Getting Older (2/30) NaPoMo 2016

The only time I feel old is when I scold at my reflection. I’m still here. I still recognize myself from all those years. Years that are now a series of faded images, resemblances of blurred, limited, photographs in the stead of bright, vivid motion pictures, I used to recall in my mind.

The only time I feel old is when I look at my daughter and I see how much she’s grown. How she is quickly turning into a young lady: feisty like her mother, passionate like her father; gifted all on her own. She’s begun to yearn for independence like all teenagers her age do.

The only time I feel old is when I look at my mother’s hands. Hands that cradled me, comforted me, slapped me, caressed me, stabbed me, steadied me, held me when I was left, clapped for me when I was on stage, held my hand when I crossed the street. My foundation.

The only time I feel old is when I look at the skyline of Los Angeles and marvel at its beauty, while lamenting the change that is stripping it of the memories I created with friends i long ago lost contact with, in places that no longer exist any further.

The only time I feel old is when I see the people I grew up with. Some of us made it, some of us didn’t. Most of us are alive, but very few of us are living. some of us are happy and fulfilled, many of us are still searching.

The only time I feel old is when I realize that i’m almost the age my father was when he died. I ponder on his life and am reminded that their is still so much left to do. So much left to see and experience. I am his legacy. Through me he can live vicariously.

The only time I feel old is when my daughter asks at the slang I use. She thinks i shouldn’t use terminology that my generation creates because it’s just “weird” to hear me say it. dafuq? When did I stop being cool?

The only time I feel old is when I push my body to the limit and it says “fuck you. I don’t work that way!” and I am clearly reminded of my physical limitations. The muscles aches and joint pains that creep every now and then make me long for my childhood.

My soul is eternal but my vessel is wearing out. slowly. surely. eventually. Because that’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am grateful for the chance many don’t get: to grow old.

2011: A Year in Retrospect

Its easy to admit that this past year was one of intense change, tremendous growth, and tumultuous shit! i tested my patience, my faith and belief in myself, but most importantly, i reconnected with myself in a way that i only thought i had in years past. I welcomed new members into my ever growing family, and i am thankful that i didn't lose any members of my existing family. My journey brought me back home permanently to my beautiful city of angels after a 10 year hiatus. I've created and succeeded, and i've created and learned from the shortcomings. Here is a month to month highlight breakdown of moments in my life this past year we called 2011. A year where i came back to myself and i committed to myself as an artist, as a father, as a man, but simply, as a person.

January: My Father Reincarnated?

• Fresh from our weekly winter workshops (say that real fast 3 times!), i and the rest of the Coalition of Professional Experiencers get ready to go another round at Cypress College. Brian Lofing, Kimberly Gonzalez, and I get cast in Romeo and Juliet which Marky is Directing. Adam Jaso is also cast but he is not part of the coalition. Kim and I are not on speaking terms because of differences that we ourselves don't really know other than feelings that lingered longer than needed for the work we had finished in December 2010. Loaf and I give our words to help each other through a production that would test what we thought we knew about the craft. He begins preparing for Mercutio, I for Capulet, Kim for Lady Montague, and Adam initially for Montague (later he also takes on the role of Paris).
• I enroll in what i feel will be my last semester as an acting major at Cypress, as well as the end of my studies all together there (at least for a while). I enroll in Judd Johnson's version of Ann Bogart's movement course which he learned directly from her, and i also enroll in his improv class which promises to be fun. I take scene study with Marky, checking off the final course in the fundamentals of the Morris System before i a) take off and learn from Eric himself, or b) wait until Mark begins teaching privately and continue learning from him. I take Camera Acting once more for shits and giggles since i know im going to need a class where i can just explore freely with craftual and instrumentals approaches without having the pressure of producing a completed product (although we know that a role is never truly completed).
• I move out of Uncle Otto's house. I move back to Anaheim. i rent a small room from a lady named Gloria, who is fairly nice. i strip myself of the remainder of my material possessions and prepare myself to dive head first into the work and eliminating as many distractions as possible. 
• Caitlin Miller and I begin becoming real close friends. we happen to have some of the same classes and we find that we enjoy each others company. we begin hanging out after class. I teach her how to play chess. She reminds me that not all people are pieces of shit. I'd say that's a good trade off.
• I discover the power of Dynamic movement thanks to Judd Johnson.
• Caitlin and i go on our first hike to the Hollywood sign on January 30th, my father's birthday. the day starts off foggy and drizzly. We have breakfast at Denny's on Sunset. afterwards we walk down Hollywood Blvd and catch the subway to Universal City Walk. A day well spent in memory of my father with the best of company to keep me smiling.
• My cousin Betty gives birth to her third son, Benjamin. I meet him for the first time a week after he is born. the first time i look into his eyes he immediately feels familiar to me as i to him. he smiles at me as if saying "Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you were going to stop by to see me." this sense of familiarity for the new born was further heightened when I was told that he was born on the same day as my deceased father. I don't believe coincidences.

