Suddenly Cold

At work one day I found myself oddly chilled. Curling my arms inward and legs under my chair, it was a chill I could not shake. Its the kind of chill you get when you know you are getting sick. But there was not tickle in my throat or inching grip on my head. Its the kind of chill you get coming out of the pool and into the air conditioning. Pervasive and enveloping. The cold has its icy angular fingers wrapped you whole body and it squeezes so hard that bits of ice slough off and shatter fall through the air.

So cold I took it a sign and assumed something must be wrong with my mother. Who is always cold. It must be one of those psychic links shared by twins except its Mami and her glass of wine.

But, I loathed speaking with my mother so I text her but under pretense.

"Hey....are you registered to vote in Ohio?"

Yes, she replied

"Cool. Are you ok?"

Yes, she replied but then she began narrating about the cancer in my sister's dog. "She has thigh cancer."

And I don't reply because I know she is OK and this chill must not be a psychic link but instead a coincidence. I don't blink at thigh cancer which is equally ludicrous and mundane. It conjures images of Mami over other dogs that now refuse to eat and cats that find deep tucked recesses in the pantry to be alone.

Writing Prompts-Daily Five

In the back of writing prompt book there is a checklist of quick 5 minute writing prompts. Just single words to get some stuff going. So I picked one word at random by tossing open a page and flicking my finger to...

Flirt

Solid pass. I am horrible at flirting save when any women gives me any sense of acknowledgement I immediately fall in love.
Random woman: "Ok, sir. I have cancelled your cavity filling for Thursday and rebooked it for Friday. Anything else?"
Me: "Marry me!"

Then I go to the next word and it is...

Simper.

This word flummoxes me. What does simper mean?! Did they mean semper like with the Marines and the Coast Guard. Why don't I know this word!? I use verisimilitude in casual conversation and once used cwm in Scrabble.

I go to Dictionary.com* and its a "coy ingratiating smile." Oh, like when someone flirts. That explains why I never knew what simper meant. Is this the thirsty section of the "Morning Fives" section of the writing prompt book. Is turgid next? Voluptuous? Horny on main?

No, the next word is Frost. Big change ,big change. But I have written about weather too often.

The next word is Wine.

Wine reminds me of Mami who is not a fan of frost and did not simper. She beamed  a white Chiclet smile when she was right (Which was always) or alternate to a frown the look of a fallen cat's asshole when crestfallen. Did she flirt? Probably but in a haphazard way "You go into the bakery, mijo. The men there will say horrible things to me"
"What kind of things?" Note I am perpetually six in this memory.
"Never mind, I will go!" And she sashays into the bakery past the mean slapping dominoes on the table and drinking Coors Lights over plates of roasted pernil pork.

Wine reminds me of terroir. A snippet of an article I saw about Brooklyn, NY's last vineyeard. What is the terroir of the alleys by my work? The quivering mud soaked by spring rains that makes the Warhead wrappers poke up from the frowning knotweed plants. The terroir of my gentrified neighborhood must be mineral and pungent from the earth drilled out of ankle biting high sidewalks in front of cleaved homes. Its the high sting of graffiti remover and the nasally latex of condom wrappers. Dew drops dump globing moisture into whatever juice comes out, all body but little flavor. The soil is the flavor of a dozen community gardens risen up and down. The chalkiness of unripe tomatoes and the sweetness of grapes mixed with lead. The juice from here needs to be muddled over wood from broken pallets in a shopping cart burning by the bagel shop. Then the terroir blossoms in the cup telling of things leaving and things rising over bones.




