Ommm~

I hear a faint hum in the middle of the night and wake up in search of this little noise that I think I'm hearing or that is possibly just inside my head. At this point I'm not really sure since my sleep patterns reflects a scatter plot that lacks any plot and is all scatter--hyphenated sleep followed by commas, brackets, obeli, ellipsis, asterims, and full stop periods.

Here is a close typographic resemblance:
--  zz,,,,.[      Z!]*    ÷   ...   ⁂. ©

In any case, the pattern (or lack thereof) keeps me from sleep, and I haven't had a good night's rest the whole week. This fact increases my distrust and uncertainty; how can I trust the things I am hearing, or imagining, when I haven't had a sound night of sleep in a week? I can't imagine (the fact of imagining anything at all astounds me: the only true reflection is that of a completely stupid fool taking his paranoia too seriously as though it mattered); this must be hell, no..., more accurately, an exaggeration.

mellow-drama: Te-le-vele-no-ve-L.A.

I go over to the fridge and for some ice cold water.

The fridge emits a noise itself as though it has a little lawnmower underneath; this is not the source. The fridge sound buzzes and sometimes clanks; it doesn't hum.

I go out to the deck and sip on the water to cool down in the hot summer night. I continue to hear the hum coming from behind me somewhere.

William Lee said once said that being paranoid is simply having the right information.
I'm not paranoid. 
I'm just lacking a bit of sleep.

These past few weeks have been difficult on my body; lack of nutrition has made me lose 10 pounds. I eat oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I sip on coffee to drink something other than water. I feel dizzy spells and grow faint, nearly passing out every now and then. My rent's due; the check comes and disappears, I then work a whole month toward performing my next magic trick. Dizzy spells. Magic trix. Hokus-Bogus-Pocus, lack of focus.

There it goes again: that vibrating sound. I finish the water and pour a glass of whine.

There was another shooting in the news today, but these things have become so routine that they have have entered a narrative of indifference because of being accustomed to everything that nothing really matters, or self-preservation.

This narrative occurs at work, and the magic tricks, or illusions, expose the reality of a circumstance that draws me nearer to the source of the humming noise. Somebody behind the curtain pulls the invisible strings that highlight the sideshows, and we applaud and shout hooray! Above our heads someone shines a light and we are handed a script. Everyone totally focused on the magic tricks.

The AC at work hums above our heads while we collectively configure splintered sentences.

The languid movements of my performances at work illustrate my feeble attempt to break the spell that hypnotizes...to break the depression that hysterically mocks and attempts to invade my body and soul like a virus looking for a clean and healthy host (or so I think)...to break away from the constant battering of mind and spirit in dealing with all types of energies every thirty minutes. After a while it's best to shut down and run on cruise-control until I arrive at my destination: taking you on a tour, my dear voyeur.

At night when I do not sleep, I read the Bible. I suppose that I'm trying to understand the Word and utilize the frequencies that can be emitted by the Word in order to heal. This is perhaps another magic trick illusion. Illusion layered upon illusion: ommm~

INCA.NTATIONL.AMEN.TATION: OM~

This past week, I was reading about the hippocampus, the pineal gland, the cerebrum, and the cherubim. The term cherubim comes from the Assyrian word Kiribu, from Karåbu, "to be near."

I am attempting, perhaps subconsciously, to "be near" or to at least re-cognize G-d through the brain's plumbing. The reconfiguration stems from a deep desire to want to believe in something more than the destructive forces of uniforms, metals, and punch-cards. But this attempt merely reflects a further derangement of my already disordered nervous system, and the weaving of dots and plot points fabricate into my own theory of faith.

