional Sunday morning hot spot, I would say. So its Sunday morning right, quite the array of human beings, engrossed in their novels, magazines and comics, they sat, stood or strolled. A few loiterers among them, I could espy, the lack of captivation in their eyes, they really couldn't give a rats ass about the pages in these spectacular novels, their disinterest could not be more apparent, well to me, at least. Anyway, as I sauntered this bookstore, in search of a vacant spot to "kick it", I observed the silent freckled woman, a ginger, nibbling on her croissant, she wasn't from around here I don't think, she looked too naive, she was reading some cryptic science-fiction novel. Oh dear, what about those "tweens" as we call them, fixated around the "Twilight" paraphernalia; calenders, posters, bobble heads, which I find quite moronic, but that's really besides the point. So, I find a place to sit, right? Across the table is this elderly gentleman, I sure he used to be a handsome man when he was younger, he was wearing this sweater, which I'm sure he's had for about 23 years now, he was reading theses books, I didn't really get a clear vision of them, but they had something to do with astronomy, I think, he was quite the grumpy fellow, misunderstood I'm sure. Right next to me sat this younger man, Mexican I believe, he was an architect, I could tell, not only by the books he was reading, but the structure of his face, it was quite inevitable really. As I sat, quietly observing both men, while only pretending to work on an assignment, I hear a frantic voice in the distance. " Maria said she was coming home for dinner, but she isn't." And then a chuckle. I muttered to myself, "Damn mother fuckers on bluetooth!" A deceivingly poised elderly women scurries into the art section in a frenzied blitz, talking to herself, seriously, no bluetooth. She laughs, hysterically, in complete delirium, I'm sure. " Oh yeah, we are here in San Francisco, it's beautiful outside, ( it really wasn't, it was gloomy and miserable). Oh, how's Clara is she going well?" She seemed like a nice person, in her imagination. It was quite bizarre, as this white haired, well dressed woman in her what seemed to be Michael Kors-esque heels, ran to the illustration section of the bookstore, she picked up a book, I wasn't sure which one yet, and corressed it gently,back and front, with her eyes closed, and then placed it back on the bookshelf. She hesitantly stepped away from the books, and returned to her erratic behavior and uncanny conversation. As she walked in a distraught manner, past the shelves of books, she tripped over the wall that she had built in her mind, she laughed psychotically as she stumbled over her invisible wall. I walked over to the bookshelf, where she corressed the book, it was an Illustration book, Egon Schielle. I found myself in a sullen trance, the woman's vague innocence somewhat comforted me, but at the same time, unnerved me. She was laughing, she seemed so happy. Is there something she knows that I don't? Is there something more she sees? Am I wrong to have fingered her mental? The Mexican architect next to me didn't even flinch at the slight of this woman, neither did Mr. Grumpy Sweater Grandpa. It's quite mind-boggling how acculturated these men had become to such insanity, it's sad, really. I cried. If they live their life with a blind fold on, nothing will ever change. My shoes would still be untied.

Artist: Edward Gorey

Short Story: WILBUR

2009-02-23T02:12:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it's just me yeah I'm pretty sure it's just me, that has these vague thoughts, but not just once, on multiple occasions, and I don't think they are strange at all while I think them, or even after, but sometimes I might just say it out loud and then, then I realize that's not what other people think, ever. Like I was sitting next to this stranger on the muni the other day, older gentleman, attractive, but nothing special. I wasn't physically attracted to him or anything of that sort, but strangely I was oddly enough think about him a few hours later, I kinda missed him. A man with beautiful bone structure, not my type at all though, white v-neck and a black double breasted jacket. I've seen him around, to be honest, I lied, I know him but not very well. I've had a few acquaintances with him. He's a nice guy, an intellectual type, but not at all, he's an asshole really, but the good kind, not the bad kind. I sometimes like to plan his day out and hypothesize what he is doing sequentially. I know it's obscure, I use that word a lot, but its very, very vague. I think he drunks a cup of hot tea in the morning, he seem like he would sleep with his sock on, yeah so his socks are on, and he get a cup of tea, a flavored green tea, I presume, then he sits and reads the newspaper, the section on the economy first, but then he lances over the comic section too, just when no one's looking, not that he cares what people think of him, or so he says. So yeah, after "glancing" (actually intensively cracking up at the morning comics, he takes care of "business" in the bathroom, you know the usual routine, whatever that maybe, I don't really want my mind wandering in that territory, I like to think I'm not that twisted, yet. He picks up his dictionary off the bookshelf, opens it, and closes his eyes, turns to page 72, of his Oxford Dictionary, from God knows when, and scrolls his finger down, it's the word of the day. He puts on the television, The Discovery Channel, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, as he stirs up some gourmet omelets for breakfast. He scurries it up quickly, he's a fast eater. It's 9:30 am, I just like to plan his mornings, before he leaves the house, because I don't want to think of the people he meets durning the day, and especially not the night, I'd rather like to day dream abut the time he spends in solitude. Hopefully he spends his nigh alone, reading Whitman or Thoreau or Keroac. Maybe he reads wikipedia, some random facts. I would like that. Yeah, I would really, really like that.