*Like some plebian. Ugh

Writing Prompt-Iris and the Warrior

I felt "in my feelings" again but shoved those into the hollow of my chest. As usual, those feelings felt phony when compared to the fortune surrounding me. Instead I reached for the writing prompt book and found two prompts staggered together. Iris and "a warrior returns from a terrible war"

Both these prompts imbue a certain amount of power in my mind's eye. Power that I project into a corona of green light enveloping the warrior. In my immediate mental image they are not exhausted from the war but they move with snaps of their arms and long curling trails of ribbons. Ribbons that become chains attached to curved machete glaives. Any questions are to be answered by the flicks and sing song the chains.
"How did you survive?"
"Did you lose any close to you?"
"Was it a good war?"
And each of these elicits a movement.
Both chains run up and the blades go akimbo before shucking into the floor
One chain rises while the other hangs limp
Both blades twirl on the floor while the warrior reverberates the chains
The audience knows the answer to these questions and jots them down into notebooks or takes quick snaps with their phones.
The warrior, previously formless, steps a bit closer through the circle of light that flickers when cut with the chain blades. The figure is female but the face pliable. In it I see an ex-girlfriend but then a composite of the delivery girl from the building whose pipes I bang on.
"Is she beautiful," I ask someone standing next to me. They set their notebook down into the breast pocket of a polo shirt. "She? Are you high? HE is 230 lbs and six foot four inches. You didn't read the bios, right? You must be blind? Are you ok? Because, we can ask for some help."
I look again and the form is still feminine. It now wears a flowing dress where the colors of the long skirt rise in a redrock sunset palette. Then it cinches into a cube pattern at the hem the color of baked adobe.
The person who told me I was wrong hollers out a question."What do you want civilians to know?"
If the heard a voice, some trite answer, then I missed it. I saw the figure spin and the chains and flowing furls twirl into a vortex that pulled the iris of light onto itself.
"Did you see that?" I utter and shake my neighbor. They twinge thrash my arms away "What is wrong! I missed the final part of the answer. See what? He was talking!" They roll their eyes and scoot to a seat two chairs from me.
All the light in the room is now gone save for the iris which is now closed and instead a stark emerald line across the stage. Its glow is not sufficient to light any figure so if the warrior is still there I can't tell. I aim to move forward but then remember the spinning blades to which everyone else here seems immune.
I scream "Who are you?"
"Why do you use those swords? Isn't that impractical?"
"Where are you?"
The green line pries open from the fraying tops and stretches back into the iris. From the circle I hear the clanging of metal and undulating chain links clacking against each other.
"Check out that guy!" someone screams. Then flashes from all angles that overtake the green light of the circle. Stumbling back I head to the stage and grab the limp lines of the chains. I then hold them in front of me projecting the panic in my breath into holding it like a sword. I look at my hands and they hold a blue blade that is thick at the hilt and fine towards the fish hook tip. The wide body bubbles with trapped water in the metal. More flashes. Looking behind me the iris is gone. The warrior gone as well. I am standing on the stage surrounded in star bursts of white light and I cock back my arms and run to them screaming.

Jacked To Shit Crooked Teeth

My contribution to society will be to advocate for a "Tooth Person." They will be highly paid due to all the specializations but my recent dental adventures had me appreciating the beauty of consolidating. A level one trauma center style dental organization. Oh boy will you pay but the convenience? That is worth it.

My mother used to say that whenever my father had a cavity he would dig into the chair and tell the dentist "Fill it right now. I got time." And sometimes I think this is a big damn energy moment. Or its a halcyon era moment. Back when you spent more than 30 seconds with the doctor. When you could go to college for $400 dollars a year. 

Or its something Puerto Rican. The kind of petty low level graft that makes everything churn. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. In slang this is "una pala" which translates literally to shovel. Digging out from a jam with your buddy. 

Or, its a lie. Hyperbole made to increase an aura of big papiness. No dentist would do that. Not even my dentist who runs everything solo in his office. The check in. The cleaning. The xrays. And the drilling. They have other patients.

Jacked to shit crooked teeth. "There is a lot going on here," says the friendly orthodontist. Dr. Johnson. He just took over from Dr. Wenger who retired at the end of last year. "Is any of this surprising to you," he asks shucking off his gloves. "Does anyone have a history of underbites in your family?"