Indeed, the obsession illustrates my derangement, yet I tend to persist in these spaces that yield no benefit whatsoever. I consistently tell myself that I should pursue practical things, and become someone, like a teacher, a garbageman, a priest, an anarchist, a human...or something like that. But those things often feel foreign, and there's nothing that makes me squirm more than a poorly, indifferently executed performance (much like this writing thing, I'm trying, but I'm not really good at it: the prose lacks cohesion; the wording turns all of it...into comedy, not the good kind, the type that makes you uncomfortable, these pieces of text lack plot and structure, and all of it reflects baboon buffonery ornery boober or a babo...so, whatever)
  It seems that I am addicted to filling the creeping dullness of routine with paranoia, which often reflects the sanity I chip away at (indeed, I at least have some sanity to begin with) in contrast to the useless, pointless knowledge that holds me with just enough buoyancy. But perhaps I secretly desire to sink and suffocate, yet I can not achieve that, still bubbling and gurgling in the intestines like a fart that eventually floats, liberating itself, and contaminating the oxygen with a foul smell, for it declares it's (neglected) presence, and brings to light the refuse in, amid, and throughout the historical neglect, reminding of the few hiccups here an there and disturbing the order in civility and properties.

Perhaps that's where the sound is coming from?

A Fool

It tended to be cold out most of the days, like the breeze one feels from opening a freezer--that sudden gust of condensing vapor: the instant, brief hint of fog.

frigid aire


No one was home, and there wasn't muchpasteto eat. He toasted some wheat bread and warmed some coffee. He sat on the warmly lit kitchen table. Dimming the light, he took a minute to look down at supper for that evening. Clasping his hands together over the dish of warm bread, he prayed, even though he wasn't very religious. He prayed to nothing, for nothing, grateful for nothing, for the nada in and of everything. He supposed it funny to be hunched over those crumbs, but it just felt right. He lit a candle and dimmed the light some more. 

Sometimes right lighting can make all the difference. 

He repeated many thanks, but most of them were directionless.

A loud knocking woke him from concentration. Tok, tok, tok! he went over to open the door. It was an old friend. 

“yo-yo, what’s up?”

“Hey!...Come in"

“Nada nada limonada..just trying to eat. Want some coffee or something?”

“Come in, close the door”
They both ate toast and drank coffee.

They talked a little about a recent LACMA exhibit: the Olmec heads—a bunch of concrete heads on display all over the museum. He recalled it being a nasty thing. He talked about how they must have been an innovative people to be able to fashion all that rock into shape, but his friend thought it a shame that the history testified to a dark past. His friend said heads are severed through policy nowadays. He stopped paying attention and wandered off in thought when his friend got into nostalgic and political words. He didn’t want to hear any of it; It was tinkling brass and phraseology to him--a speechifier and too much pomp.

“Listen, I’m going out”
“Where to?”
“I’m going to meet Hope by Dockweiler”
“oh...bad timing eh? ok, well, I came over to see what you were up to. Hey, what are they doing to the streets over there?”

Outside, the jackhammer played a symphony to a tow truck that kept rhythm.

“I don’t know...repairs”
“Well, if ain’t broke don't fix it, I always say” His friend took paranoia seriously.

“wise words there”
“You bet! next thing you know taxes will be going up! well, that being said, take care! See you later”

“...take care. goodbye”
And like that his friend, as suddenly as he appeared, quickly disappeared. 



He called twice and there was no answer. Maybe she got caught up in some sort of business, he thought. It’s always some sort of entanglement. Last time she told him she was held up by a conversation. There’s something dreadful about carrying on a conversation whilst another needs to go. Seems there is rarely any time to “stop and chat,” and sometimes many see it better to carry conversations over into some sort of a digital interface. There is something weird about the human condition when devices used to communicate isolate in some fashion—fragments, a message here, an e-mail, a picture, a disembodied voice (voicemail) there. nowhere and virtually everywhere He sent a text message: “headed out, take warm clothes, see you there,” and grabbed his jacket and car keys.