Poetry: That Bitch

2009-02-17T14:09:00.001-08:00

"Heel toe, heel toe"
The bitch wails from across the narrow hallway
She digs her five inch nails, into the heel of my hooves as she creeps up behind me
She has obscure notion that I'm putting on a facade of a burden drunken teenager
She places a thick novel on the roof of my hair engrossed skull
"Back erect young lady!" she demands
Impolitely, of course
I tap the tips of my fingers on my upper thigh
As I hear the melody of the leaking ceiling from the rain pounding onto the kitchen sink from the moldy deteriorated fixtures
"Stop your perpetual mind numbing behavior" that bitch yells at me again
Like the German guard, protecting the flame engulfed chamber, she stands ridgely
With her mind clouded with judgment conceived from aesthetic appearance
Dark skin
Hair of ashes
Powder stained gums
Blood varnished lips
Constantly pondering my existence
It's not vital for her to enrich her soul, so why must she pry?
Palms bruised with the whip of a ruler, like horizontal strips that take over my fist
Decorated with gold rings in hopes of concealing the pain,
But the gold doesn't permit me from quenching my thirst of the acceptance of this woman, this guard, with her ruler of steel, her infinite amount of pages novel, and an endless amount of discretion.

Poetry: Baritone Saxophone

2009-02-08T22:43:00.000-08:00

The wooden floors of the quaint cafe tremble

As the baritone saxophone is being delicately rendered

We write in our times of distress

But as the violin whispers in the ambience

As the rain plunks onto the pavement

And as the strange bald middle aged man, without a wrinkle on his forehead

Drops a needle on each key of his piano

As I glance at the faces on the relatively unfamiliar people

Whom I feel rather connected with to

Not a word of hatred is on the tip of this ink stained page

The chronic circumstances that I find intolerable

The obnoxious couple in the corner being grotesquely in considerate of the world around them

The rude elder gentleman, with the thick mustache going about ignorantly glaring at me

The young women constantly gabbing, chattering away

Doesn't even seem to perplex me,

The baritone saxophone

The violin

A drop of the needle on the keyboard

The attractive mans deep soulful voice and vaguely identifiable sounds like an accordian

Harmonize this dim lighted room

And motivate me to initiate a step into the brightly lighted room

Across the poorly paved street.

Creative Write-up: Abnormal Love

2009-02-08T01:49:00.000-08:00

The other day a somewhat of a stranger used the term abnormal in describing me. So you ask, why exactly did this stranger do that? He was basing my personality affliction on the term love and how I never have loved. It's so strange that how he based one sure fire proposition and placed it into a box of normality. How can we be so sure that loving is normal? Is it really a pure tangibility or is it a manifested feeling? Holy shit, it's driving me crazy! This whole love concept, it's so fucking obscure. I mean yeah, I am still young, but why does it kind of make me feel inhuman not to have emotions that most people my age have had.

A movie I watched, just tonight actually, Closer, made me realize things about myself, not to be self-absorbed, but it was really made me come to the perfect conclusion to sum up my thoughts on love. We go through life loving, loving, loving this one person that we marry, but after years of sex and hatred, do we really know this person? Is it really who we think it is? Do we know their name? Do we really know who they really are?

"It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully and... all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they want to see. But the people in the photos are sad and alone, But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie and everyone loves a big fat lie," says the character Alice in the movie. Which I believe is a metaphor for the photography to symbolize what love is, love is just a facade we use to portray beauty, but it is a lie. We put on our make up in the morning and look beautiful and some stranger on the street falls in love with you, because of your beauty, but the real beauty is behind the picture that they will never see, because it is camouflaged the glitter that we sprinkle on, which make everything a "big fat lie." So the gospel comes to an end, with the crucial statement saying; love is a lie.