Jacked to shit crooked teeth. An orthodontist told me I needed braces when I was a teen. But, we couldn't pay so mami decided to roll the dice and focus her energies on treatments that could keep me alive. 

"How did your mami pay for all this? You didn't have health insurance. How?" My wife asked me citing a bookend to a gap before I married her and got insurance again.

"She figured it out."

The mob, that had to be it. Does Puerto Rico have a mob?

Cash? I bet PR is a big underground economy place?

Favors? Didn't you have a lot of rich friends.

Blow jobs? I mean just saying. 

Jacked to shit crooked teeth. Protrusive profile. Crossbite. CL 3. "Do you have an oral surgeon? I suggest extracting some teeth to make room. We can't do that here."

Ill make an "after dentist" video. Mumble on in a spoken word version of this blog. One time only. In the back of someone's car. That someone is yet to be determined. 

At work I mention all this saga as explanation as to why I am never there. Instead I am trapped at the dentist feeling ancient surrounded by tweens. "You have a normal mouth," a cute co-worker says. That made my day. Makes me appreciate the jacked too shit crooked teeth which that I still want to destroy. To make a point. To glean another polite compliment. To send the bill to Mami. 

Soundtracks Part 2

The Strutting Song (I.E. Play this song and I will strut. Quite badly, mind you)

El Ciclon by Cafe tacvba

Had I stayed in Puerto Rico then my musical tastes in Spanish would have evolved. But, they have stayed static so I am now the equivalent of the ornery custodian who blasts classic rock while they wax the floors. If there is even any "rock en español" out there I am cut off since even satellite radio just plays endless loops of merengue, salsa, bachata and sanitize poppy regeaton. Look, I understand those are our sounds but Jazz is an American sound and if say I lived in Nauru and someone told me "Listen to the American station!" and it was nothing but jazz and maybe a Selena Gomez Top 40 hit I would cry. Stop playing my parents music Spanish language station. Play the music my kids are going to say is their parents music. Jarabe de Palo! Soda Stereo! La Oreja de Van Gogh. Los Fabulosos Cadillacs! Aterciopelados! Molotov! Fuck, even Mana. 

Play El Ciclon by Cafe Tcvba, cowards! I wills strut and feel amazingly cool while maximizing my total tool look.

The Crossing Stuff Off the List Song

Shoes, Cars, And Soft Drinks by Alias.

Ok, this is a deep track.I can't find it on YouTube. I have the album but unless you want to come over and chill and listen to Alias you may need to do some digging. I found it streaming on....Deezer? I would say the youth listen to that but that names sounds very "boomer"-y. Or its that meme where "Kids we have Spotify at home" and its Deezer.

Anyway if you listen to it then it is a great jam to fling things off your list. The perfect soundtrack to driving a bold pencil line through the Post It note. I can't say I listen to this a ton because I need the physical media for it but I hear it in my head often. Its my presenting a Power Point song.

The Hiking Song

Lost Woods song or Saria's Song from Legend of Zelda Ocarina of Time

I really wanted to avoid actual video game music here because I enjoy lots of those jams but the fandom seems way too rabid. I just like these jams, ok? The sound track to Chrono Trigger did not help me comes to terms with my mother's death, OK?! I am sorry I found release somewhere else.

But anyway, its a jaunty little song to get tromping with. Do doo doo do doo doo do doo doo DADA DADA DADA.

Here is a dubstep version which is quite on brand.



The "We Got There!" song. Or the I did something physical song

Amazing by Kanye West

Read this blog and you will notice I am not physically adept. But sometimes I will run at the gym and not get winded after jacking the treadmill up to a new resistance. Or, I will catch an errant coffee cup someone bumps off a table. Or, I will smash a piece of furnture at my job and clean out a whole backroom of clutter. And this song plays. Taken to an extreme it is also the daydream song whenever I want to imagine myself the hero instead of the guy running. Because, yes, even in my dreams I often just an ancillary character.