He started daydreaming about something; he didn’t even recall what though. He’d lost his wallet the prior night and was calling the bank to cancel the credit card. A recording that notified him about all the tellers being busy would occasionally interrupt the muzack. It was nice, at least, to hear that voice. It was human, even though it was recorded; there was some history there, in the tone that said, "thank you for calling." He hung up and decided to cancel online upon return; he was heading out. Driving down the 105, passing LAX, the metal machines took off and dragged clouds behind them over the blue canvas.  The days were filled with this type of useless daydreaming. The fog thickened as he neared closer to the Pacific down Imperial toward Vista Del Mar. 

He arrived a little early, or just on time, depending on purpose, which is never quite clear yet opaque as air. He parked on Vista; it was happy hour. He entered a pub and, thus, shifted the atmosphere. 

“Young mm-man,” said an older gentleman.
“Don’t listen to, -sten to him, he’s drunk” said another over his shoulder.

The young man laughed, a bit drunk, not really to humor them; his drunkenness had reached a level of looseness whereby one could forget about themselves. On the brim of Dionysian forgetfulness. 

His (e)very cell(s) was doused in alcohol. 

He checked his cellphone: nothing. There actually was a sense of relief since his clouded, intoxicated thoughts would be furthered obscured by the weak signal on his cell. 

“LL--Listen to what, to what...I am telling you! you see..see that woman over there”
“yeah, she's beautiful”
“right you are, there...lover boy! gg-go over, and ask her, if she’d like to have sex. What’s the worst that can happen? She slaps you or she says yes”

He was starting to sober up, or he needed another drink.

“1 in 99 that it might work; I even doubt that...that figure, maybe it's more like 0 in 100”
"0 in 100! see, that's what's wrong with you young man, take a risk! 1 in 99? now that zounds likepretty good, purrety good, odds, wouldn’t you say? Feeling lucky?”

“I’m not a gambling man”
“Well then you ain’t living! It feels good to live!”
“excuse me, I’ve got to take this call”
"bah!"

He stepped aside. 

“Buuuueno?”
“Hey! How are you?”
“hey-ello! as good as the next man suppose”
“you ok? hey listen, I won’t be able to make it, I’ve got to finish up some work and I'm feeling soooo so tired. I’m so sorry”
“oh? um-hm..well,"

He sighed

"No worries, no big deal. Something came up..."

He cleared his throat.

"...then something came up...I’ll see you tomorrow?” he inquired.

“definitely”

“Guess I’ll head home”
“Again, I’m sorry about this!"

“Don’t worry, we’ve nothing but time on our side. We’ll meet some other time”
“Ok, love you, goodbye”
“Take care”

Inside the bar an argument broke out and the older man was nowhere to be found. He ordered a shot of tequila, drank it without company, and headed toward the shore.

He had always enjoyed the ocean. He loved feeling the sand grains on his face and the smell of a salty breeze that is so strong one can taste it. One can get a clump of wet sand and hurl it into the ocean and imagine it breaking down into several pieces. The oil-rigs in the distance seem to float out there in space because at night the horizon blurs in with the dark, and if you squint, the faint light can imitate a star. The occasional bon-fire’s attract occasional kumbaya folk and spiritual testimonies. He didn't like it; the zeal can make you lose focus of the sand, the moonlight shimmer bouncing of the water, the breeze, and the gentle crashing of waves sending salty mist into the air.

He had all sorts of questions in his my mind. At work, the teens were reading Siddhartha, and he thought about how much in that novel he didn't understand. Out of suffering came love for the Buddah. For him, pain and suffering: it was life. But connection through such baseless feelings while some love and others despise with words like love and hate meant nothing against the names of oceans, neighborhoods, galaxies, hunger, and people.

His liver was hurting; he often, absentmindedly, mixed  painkillers and alcohol against reason, and he was paying the price for it out there. He wasn’t waiting for an answer, really. He didn’t wait to hear anything. The shore’s salty breeze fizzed in the air like fizz.