February: Zombie Prom

• Thanks to Sal, Michael and Danny, A bunch of us decide to dress up as dead zombies and go to the "Zombie Prom" Saint Motel concert at the Alexandria Hotel in downtown L.A. on 5th and Spring. this event happens on the saturday before valentine's day. we freak a bunch of people out when we stop at a local in-n-out. good times were had by all.
• Things with the CPE begin to crumble.
• I perform at BEYOND THE BOOTS benefit with other fellow poets. Event hosted by Hosanna Wong.

March: Beware The Ides of March

• not much to recap for this month except that i was deeply invested in my craft and the characterization of the role i was going to be playing in April.
• Feelings outside of friendship begin to surface for Caitlin. We've had been spending a lot of time together. It's only a matter of time before this thing either grows or blows up in my face.
• I perform again for UTM's SPIT under the direction of KasiTeYani.
• Shooting for Two Rooms written and directed by Marvin Choi begins. I play the role of Carlos.

April: C & A is the New R & J

• With the Opening of R&J, Caitlin and I begin dating. I took an incredible journey in that production. I went to places that i knew i could but dreaded going. It was both rewarding and taxing. To lose oneself within a character. to blur the lines of the self and the character so much so that there were times when i didn't know where the man ended and where the character began. My friend Gary Colon knew and understood this best from all the cast. 
• I take Caitlin to her first Open Mic in L.A. entitled Speak Easy hosted by Lady Bosco in downtown L.A. Where she performs alongside me and my friends of ForWord.
• The CPE has its last workshop with the entire original group. we tear each other apart. no one really recoups from it. that is the last Workshop i attend with them.
• The CPE holds auditions for new members. 6 people including Jason Nieblas and Adam Jaso.
• Kim and i begin working on our friendship again.

May: Peace to the CC, Stuck in Limbo.

• after finishing the semester, I get offered the position of Director of SP!T for UTM. I accept and begin creating more in depth with Urban Theatre Movement. my first Show for them is Scheduled in June.
• I say good bye to Cypress College. 
• The yearly Disneyland trip for Aileen's Birthday continues. We celebrate her 9th birthday at the happiness place on earth: anywhere with her daddy. :)
• I quit The CPE due to differences in vision. I choose to focus all of my creative energy with Urban Theatre Movement. as the CPE breaks down i ask Kim Gonzalez and Adam Jaso to join me with UTM, along with Caitlin. We begin to plant seeds in fertile, creative soil called UTM.

June: SP!T Reinvented

• The first SP!T i direct is a mixed success. The talent was abundant but the venue was not. Mistakes were made but that is part of the learning process. I commit to improving it for the next one.

July: Independence from Dependence

• Spend the 4th in San Diego and chill with the siblings.

August: Can't Take the Hood out the Homeboy

• I participate in the last unofficial reading for Short Eyes which is UTM's next main stage production. 

