October, 2009

Past / Present — No Comments
20
Oct 09

Un “be” y dos “ce” spells Rebecca.

It’s cold today, and this bowl of four and half day old leftover chili is making me sick.  Fuck it.  Despite the watery preamble of nausea, I don’t feel like running down the block to Wok and Roll for more takeout.  Hot sauce and beer is the ultimate cure anyways, for days like this.

Today, while sitting at my desk and watching more paperwork come in than go out, I had a memory from what would be my past.  It was the ridiculous bright smile of this woman who was a co-worker of mine during my college days.  She seriously had one of the best smiles and brightest eyes that I’ve ever come across to date.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

Those words she said echoed in my mind like it was yesterday.  I kept looking into her eyes, and that goofy smile that made my headache fade into nothing.  You’re a bold bitch were one of the many thoughts that scattered across my mind.

I ask her what she meant by “one of them” knowing very well  I knew she too was “one of them” as well.

“You know, one of them. You see and feel things that are from a different time, and it scares the shit out of you.”

I stared at her, and she stared right back at me with those fucking bright eyes and now a sheepish grin.  I pulled her aside, and asked her how the hell she knew what she thought she knew.

“It’s your aura; I knew it from when you came into this training room.  I’m Rebecca by the way, RJ.  That’s un ‘be’ y dos ‘ce’”. 

Her slender finger poking my peeling name tag, brought me some comfort.  She was the first person other than my mother that knew about the weird shit that torments each day.  We became close friends after that day, and established a kindred bond that even today, miles and miles apart, still lingers.

The air started to taste stale as it usually does when I lose sync with whatever time I’m gravitating in.  I wish I could lose sync and go back to the still framed memories of then.  Far less paper work, but the food was still aged and sterlized with Bud Light and Tabasco.

Regardless, I think I’m actually going to be sick.  I’ll take this as a sign that I need to get my shit together, and find my glide path.  That aura that sweet Rebecca saw hidden on my person has only been fading since I’ve been lost here.  My trip to the past to see her eyes and spirit was for a reason.  It was another breadcrumb and piece to this jigsaw puzzle that I need to start solving, fast.

Future Perfect / Present — No Comments
9
Oct 09

Life and Love. Love and Life

I heard the most beautiful string of words that were put together to describe love last night.  “Waking up each morning, looking over to your partner and understanding why you love them more and more each day”.  

It was a realization about life and love. Love and life.  I’ve been here for a few years wandering this reality, and incompatible instance of time. Those words were from a woman who was having a conversation with what appeared to be an old friend.  They were obviously catching up; the laughter, the smiles and even tears; it wasn’t mushy to watch from the corner of my eye.. It was poetry and life in motion, and unfolding.

In a few short words, this woman with a cheesier cat smile like no other explained the definition of love.  I then started to reflect upon my own life, and miscellaneous points of confusion and as myself, if I ever felt that way.  The response that came from the shadows and echos of my mind was:  “Answer foggy, try again”.  Yes my fucking head works like a magic eight ball sometimes. 

This was the truth though.  In reflection of the random shit storm incidents in my life that were masked with denial or sadness… This was one was definitely the truth.  I really didn’t know the answer to this. Fuck.

Fuck
Fuck
and Fuck.

Reality is a bitch sometimes.  I looked at that man in the corner of my eye, and saw that he indeed loved his friend, and she too was in love with him; but there was an element missing that didn’t make them whole.  Their relationship would only be logical; not mystical.  I felt for him and her.  It was a visible but invisible barrier that was the handicap for the both of them.  But this is the reality of relationships and life, no less.

At that point, I understand why my mother loved to cook so much.  Random, yes. But it makes sense, as I type in this living journal.  it’s the release.  It’s the art form; it’s the freedom from the monotony that your relationship had spiraled down into.  Relationships that were based on survival.  Survival was a key lesson that was shared in the time I’m from.

It’s just funny though.

You are seperated from that element, and taken to a point of time in which you can reflect on what you didn’t understand or took for granted.  In the end, I’m still so cold.  I watch the goose bumps grow on my arms, and my hair stand on end when it’s fucking warm and toasty in LA.  It’s just a bitter reminder of how much I fucking hate everything; and what I’ve become.

A lost transient, who has come to the realization that he’s never coming home again.

Fuck.

My tears are so full of alcohol, they numb my fucking face as they stream.

Future Perfect / Past — No Comments
6
Oct 09

Better to be busy than dead.

It’s been awhile since I wrote to you, notepad in the sky.  The end of Summer yields tons of busy work here at the Times.  As my mentor would (will) say to me: “Better to be busy than dead“.

I had a realization in my “downtime” away from this place, that  I’m stuck here, and I’m never returning home.  Each breath I take is a bitter reminder that I’m breathing in the past as I exhale the future.  My distorted memory which only gets penciled back in by my random moments of despair is slowly meaning nothing to me.  Nothing at all.

I take solace in the smaller and finer things that this life brings to me.  The sound of silence lightly decorated with the hum of machines and ticking of old analogue clocks, brings me peace.  The visions I have the future show that nothing much has really changed for me.  It’s not the typical story of a marooned time traveler who wears a petticoat and dons a gold plated pocket watch; I’m a regular guy with above average misfortunes.

I’m a passionate creator though.  This is why I took a sought out a job at the LA Times.  It’s a departure of what I used to do originally; but it is rewarding.  The stress, the anexity, the raw freedom of print.  It’s at most times, all I really have to hold on to.

I do hate closing my eyes from time to time.  I tend to see visions of still framed memories that reflect key moments of my life that are beautiful, tranquil and inspiring, masked with a touch of heartbreak and heartache.  Some of these memories I don’t know where they originated from; others I vividly remember, especially when I can feel my heart turn to ice and ash.

This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life.  I’ll be living as a seer without purpose, and with a miserable home life. Fighting the sandman as the hour grows later and later, becomes a losing battle each day I get older.  I live for the silence and the hum of sleeping machines; but my mind and body is unfortunately weary.

Maybe I’ll dream of stars, and the charm of southern women.  I just hope I find answers as to why I’m stuck here before I unravel.  It’s all I’m asking Santa for Christmas; answers.  Not my return, not a bobsled; I just want some fucking answers.