The horizon melded with the ocean in a vast canvas of darkness, and the oil-rigs in the distance flickered like a stars. All of the medicine in the world could not fix the dis-ease he felt that night; his eyes burned against the breeze.

He took off his clothes and walked into the Pacific, deciding on a swim. The shore waves hypnotized his vision with an ebb and flow of stillness. The water, he figured, was sure to set him straight. The ocean hissed ~shhhh~ and smoothed the sands; no other sound could be heard but that of a cricket, chirping somewhere in the twilight.

No, everything is not Permitted, even if there is no G-d.

t     h     e     v     a     s     t     c     a     n     v     a     s     o     f     b     l     u     e     s     k     i     e     s
       .  .-.-=-.                                      _.-.-=-. .-=.'"=.-=.               ~                              !  

  ( OPPRESS   )   .'    \&/     'suffocate-=_=-'    with reminders of               BEING   tossed

to~          )) )

     a'nd       )                                                     :above:

            ~fro)                                         B              from the
   '-"-=="                                    ~            l           . consecraitons .         .                                           u               into

                       ~                                                                                                 hu                   transforms                                                
                                              blazon                   twilight                          signals                     of

                 sensational  @@@@@@@@@  entrance             bla           that

      ^^       ^^              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ ~              gluh!              o           Nada! nadada!
                              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@              ^^              h
   ~  in  the                @@@@@@@@@@Ω@@@@@@@@@                            c
 ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~~"and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares"~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~                                           E                              
 ~    undercurrent  ~~ ~ ~    vacuous   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~       ~~     ~~ ~                             a
   ~      ~~      ~~ ~~ ~~  ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~  ~     ~~~    ~ ~~~ resound~ ~~
   ~  ~~     ~         ~      ~~~~~~  ~~ ~~~       ~~ ~ ~~  ~'nd\o/~ ~
 ~  ~       ~ ~      ~           ~~ ~~~~~~  ~      ~~  ~rise     ~~~     ~~
       ~             ~        ~      ~      ~~ Prayers           

 of   a    g r e a t o c e a n i c w a v e~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~

The vast canvas of blue skies oppress and suffocate with reminders of being tossed to and fro in the undercurrent of a great oceanic wave. Prayers rise and resound a vacuous echo that transform into consecrations from the above: Blubhublagluh! and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares, a sensational blazon signaling the entrance of the twilight. The name of things ring hollow next to the chaotic monuments of geometry--in the puffy coil of a cloud and in the seeming randomness of a curl in a wave. Nada! nada! can be heard faintly from some unknown place.

The universe tends to communicate whatever message you'd like to extract from its leaves, trees, and automobiles. Things tends to get muffled in between; the act of translation and decoding has always been a delicate matter, and I tread softly over the relics of the past seemingly alive in the present.

I reflected on this matter over some coffee at a local shop. I froze my gaze upon a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The prelude was set, and the silence accentuated an intense emotion behind my composure:

I felt like crying. My eye's filled to the brim with moisture. I felt tired and weak and stupid and frail and like the biggest fool in the world. I beat myself up over and over that I feel ashamed to tell you about it here, none of it was healthy for my mind or the universe. It was absurd, the existence of humanity--a comedic reflection of defiance against the indifference of a vast multiverse.

For a brief moment, the wonder of a young man--an embodiment of power, rationale, and passion (or lack thereof)--realized that at any moment he is easily thrown about like a rag doll torn to pieces in a social whirlwind that invade and overwhelm the fibers of his consciousness on a day to day basis, and like the majesty of movement in a lion's pounce and bite, his mind is ripped to shreds.


I felt at that instant like a fanatic and wanted to jump up and down like a jack-in-the box. In fact, the very fact of me feeling in that manner illustrated the mechanical nature in my existence. I was a mere object under the illusion of a conscious subjectivity that had been set in motion ever since man sat around fire and planted crops. This thought heightened my melancholia into laughter and stupidity. My tears subsided and I felt like part of the crowd, sipping my iced coffee at a kaffeklatsch where no one was invited and the only guest was myself and my foolishness.