Insomnia (1/30) NaPoMo

I can’t sleep... too much on my mind like cluttered closets covered in costumes that consume me by consummating and assuming my most recognized identity. Aversion towards myself: is the version I keep hidden from public eye, even though it’s forbidden to be that open about being love stricken if it leaves you guilt ridden, like secrets revealed underneath the fine linen of premium mattresses. I find the realest version of me when I’m being someone else opposite beautiful actresses, but always leaving just enough room for the corrective asterisk, at the risk of being mislabeled by judgmental fingers that’ll motion; tsk tsk... I long to make love while John Lennon tells me to Hide My Love Away, but it was Faul who said to Let It Be. As the record spins repeatedly, until all that is left is static noise. Phallic toys placed in between the uncomfortable silence that follows when the intimacy ends, and the awkwardness begins, between two strangers, while the only thing left to say is “ It’s getting late, I should get going.” Both parties relieved for the impending departing, for the spark conceived, once passionately burning, is now the emptiness of loneliness being fed for the time being. My hour of rest is calling. Until the honey dew voice with the hungry new vice: my touch, which is slightly warmer than ice, speaks with the residual tone of one who’s been constantly defeated. Her inner conflict interrupts my train of thought as she says, “Wanna do it again?” Summoning the insatiable lust, Rummaging for a a new Jimmy to bust, no longer a need to pretend, with this single serving friend who quickly mounts up, knowing the connection is fleeting. Each moment succeeding in revealing the deepest wounds within each other that need healing. Ride the pain away while I gaze at the ceiling, daydreaming of a day now passed, while night owls brings on heavy breathing in between pleasured moaning, but why then am I crying? Did i forget to blink in my mourning? The last of the illusion fades with the first light of the morning.

And I just want to be alone

Coping

My first drag of Crystal Meth smoke
provoked and awoke my inner oaf,
teenage folly led me to exercise what I loathed
about myself: as my mind delved
into being a Meth-head,
precursor to the method,
because it wasn’t enough for me,
to know something conceptually,
it had to be experienced.
I sought a quick way out my pain, I was lost and delirious;
a  slave,
surely this fate could’ve been avoided,
like my father in a grave,
I didn’t spend my last day with him,
I was too busy getting saved.
This was before I lost my way, and incinerated my faith.
On that night,
I overdosed in the living room as I heard my sister sob,
 asking my little brother, If of my life; they would be robbed,
as step dad slapped me hard across the face,
just to keep me awake,
while he tried to remain calm.
Every time i closed my eyes,
He would violently shake,
me like a rag doll,
i couldn’t feel nothing at all,
his voice was so distant and far, I could barely hear him call:
“C’mon wake up buddy,
If you go to sleep you’ll become a lifeless body”.
I couldn’t make eye contact, my eyelids felt so heavy.
I could see my father in the distance,
right hand outstretched, he was calling to me.
I felt the whole universe imploding  with each shallow breath,
my life force moved closer to the eternal moment of death.
I survived,
only to have no discrepancy about how my dependency
caused me to feind drastically, dragging me through street alleys,
causing me to search for pennies, literally:
I walked for miles down Crenshaw Blvd at 3 am,
tasting the Methamphetamine on my phlegm when i coughed,
exposed to the world, while my soul’s in a coffin,
I spoke to myself with head down, eyes scanning,
“i just need some change to buy a hit, I’ll feel better by morning”
This was how i processed my father’s loss, this was me in mourning.
I just wanted to relive heaven by Inhaling the residue from that speed dime,
this was how I spent "me time",
if i could go back,
I’d rewind, re-mind myself that by design, my health would decline,
never mind that i would die.
But that was the point: I didn’t want to live:
A boy’s world without his hero, is the place where the villains win.
So at 16, I gave up on life prematurely,
altered my brain's chemistry to forgo my destiny.
This beast of burden became part of my identity.
I am,
Forever on rehab,
forever an addict,
sobriety is a daily feat,
an ongoing delicate balance.

The Old Man Poet

I gave an old poet 5 dollars on the blue line today

Gave him 5 dollars worth of hope

5 dollars worth of dope

5 dollars that went towards a slow needle

Over a fast noosed rope.

