Requiem For Bohemia

Today marked the first day of my internship at KPFK Pacifica Radio. Although I've only flirted with the idea of being involved with broadcast journalism, I'm awfully excited to learn both front and back end aspects of running a radio show; I'm even more excited to know that I'm actually going to get the opportunity to be on air. I've only started to get my foot wet and already I've compiled a small list of interviews in my head that I want to conduct for one of their many programs, "Poet's Cafe".

I had the wonderful opportunity to be in studio while Vivian (who I cannot thank any more for giving me this spectacular opportunity) interviewed author Daniel Hurewitz about his book, Bohemian Los Angeles. An aspect of his book hit close to home, as it touches upon the history of Edendale, California - what us Angelinos recognize as Silverlake and Echo Park today. Spending most of my life residing in Echo Park, an area that inspired and enabled me to participate in countless poetry readings, I had no idea the massive history and importance of growing artistic culture it encompassed - the bohemian lifestyle that was flourishing with the largest and most significant poets, artists, and filmmakers in Los Angeles at the time.

I came out of the station today having learned much more than I had expected. I was given some insight about a community's rich and inspiring story I was connected with, yet knew nothing of.
Boy, Abee's fascination about that run-down district makes so much more sense now.

Riding The Night With A Trafficked Mind

I was driving down Route 66, burritos on my mind and a stomach hungry for thought. It was late but hunger prevailed against lethargy, and here I was driving towards Del Taco. The streets were empty, and I was relaxed. I felt so free to just think - the lights were out around me, but man, Vegas would envy the festival of thought right here, inside this metropolis between my ears. Five miles, and no sign of Del Taco. Did I go the wrong way? Shit, I did.

Red light. Green Light. Go.

And so I continued on, the only other street it could be on. I thought of her. I always think about her. I thought about how much I wanted things to change. But I had to be patient. I thought about the smile only she brought onto my face. I wish she could be here with me, sitting in the car with a trafficked mind too, and in an instant a conversation would give birth between us, immersed with our overflowing ideas and colorful banter. I wanted to create a world with her; I wanted us to beautifully destroy each other, to create each other. Damn! It wasn't on this street either. I decide to just settle for Taco Bell. After waiting ten minutes, they tell me that they're out of rice. I take my cognitive cash back and decide to find someplace else to get food.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

Ralphs closed twelve minutes ago. Damn, I've already tacked on ten miles on this midnight journey. Albertsons is closed too, and at this point desperation is running high. I pass by three cop cars surrounding a scene of four officers arresting two drug dealers. I wonder if they had burritos on their minds, if they ran into a detour in a quest for the food of thought. The streets are empty, and I felt like speeding because all this thinking, all these wonderful thoughts are making my nerves dance, and I go. 120mph and it's still not keeping up with my thoughts. Of her. Of life. Of these trees, these lampposts and these lights turning into a melting blur around me.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

I wasn't having any luck finding food, and the streets were growing tired of my wandering. I decided to go to the hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint near my house, a three minute walk down the street. I burned twenty miles of gasoline and thoughts for a restaurant three minutes away. But I didn't care; I had everything on my mind and nothing in my stomach. I ate, and waited for the thoughts to digest.

Chris Gil

An Unfinished Start To An Idea For A Possible Short Story

I.

We sat at a restaurant in Hollywood and he talked about his life up to that point. His name was Chris Gil and the kid should've been miserable, but he wasn't. He seemed just fine and open to his scarred history - maybe a little too fine and open. You'd be shocked to hear him say, "My mom just went to jail yesterday" or "Yeah, my life's pretty damn messed up" with a calm, straight face accompanied with a tone that made the remarks feel like a rehearsed line he was trying out. You'd swear he were lying, that he was just pulling your leg for a cheap laugh, until you caught it. Through the pair of light brown eyes you'd see the glint of despair, the whisper of loneliness softly embedded in that seemingly blank stare - and then you'd know. With pain like that, he couldn't be kidding for a second.

Chris lived in the house behind my parents' with his father. It was a small, spanish-styled two bedroom house in the small sub-city of Los Feliz in Los Angeles. Chris' father was gone for the most part each day, so Chris practically lived in solitude, fending for himself at fifteen. For whatever little time his dad was home, he was wasted. I knew of this the first day Chris and I had met.
"So, is your dad home?" I asked.
"No, he rarely is" he replied. "When he is, he's drunk. My dad's a, you know, an alcoholic."
I have to admit, I was rather surprised. No one says anything that sharply without either sounding spiteful or shameful. But this came out under neither extremity of the spectrum. What did he expect from me after blurting something like that out? What type of reply did he usually hear? Was it a cry for help? An obstacle to overcome that he was proud of?
"My dad works all day, so I'm here alone a lot."
"That's unfortunate, man" I said, trying not to sound like it was out of pity.