"If God does not exists, everything is permitted" -a popular translation of Dostoevsky's line in The Brother's Karamazov

I want you

round and round and roundroundrouwndrown.

He was really into the Beats and their style and the 60's and all that "free spirit" peace & love stuff. He wrote in the skein of Allen Ginsberg to the tune of the Hydrogen Jukebox World. Language seems to often reflect the worldview of the user, and in this particular "piece," the language allowed for a given set of expressions that which the current time in history allowed. He wrote in the skein of Allen Ginsberg to the tune of the Hydrogen Jukebox World, but he inserted tech-neologism. An action, and equal and opposite reaction, an  equal and opposite reaction and a counter-productive action: Thesis-synthesis-antithesis-and so on an so forth and round and round and round and roundroundrouwndrown.

He asked me to read one of his "pieces" that described the real world, or something about capturing the "real"...something about the "thing in itself"....something about "no ideas."

After I finished, he asked, "how about it?"
And since I did not know, nor do I know now, much about content-form-meaning, and purpose, I told him that it was good. That it evoked some sort of sadness in me. He smiled and said "thanks." I wasn't sure if he meant it sincerely or if it was sarcastic or if he was simply responding in accordance with reciprocity. The doubt elucidaed a mild schizophrenia elicited by a type of capitalism that provides the paradox of a no-identity.

I'm horrible at goodbyes, and what follows is what occurred to me at that moment of departure: I waved and half-smiled and returned to my table, exhausted from self-induced awkwardness.

His "piece" reminded me that after reading Dostoevsky and Castellanos, I still had the audacity to write, let alone the audacity to speak on matters very unfamiliar and foreign to me: life.

And I mean the above in the very sincere. Dostoevsky made me bow to the Christian G-d and Castellanos helped make sense of the senseless, and versa-vice, and thus, everyday it's vice-versa and versa vice; up-down, bow-stand; left-right; no-yes-no; downside-upside-down. Is this real? Have I captured the "real" in itself? Oh! oh! oh! bless me! Amen! Amen! Amen!

All this and nothing until the movement reflects mechanization, a movement directed by the given factors--perhaps you may know this as "Historical Materialism." Tossing and turning, turning and tossing, all the while gathering an empiricist epistemological theoretical framework by which to approach and (re)examine the "current circumstance"--perhaps you may know this as experience. And this experience allows the currency that yields authority to speaker/writer/listener, and the currency gathers charge by the effectiveness of the experience--some may call it dialect and rhetoric, and those outside of the "enlightened" rhetoric and dialect and theory/theories of words, or "commoners," would call it mental masturbation, or crazy. The latter is probably right.

And it is the "current circumstance" which perpetually perplexes scholars and "commoners" alike, and it is the "current circumstance" that I am no expert in, and, thus, retell you, dear cyber-cruiser, that I still have the audacity to write, and write badly. worsely and worserly.

This writing process damages by tormenting. The act seems, to me, a 2, 3, rhizomatic street. But, the very structure I write in, in the "current circumstance," reflects the degree of (my) proper schooling and training in the written word. Indeed,  The language seems to often reflect, and neglect, a particular worldview of the user, and the language allows for a given set of expressions that which the current time in history allows, or so it seems to me, in my "current circumstance." 

Indeed, every individual possess a degree of development and understanding in accordance to the present factors. The content demands certain form, and vice-versa. But, this, this very "piece" is merely goobledygook for the "unlearned," and this is gookygoobledy for the learned, and vise-jaw-versa--(c)LOCKwork. round and drown. no one knows what they are talking about and when someone says something "smart" and everyone goes goo-goo-ga-ga, a common and popular phrase nowadays that translates into, "ah, yes! I identify!" a mere appearance of (ex)change occurs.

