Oh, Misery Is So Beautiful

So this is what heaven is initially perceived as: this magical plane where one is granted eternal happiness, in exchange for the time served on earth carrying out model citizen duties. Behind the proverbial pearly gates is where angels will suck your dick for hours, while J.C.—at the right hand of God, the big man you've been slaving your entire mortal life to meet - shoots you a thumbs-up and a smile when you blow your load. And that's it right there. The golden finish line, the cherry on top of the sundae, and the standing ovation for the life you've made for yourself.
But as dedicated the hopefuls are to standing by this, as grand as they've all built it to be, and as tempting it all has been to eat it all up, it's bullshit; it has to be. The great landscape caressed by immortality is only a lie packaged in a box of propaganda, finished off with an illusionary, bright red ribbon.
What we’re really looking forward to…what this promise really grants…is an eternity twiddling our thumbs and enjoying the scenery.

If heaven truly existed, and was obtainable to those who fulfilled its requirements, then what lies ahead is no better than the lives we struggle with down here on Earth. Heaven, how I see it, is but a promise of a life with no purpose, no cause or meaning. There is nothing to work for, anything to strive for, nor work towards. Although that is the big prize – living worry free and not burdened with obligations – there is absolutely no stimulation. What makes life worth living is the human mechanic and downfall of never being able to be truly content--even if we aspire for the unobtainable, it gives us reason to wake up; to breathe. We bitch and we moan about how difficult life is, but if that struggle were taken away - if we were granted the key to “heaven”, or something like it - we’d only last a small breath, a tiny whisper before craving those very afflictions we detested.

So this, right here - our miserable, disgusting lives - is as good as it gets. We should all be thankful for the wondrous filth we’ve made ourselves to sleep in every night. We should give praise to the rapists, murderers, racists and terrorists for making life such a grand fucking adventure. A toast to all the moguls, high-society aristocrats, and celebrities for keeping that impossible wall for us to constantly climb, struggling with bleeding knuckles and cracked ribs. In the end, it all unknowingly plasters a grin on our faces that heaven could never match—because misery is so fucking beautiful.

So this is it.
Your heaven and your hell.
You can go ahead and call your mid-life crisis your limbo.
Your "God" might as well be that step-dad that put his hands down your pants when you were a kid.
There is no gold watch, necktie and farewell handshake.
Eat your shit with a smile, because eternal life is the toy in the happy meal that the Mexican kid stole from you.

It's A Safari In Los Angeles

The Zoo, ubiquitously controversial in the animal rights world, was a place I had not been to since childhood. I had played around with the thought of going, the idea jumping back and forth between giving into my curiosity and allegiance to the ethical beliefs that were common ground amongst fellow activists. I was stuck; conflicted. But I later decided that my beliefs on such things are my own, and that any popularized ideas related to said topics were but building blocks for a foundational structure one may or may not want to go with.










So I decided that, even if I had chosen to be firm about any opinions towards Zoos (much like Circuses, but there’s no question that nothing will change how I feel about them), I should at the very least go to observe and fully understand what goes on before forming any final decisions. And hey, I love animals--plain and simple. I go and tell myself that if I see any of what had me against Zoos in the first place, I can witness the accounts firsthand. I do, however, know the other side of Zoo keeping: preservation of threatened/endangered species, breeding, conservation, etc., and hope to be more captivated by that than by anything else. And hell, it was a fun way to spend an afternoon with my girlfriend on our anniversary.

The Los Angeles Zoo was, quite surprisingly, not ghetto. I have joked about picturing a rundown lawn lined with rusted cages housing miserable animals that chain smoked – stupid, yes - but there would be some truth between those words. The establishment seems well maintained, runs a decent program along with involvement in many conservation projects and has adequate housing (although I’d rather see them free). Not too shabby, I must say. Honorable mentions include the California sea lions, mouth-gaping hippos being fed, beautiful girlfriend to explore with, and fresh kettle corn.

Breaking Back In

I haven’t updated in quite some time, since my life has been…well, busy. I can’t remember the last time my life turned into this series of left and right hustling, but it’s definitely a great one-eighty. All of the things I’ve placed on my plate as of the last two months have not only been productive towards my life, but immensely rewarding. I’m not sure where to start, but to record as much as I can muster, I’ll start from the most noteworthy and go from there.

This decision is surely one that draws the most criticism, and the ever-so-popular shake of the disapproving head. I’ve moved out of my last apartment and into a new place that I now share with my significant other, Kathleen. This is a definite first in my book and - not so surprisingly – has been far from overwhelming (at least in the I-want-to-rip-out-my-hair sense). Other than for the better, it hasn’t changed nor deterred our relationship. All hands on deck, no regrets whatsoever, all chips in, and I couldn’t be any happier.

With going back to school coming up, the internships I have under my belt, my book and all else that makes up my quite stimulating life, I left my last job for one that was a far better fit for me – actually, this could be by far the best one I’ve ever had. And again, I couldn’t be any happier.

Now, I had a (massively interesting) back story about the newly acquired group of friends I’m about to mention and was going to blog about it, but felt that too much time had passed since (I’m just lazy, really - maybe I’ll still go forth with doing so after this post). I love how they’re mutual friends between Kathleen and I, and although only knowing them for such a short amount of time, I’ve really come to see them as genuine friends I’d know I’d hate losing. Either way, I enjoy their company and the time we’ve spent so far.

So, it’s summer now, and the aforementioned group of friends and I have covered making the most of it by beach hopping, gallery viewing, ghost hunting and torturing poor Denny’s servers. All’s left is going to shows, and as it’s concert season, I should start buying tickets.

Well, that's it for now. I swear, I'm going to get back into the habit of posting regularly, especially with new work/pieces. And the content is going to be a lot better - apologies for the poorly written blog.

Talking To The Moon

I am absolutely enthused; today, our radio program's producer, Rita, gave me my first big assignment: read author Noel Alumit's latest novel, Talking to the Moon, and then interview him on-air.
This is something I'm definitely going to anticipate and prepare well for.

Funny enough, she gave me the assignment unbeknownst to the fact that the author is Filipino-American, with the culture strongly tied to his story. I see it as an opportunity to at some point bring the conversation to common ground, and aid me in avoiding asking the ever-popular tiresome and generic questions. After all, I don't want to look like a feeble-minded simpleton in front of an author who just recently added an LA Weekly award under his belt; I want this interview to do his reputation good justice.

Only digesting a thin layer of the first part of the book, I already enjoy the novel - and the author. I have definitely grown much respect for him and his writing so far. It's someone like him that makes an aspiring author like myself feel like having a shot at really making it.

Feel free to enjoy this small excerpt from the book:

The Final Descent

"What...what is this?" he cautiously asked.
His hand slowly came up to meet hers, outstretched and beckoning for his grasp.

She had carried him away into what could only be described as the whisper of beautiful oblivion. He trembled in her arms, and when he turned to look at her, only a quiver of his lips was what he could muster as speech. She nodded with knowing eyes, and her soft lips spoke words that he could not hear, for ringing in his ears was the rhythmic tune of the marriage of their beating hearts.

His eyes darted back and forth in confusion, and his breathing grew erratic. Smiling, she cupped the side of his face with one hand, and with the other, drew a finger over his mouth, slowly starting to hang open as she calmed him. An inexplicable warmth greeted him, and their gazes met and locked in place, not faltering for a second as they both were flung into the mosaic of all that they were.

They embraced, and breathed into each other for the last time.

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.