I was a tad uncomfortable, so I really didn't know what the right thing to say was. Maybe if he were older it wouldn't have moved me as much, but he was just a kid, like every other naive kid. On the other hand, Chris came off so much more mature. He seemed to have his head straight; he was a blessed weed in the field of pre-pubescent teenage angst.
"So, what do you want to do down the line, Joe?" he questioned. I was amused at him taking interest in me.
"I want to write" I answered. "How about you?"
"I want to be a policeman" he said, nodding his head and smiling.
"Wow, that's pretty admirable."
"Well, all my friends joined gangs. Not all of them, though - some are just doing drugs and stuff. It sucks and I don't want to get into that. I want to do something that'll clean up the city, and make me feel good about myself, not the opposite."
I chuckled. "Well, that's the perfect job to do it, I suppose. That's cool that you didn't fall into all that junk."
"Yeah, it's all just so stupid."

The kid really did have his head straight. A drunk for a dad, a convict for a mom, gangsters and drug addicts as friends, and he's still holding it together. He really started to impress me.

- Just brainstorming some ideas, so I don't know if I have anything yet. All I know is that I'm in dire need of some sleep before I attempt to revise these notes or figure out how to move forward with the story. Maybe I should work on this outside of directly coming up with stuff onto Blogger's post box, because it's sounding very bland and elementary.

And it's 1, 2, 3 strikes you're...

It was another long night and I, of course, was speeding home. I'm so accustomed to it that I don't think anything of it; it's a perfectly normal procedure when on the freeway (well, driving in general, really). Halfway home I thought, "Maybe I should keep an eye out for any cops." I frequently suggest this to myself while driving, disregard it, and make it home without any incidents - until tonight. I kid not, it was only a handful of minutes after thinking it before I was blinded by the set of lights behind me.

"Sorry, I know was going a bit too fast."
"Excuse me? 'A bit'?"
"Yeah, I know, I know. I'm just in a rush and..."
"License, registration, and proof of insurance please"

Asshole, I thought.

I explained to him my situation: I had just come from work and was rushing home only to head back to handle a family emergency. I prayed he bought into the story, doing my best to make him feel sorry for me by being extremely apologetic and meek. I didn't care if I seemed like a wuss - I had to do my best with whatever it took to get off the hook. This was another procedure I frequently practiced, because, well, it wasn't anything new.

The first time, I told the officer I was already in trouble with my mother and freaking out I was late - hence the speeding. He asked why I was out so late. I told him I lost track of time while studying all night with my best friend for the SATs, which were the next day. In truth, I was just going home from hanging out with my girlfriend at the time. The second time, I explained to the officer that the squealing noise from my car were my belts, not my tires. Each time, I got away scot free. This time, my luck ran out...somewhat.

"Have anything to drink tonight?"
"No sir, absolutely not." I accidently spat while saying this.
I hope he doesn't notice, I hope he doesn't notice.
He looked down at his hand right after the spit flew out with my words.
Dammit, he saw, he saw. I'm done.
He didn't say anything about my geyser for a mouth, and I was even more relieved to discover he was actually a nice guy. He decided to leave it as a minor infraction that can be taken care of by just attending traffic school. He also wrote down that I was going 80mph in a 65mph zone. I was going 115mph.

I really should start being more careful...
...about how well I keep a look out for these guys.

The Archive

Here's an (incomplete, but growing) archive of my existing work.
Please feel free to read/comment/share them, as I receive pay-per-click royalties for each one. Thank you, and enjoy.

+ Eulogies From The Parking Lot
+ Riding The Night With A Trafficked Mind
+ Caffeine Monologue
+ Oh, Misery Is So Beautiful
+ Billboards As People
+ Imaginary Rooftop
+ The Final Descent
+ Riding Away
+ Road
+ Script (Unfinished)
+ Stand In The Rain
+ Cousins
+ Paper
+ Distressed Attempt
+ Sanctuary
+ Time
+ Twilight Falls
+ A Dog's Last Chapter
+ The Silence In Diction
+ Playground
+ Is This Goodbye?
+ Home
+ The Smile Of Deception's Victim
+ Revelations In Deep Drags
+ Winter
+ Still Lost
[More To Come]

Life As A Movie

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture.

Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding.

I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way.