The outsider can serve as a mirror to the insider, modalities can alter and power can dissolve, and vice-versa. The other day I saw a man wearing a Rorschach inkblot shirt and I called him a racist! He replied, wot? and mumbled "babblebabble," a dastardly gesture no doubt!

All this to say, my e-confidant, that I am caught in the schizo-frenzy, a mild schizoid neonate that ate the advertisement adverse to self and incapacitated in the capacity to individuate, actualize, and realize, that I'm a nonsense talker phraseologist peddling pedantic semantic walking the tightrope and tap-tap-tap dancing along a thin wire for the greenback. 

Identity fostered and linked to the urge to consume, sell me an identity please. Commodify me. Abuse me. Rape me. Language is the name of my game. What do you read? words words words. round round rounding in a sea of words. Old Jameson, all "postmodernism in consumer society" type. The old whiskey type. Blended Irish type. Consume enough words and the virus starts to do its work. The "I" in "me" is where again? outside? a construct you say? incoherent you say? crazy you say? thank you? say you? you? what? now? nothing? no





I'm sorry for the digression dear cyber-friend and that after having tormented you with a dose of madness I hope you have not been decimated, perhaps you have not been touched at all! great, I am too tired to continue this line, or dis-linear mode, of thought. 

I will tell you the magical day that followed after having met my friend and his "piece" of beat poetry.



This particular day felt like a nightmare. Throughout my tutoring sessions, I saw the same person with a different mask every 30-minutes, each one of them linked by the common association of amnesia. And this amnesia was contagious...wait, didn't I just...never mind. How can I help you? It felt like a cruel joke: "Someone's idea of fun"

The day flowed along until I found myself in my little room, as though transported by some sort of surreal magical realism that modern realism does not allow.

That night seemed like an eternal Saturday night; in fact, it was suddenly Saturday night and the city glowed with warm oranges and reds, and the heat came out from summer night rock n' roll fever; Warm dance floors exhausted sweaty and salty and oh so sweet cries of pleasure and shameless laughter. 

from the hilltop I could hear the youth enjoy red wine and lose their senses...just enough to carry on a sensible conversation about how mad and obsessed love has made them.

I was there, observing and writing as a break from grading papers. My skin could not contain the desire to see the apathetic trees wave to and fro, persuaded by the wind to dance along to zephyr moods where moonlight swims. I started committing the pathetic fallacy. I wanted to shake the realism. Not because it was a "no" to nihilistic existential psycho-babble blah-blah-blasé, but because I needed a dose of fantasy, a dose of surreality and madness. I was already feeling crazy, the only option after having lost your mind, some might agree, is to see how deep the rabbit hole goes, or perhaps it was just the heat.


I raise my head from the counter and finish my beer. A sudden shift in my position that I attributed to residues of amnesia.

I am walking along Broadway Boulevard greeting the theaters that have been turned to Churches--The Million Dollar Theatre, The Palace, the Orpheum, the Los Angeles Theatre!

I walk among the defeated that face the city symphony of indifference: stale stench of wet tobacco and piss fumigate the butterflies away from the roaches and rats and madmen. 

I feel sorry and angry and superior when I bump into foreigners that call me foreigner and giggle hee-haw-hee-haw. 

My eyes start itching and out come moths. A spell of magical realism no doubt. Everything's too sudden. Everything unbelievable. Sirens bellow toward the Eastside down Sunset, a common playground for Eros, Dionysus and Ares. The West belongs to Thanatos, and that is where I'm headed. But suddenly I find myself on the hilltop on Grand Ave. Walt Disney Concert Music Hall. A stranger greets me, and it seems she's been waiting for me.

Her silhouette figure blends into and out of the shadows; she dances but there is no music. My eyes start to tear up. I feel weak and tired and stupid and like a terrible human being. I fall on my knees and she hurries over and lifts my chin and my eyes are now looking at stars.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I utter through tears that I am still holding back. Choked cries. Angered. Hot. Steaming. Weak. Exhausted.