I gave him 5 dollars worth of smoke inhalation

That eases his suicidal contemplation

Inhaling that comforting and tingling sensation

That ease his addictive yearn, eliminates concern,

Makes the cold disappear and the fear seem unknown,

No longer his own, as his eyes roll over and glaze,

This ecstasy is but a moment of escape from his trap maze,

For he is a RAT!!

Scum bum who stinks like old piss and dry cum,

His appearance screams of poverty and SLUMS.

But he don’t care. His mind escapes hell por un tiempo,

As his soul struggles to free itself from his corrupted temple.

While we, his audience, witness the whole spectacle.

And When it’s done, we’re too afraid to applaud,

Not for his sake but for our own thin facades.

But I skip ahead, like a guillotine that cannot be reset,

Right before this poet began to proclaim

He scanned the train car to see what his chances were,

Of sparring with us for some spare change so I,

Being a poet myself, gave him a 5.

5 misely dollars for this learn-ed street scholar,

As I studied his face and wondered:

If the pen is mightier than the sword,

why didn’t he pen a story where his life’s successes happen?

He could have done that with a worn out Bic.

Maybe its cuz the same company makes permanent Matchsticks

and he chose a Bic lighter to heat up his spoon,

while any clean needle from the clinic will do,

as he chases dragons that slay him with every stab to his blue line veins.

Blue line blues, blue line pains, blue line tragedy

like the guy that threw himself in front of the blue line train

I rode the other day. But that story is written for another day cuz,

This one’s about an old poet who spoke easy, like the open mic.

His voice was hoarse

from a damaged wind pipe,

Which feels to him as if his soul has a hole,

from a gunshot wound from the botched robbery in 82’

that robbed him of his name and his dreams

replaced them with the ambition a glass pipe seams

together with broken promises, love lost, his existence forgotten.

When devils will the blackest sins put on,

they fool you into believing that the dusk is but the dawn.

He is, but a pawn, that lives on a hit by hit basis,

this is the life of this base head, wasted; his talent almost is.

I say almost but his life is all least,

He’s a frontal lobe lobotomy away from being a beast,

he’s pouring out his heart: he’s a genuine artiste.

The Pain of his words echo with each sound that is released,

While the other passengers act as if he don’t even exist.

They just want him to quit his spit, cease his piece,

 leave in peace, where the fuck is the MTA police?

I bet with a rapper’s Jesus Piece over his neck,

he wouldn’t find the lord close to his heart

cuz he’s the one who left.

Now… the only difference between this poet and I

Is that he crapped out of life one too many times

After he last rolled dices, he got the whole shit pie

We just get served slices, Justice can be bought,

But he can’t afford inflated prices.

He gave up slowly when he decided not to fight it;

He recited passages about his life and how he got blindsided

But it wasn’t Poe’s Raven, or even Michael Oher,

although he was born from a whore

For every hugged she almost gave him,

Her crack pipe needed her more.

He spoke about not knowing his real dad

And going off to war to provide for his mom

But he didn’t cuz he came back fucked up from Vietnam.

He carried his life on his back, in a pack, that was dark blue or black

Like his lungs from the tar

Or his heart from the scars

That don’t heal with meds for pain

His hair was graying

While his teeth decaying but the words he was saying,

still had life in ‘em

while his tattered veins coursed poisonous venom

and his mangled brain fought to stay active with’em

I meant to only give him a dollar cuz shit… I’m broke too.

But fuck it, I went ahead and gave him my only 5 instead

As he nodded his head, while

“God Bless You” he quietly said, as he passed me by

I could almost hear his inner child cry.

In that moment I felt my own pain subside

And I thanked the highest source for the gift of being alive.

I purchased a memory that night with the only 5 I owned

I counted my blessings, got off on 5^th and spring

 as I wondered bout this poet and where else he had been

and whether or not he had a home.

I gave an old poet 5 dollars on the blue line today.

I gave 5 misely dollars to a speak easy scholar.

Breathe easy brother. There is hope in the tomorrow.

Revisiting Where I Stay

I used to not care, when everyone seemed to care. Now that I care, no one seems to care. We fire invisible flares in the air that are full of despair, come and share a moment where I stay.