Poetry: MY Jesus

2009-01-27T00:39:00.000-08:00

She runs..

The bible in one hand

And clinching the pistol in the other

Dear Jesus

She prays

Let me get away

Let me find the way

In my time of anguish

I pray

Dear Jesus

She says,

Oh, let it rain

Perspiration the only dampness in sight

I've come to You Jesus,

For You, being my savior

You must release me from my sins

You must release me from my sins!

Jesus!

I am speaking to you!

When are you going to be here

You must cover me up.

With the ray of the sun

The leaves on the tree

Jesus, you must help me find my sanctuary

And not let me fall out of place,

I am not ready to depart

Jesus, Jesus

My Jesus!

I only speak now for mercy

I know you are going to be here soon

I'm keeping my self faithful

I get on my knees for You

And only You

I know, I know You are going to give me

My possession I rightfully deserve,

Free me of my emptiness

It's all going to be okay,

For I,

Have faith

And my pistol in one hand,

And this Bible in the other,

They say You are some mythical creature

Like a Leprechaun

Or a Unicorn

But I feel your omnipresence

You are all around me,

I pray to you, Jesus

Yet, You haven't answered any of my prayers

I asked for the clouds to consume my body

I knelt in hopes of You saving my child

Should I pray to Allah, Mithra, Krishna, or Moses?

Is it going to be okay?

I still have my Bible and my pistols

And blood dripping from my head.

Poetry: Anger.

2009-01-26T18:21:00.000-08:00

Anger!

He wails

Constraint is an absurdity, at this point

He mutters the words, beneath his breathe

An unsullied fate seems inconceivable, in reality

He wreaks of the sour odor of last months supper, still on the kitchen counter it lays

In solitude he prays. for this nonsensical emotion to no longer linger,

A slab of cheese on the kitchen counter, the mouse morsels away

Although the slab doesn't seem to diminish

Like a stroll in the park on a cloudy day

Just dilly dallying away, frittering here and there

And then the cry of anger

He contrives a tower, slightly leaning, yet unwavering

And the surroundings are of a familiar sort,

The ground zero hails debris

Anger!

He profusely yells

Brimming into the sea, the edge of the abyss

A never ending day of doom

The day of Judgment has befallen

Anger!

Still the symptoms of this perilous disease

When shall the gun discharge a bullet?

When shall the men dismount their horses?

Contemn the ego that obscures our vision

In the moat he is trapped,

Striving to abdicate his thrown

Yearning to clutch the euphoric feeling of

Complete and utter liberation

Poetry: scapegoat

2008-12-04T21:23:00.001-08:00

The wind is blowing

And breaking my thrust

It should push me further

But rather this wind,

Is holding me back.
I'm loosing the little sanity, that used to be in indwelling
The sky
The floor
I don't seem to remember
The sun
The door
Just a vague memory
My thoughts shattered all over
Not one coherent notion is visible
Here I go.
There I go.
Where do I go?
An illogical disarray of a process, this has become
I write the words I meant to say,
then cross them out
think the thoughts I wanted to think
then phase them away
refute the words that come out of my mouth
veil the meaningful actions, that I take
Just a preconceived thought, that

This is what we need...

Is this what we need?

Or is it just want we want?

The barrage of need and want...

When will it stop?

Like an echo,

This world has become...

Doesn't know when to stop

Doesn't know when to go...

Perhaps my rationality is just a scapegoat,

A scapegoat to avoid aversion,

To the unknown

Poem: A letter to my Dearest Friend.

2008-10-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

My Dearest Friend, please listen to me.
You will soon have to take the blankets off your bare body.
Revealing the scars that have overpowered your heart.
Although, your mind is heaving with this strange delusion, of this iron heart.
It is does not exist.
You say you are deatached from any sentiment of this thing they call love.
It is a lie.
Bruised from a past blunder, you surpress approaching affection.
Any emotion that fills your heart, you place in the dark.
My friend, you cannot postpone this any further.
I'm pleading to you, expose your old wounds.
Although you may be disfigured from your painful yesterday.
It has been too long.
I empathize for you, my love.
For he, has left you lacking the hope for the future, that used to be indwelling.
Please, learn to love again, for you are my dearest friend, and it anguishes me to see you wither away

Thought Provoking Write-up- 2008 Elections.