She continues dancing. Not a care in the world. I run after her.
Walt Disney Concert Music Hall madness. Fuck this. I've no reason to feel like I do; try walking through the dessert for 3 days without food, evading trucks with armed men and shinny badges. Try living amid a war zone with constant threat of a raid. Try drinking your latte without creamer. Try witnessing your parents beheaded by Khmer Rouge. Try having your brother prosecuted for Communism. Try being addicted to crack. Try walking down Skid Row on payday. Try hearing your mother's head crack against bedroom window. Try seeing your cousin sleep on the sidewalk bus stop (did you help?). Try having your father only communicate when drunk. Try not thinking about your self. Try not writing about others. Try writing about yourself. Try looking in the mirror. Weak pathetic fool. Try it!

I realize that I'm walking in circles. vice-(ver)sameness. I am reminded (by my very self! oh the "cleverness" of me) that I am just a damn fool. And I'm back in my room. Hot. Steaming. Tired. Exhausted.

From the hilltop of City Terrace, everything in this little room suddenly turns into a detached peacefulness too quiet for comfort. My throat dries up, trapped inside a tiny, stuffy room. Saliva soaks in immediately into my parched salty tongue. Ancient blood courses underneath my sweltering skin. Sticky skin and cracked lips beg for moisture. 

I'm surrounded by words. Books. Papers. Articles. A clear reflection of my inability to grasp words. A clear illustration that I am trying to understand words. Clear evidence that I am drowning in a sea of words. Psychosis intensifies when the first thing I find rummaging through the mounds of articles is an underlined text I once read on the effects of language and physical deprivation...Something about Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, killing babies by depriving them of language and touch.

A knock on my door and a voice behind asks me to go "check this out."
"The ambulance came for the neighbor. Something crazy must've happened"
"His daughter is hysterical...she's trembling all over the place"
"look! look!"

It was all too real. Red and white lights bounced off my wall, moving around and around atop the ambulance van. Inaudible words could be heard through static of radio walkie-talkies, and I drifted off to sleep, drifting into a temporary rest, and "pushing out," or "suppressing," or whatever you wanna call it, le tourbillion.

Strawberry Coconut Tapioca Boba

He told me that Yucatan meant "something like...I don't understand your words." He found this out from a book he read in the field of anthropology. According to the scholar, when the Spaniards arrived on the southeastern, northern tail of the country's fish-like shape, these foreigners misinterpreted the words spoken to them by the people already there, and in their audacity, which seemed to me a mixture of ignorance and a sense of entitlement, they designated to the land the title of Yucatan.

I wanted to tell him that Peru had a similar history, but I still need to read more books.That for the Quechuan people, to the day, "Peru" connotes disdain: a reminder of Spanish butchery. I remember asking a Peruvian cabbie about this, but he turned his head, as though shamed, and refused to comment.

What happened between me and the cabbie was Yucatan.

What was happening between me and this young scholar was Yucatan.

What often happens between two lovers is Yucatan.

What happens between the spirit and the academician is Yucatan.

And when Yucatan doesn't happen, we find the more "accurate" Yucatan--a piece of a beautiful country with beautiful people and beautiful songs.

We sought Yucatan, I think, as we walked over for a strawberry coconut tapioca boba. Discussion veered into alien abduction, black holes and time-travel. People testify to these events, he said. They're probably crazy, I responded...after all, who would remain sane after having experienced such events? I once felt possessed by something oceanic but passed it off as mania and held steady under my sweaty skin. Luckily, my sanity wasn't affected much...I think. Besides, there are less important things that tend to affect my mind, like work and rent, for man will not live by bread alone. 

I told him this, more or less (perhaps less). He chuckled. I laughed. We drank our Bobas and parted ways.

"Most Things Haven't Worked Out"