These days you gotta be down, I’m already knowing aint nobody got my back, Electronic Bank Transactions replaced food stamps as a plastic form of attachment. These  credits get sold 50 cents on the dollar, no ID required when you swipe it at the teller, if you want the hook up, let me know and I will tell her: don’t judge, she does it to keep up with bills and make her rent, cause the weekly paycheck gets spent on la cundina that keeps meals in la cocina, no cozy net for violet, plus her  2 year unemployment benefit has been exhausted, she swore she had a dream but she don’t know where she lost it. Maybe her son stole and sold it for a bag of tweak. She used her tax refund to bail him out the same week. He promised to reform but his will is awful weak, plus the attorney won’t proceed without his full retainer fee, she lies and promises she sent the payment in the mail, and that she couldn’t drive because her car is unavail. She got sold a lemon, first week the starter failed, but she signed a contract with no buyback on the fine print caption, she needs to take action with the bank fore she runs out of options, this is what she ponders while she scrubs a shitty toilet, in a house she’ll never own, that thought alone hurts cause she knows it, commutes three hours away just to earn a daily wage to get by where I stay.  

Here, there are food trucks with decaying supplies invaded by flies. The music blazes louder than a baby’s hunger cries, blaring from a car with the homies riding by, while momma is asleep in the bedroom on the other side, of the wall dreaming of a place where she thrives and never stalls, does more than survives, stopped chasing waterfalls. Walter Mercado said her stars will align, instead she had too many kids and treats them out of line. Her head constantly throbs, for months she’s been between jobs, she’s been conditioned to believe she’s aint shit without a mop, tried to go to school, finish up her G.E.D., signed up for classes, same night: took an E.P.T., priorities shifted to an unwanted pregnancy, her attitude is “fuck it, I got 2 months before I show.” time to hit the club even though she got no dough. Dances all her pain away in oceans of adios, motherfuckers, purchased by the sucker that thinks that he can fuck her if he gets her drunk enough to mess with her self esteem, 15 minutes later: rocking bucket; windows steamed, all of this attention makes her feel almost famous, struggling against living life forever nameless, becoming just another face, in this place where I stay.

Papi works two jobs cause he has no way to legalize, despite his short comings he’s a stand up type of guy. Comes home; to his surprise that they turned off all his lights, wifey spent the bill money on shitty highlights and heels that make her feel good cause she paid less at payless, add some tights from los callejones and you got a ghetto mess. No dinner on the kitchen table she’s too lazy to be able, to pop some pop-tarts in the toaster with some tartar sauce for flavor. Instead… he’s welcomed by a sea of red papered bills that read: final notice, final notice, noticias finales de la ultima hora, someone lost the bottle cap so he sips on flattened soda. As he wonders how the fuck will he ever meet his quota, of paying all the bills climbing up the golden hill, only to discover that aint where they grow the dollar bills. Early on that day he walked to work 40 blocks, ripped his only pair of shoes and exposed his holey sox, didn’t have the money to fix his bicycle’s flat tire, couldn’t catch the metro cause his TAP pass had expired. Watching strangers raise his kids while he lives in the shadows, dreamer of a reform Act that’ll wash away his sorrows here where I stay.

Little Tony’s got no guidance, he’s a accustomed to domestic violence, at night he cries in silence, till he gets two heavy eyelids, he lives alone in an island within his fragile mind, mom brings home different guys but never asks if he minds, daddy left over some shit that he don’t understand, now he only gets to see this man on the weekends. Why is that? Cause where I stay, mothers are negligent, militant discipline is a threatening option, to the ears of single parented offspring, Darwinism makes us vicious, while the pigs make us suspicious. Abuse is silenced, cries go unheard, our lives are replicated, through modern spoken word, get educated in the cipher going on at the curb, Maybe that’s why I can never really adapt, anyplace too comfortably where I call a habitat. In the back of my conscious is where I keep my habits at. There’s a shortage of activists, many are hardcore pacifists, tired of the beef but don’t know where the action is, it takes more than a raised fist to bring change onto where I stay. Here in urban America is where I stay.

Waffles

I love the dog... he's driving me crazy.