2008-10-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

The most important factor in our decision making about the president should be his character, followed by his policies as they relate to economic, social, and environmental well-being. To judge the character accurately we need to let go of our partisan labels and allow our gut to do the job. We can all read candidate's body language and facial expressions. We can always tell when a smile is genuine, and when it is not. Speeches are written by clever speech writers; hence we should not fall into the emotional traps that these speeches contain. Another measure of character is how well a candidate occupies and stays on the high ground. For example when a candidate tries to gain sympathy or make personal attacks on his opponent, then he has left the high ground.
I have lived in many parts of the world, including Asia, Europe, Middle East, Africa and North America and have witness the election process in many of those regions. I have NEVER seen such a high focus on personal choice issues, such as gay/lesbian rights, abortion rights, ownership of guns etc. in any of the elections. Candidates, in both first world and third world are primarily elected on the basis of who the voter feels more honest and who's policies will improve the economic and environmental standing of the country.
In no country have I seen such a gulf between the two opposing parties. As a non- American and an outsider, it appears to me that the Republican Party represents the interests of the well- heeled people who have more money than they need and do not want to share that wealth with the rest. When we look at the happiest countries in the world, we find that they do have a higher level of taxation, but the gap between the richest and the poorest is not as wide. They have realized a middle path between extreme right wing economics and socialism, while maintaining the incentive within the economy for people to work hard and be entrepreneurial.
The attempt of the politicians is always to push us to extreme positions, so that they can use emotion to excite us, into voting for them. Imagine how difficult it would be to manipulate us, if each of us had varying views on economics, environment, social or health issues, that don't align with traditional right or left wing positions. One other thing we have to guard against- we should not allow our leaders to demonize somebody or something. I don't believe that either Osama Bin Laden or Ahmedinejad are as fearsome as our leadership has made them out to be. Happy voting, to those who can vote!

Thought Provoking Write up: Religion?

2008-10-25T13:22:00.000-07:00

'Faith must beenforced by reason; when it becomes blind, it dies.'- Gandhi

Some of us are fortunate enough not to cling to religion as a form of comfort and security. Others because of a past unfortunate event(s), such as a death ofa friend or family member, need the sanctuary of religion to confide in.
I have always questioned the rationality of religion, which is a touchy subject for most, it’s not that I don’t believe in God, it is that I have no fucking idea. I find it so strange that religious leaders and followers can have such “faith”,in something that has never been proven factual and honestly sounds like a really fucked up Disney Movie, including the sexual undertones.
Here’s another thing about religion that bothers me, what determines that one religion is more superior then another? Honestly, all religions are the same, if you think your Christianity is the best, take a look at Islam, it’s the same story. Religion is often concealed with humility, although I often think it is pomposity or arrogance, not always,but for the most part. Have you ever had one of those little Mormon boys in there nice suits come up to you and talk to you about why you should be Mormon?Or those nice old ladies that knock on your door and tell you to believe in Jesus Christ? What about those Scientologists that want you to watch a short film about how Scientology changed their life? Who are they trying to convince?Why are they telling us that their religion is better? If we are all trying to be good people and reach the same objective, then why is one religion better than another? I don’t really understand why we have to choose a religion, why can’t we be happy knowing that we just don’t know?
Whether you are religious or not,I think we can all agree that there is more to this world than science,right? But can we also agree that we don’t know what is more to this world other than science that has been proven factual and that we are using religion as a source of reassurance because we don’t feel comfortable with the unknown. The unknown makes us feel venerable and apprehensive, hence we resort to our faith even if it’s totally absurd and irrational. It’snot that I hate religion or hold it in low regards, I just don’t understand it,and find it strange that more people aren’t questioning the ludicrousness ofit.
As I was reading the Bible for the first time, ( not in full depth) just to see the allure of it, I can’t believe people believe that bullshit.(only if you believe it word for word, I agree with the ideological aspect) Religion makes us do preposterous things, bomb other countries, kill people, suicide missions, the list goes on. I thought religion was meant to make us be good people and do good things for all humanity, but why is senselessness the effect of religion. If this is what “God”wants us to do, if this is what “God” is telling us to do, then I’m glad “God”doesn’t talk to me from up above.
But all in all it’s true what they say, when times are arduous, whether it maybe be family trouble, or drug problems, religion or faith, helps you get through it, because it is something you can rely on to be there for you, when your family is not there, or when want to snort your next line. I’m glad thatthere is that outlet of spirituality that helps people sustain from drugs or killing others, but aren’t morals and intelligence enough? Why do we have to succumb to irrational behavior to be good human beings? Why have we let our faith become so blind, that is has obscured our intelligence?