Speaking of lists lets end it with a list of quick situations and songs....

When someone says "Lets Work on This Together" or any sort of appeal to teamwork---Together by Avril Lavigne.

Any emergency---Breathe by The Prodigy*

When my kids will not be quiet about Minecraft or tea parties or dinosaurs....This Is The Song That Never Ends by Shari Lewis

When someone says "No, that's dangerous" or "Lets be careful"....What's Up Danger by Blackway and Black Caviar

Any western or cowboy thing, ever....Country Delight by the Beastie Boys. May be swapped with Old Town Road by Lil Nas X which I un-ironically enjoyed and learned all the words to in an effort to impress the people at work. But the only people impressed were the 5th graders! GAH!




*Note that I wold totally be one of those people that needs to find the music to play before something goes down. "Hold one, honey. We can't race to the hospital to deliver the baby until I find the right song. No, I don't have a playlist. I just dig it up on YouTube."

Three Dots: The Poem

Memes full of ticklish marrow

Humor escaping from my body

Snicker snacking through particle

Board frames that contain taxonimcially false friends. Did you get it? 

The message and the image

Reboot. Now, think about field set to harrow 

Clear your mind, get ready for this!

Did you get it? 

The message and the image?

Hit me. Reply. Pop your head.

Glaring dopamine condenses 

Everything I Am

Into the glare of a heart. Or a smiley face.

Nod. This is everything I am. Don't forget

Me. Or the time I wrestled that spider from the stall. Told no one of the coffee on your shirt.

Did you get it?

The message and the image?

Three dots in the shape of my favorite pattern. Constellation undulating in my miniature universe. You got it.

We got there, boys. And I spin in my chair

Soundtracks Part 1

Can you tell from this blog that I day dream often? Oh, don't worry my anxiety and fear of letting people down keeps me going. And a need to pay the bills. This isn't a form of self diagnosed ADHD. I am not that hip. Instead its a form of a life spent thinking of the possible adventure. I would fail Master Yoda as I am not mindful of the present. Ever read The Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber? It is a sleepy story that I loathed reading in the 11th grade but it sums up my day to day. Just with less failure to launch on my end. I know enough to shove these away to push some paper. To unload the groceries. Just scribble them down in the margins of paper or this blog.

Each reverie has a soundtrack. Musically I am afraid to tell people what I like because its not poppy Top 40 or some sort of eclectic deep cuts. A lot of "video game music" as an ex-girlfriend called it. "Tweaker music" as my wife calls it. "It makes sense for you" music as a coworker told me once. My version of a straight banger is the dropping violins on a 30 second track that Cartoon Network made from a promo for Gundam MS08th Team back in the late 90s. Additionally, because I am never as so Millenial as when it comes to music all these tracks are scattered across websites and singles. These are made for a mix playlist. Flitting between tracks while at the gym because a whole album of them would sound too similar for all but the most nuance tweaker ears.

To the interested in being the ones within my John Malkovich here is a list of tracks. Either I hear them during these situations or hearing them forces a certain reverie. The latter is easy to mark since it is the song title. So, when you porn bots become sentient you can play this and you will know what I am thinking about as I refuse to tell you where the last members of the human resistance live.

Whenever I Want To Convince Someone of Something in Person. Or, Im In A Work Meeting and Indulging My Stubborn Streak of Saying Something "Just For The Record" Because I Think It Will Make a Difference

B.O.B by Outkast



Probably the most banger of songs on here and we I am starting with it. I was in college when this came out and during the launch of the second Iraq War. This was EVERYONE's AIM away message. Remember how cable news had those countdowns to the ultimatum Bush gave Iraq? Someone figured out how to use an AIM code to make that timer over a copy paste of the lyrics. I was so impressed. Also, we deserve any dystopia we eventually slide into.

Anyway, I think Jidenna's Hail to Chief or Chief Dont Run is more of a spitting fire song but those are songs very much about growing up black and poor in America so I will appreciate them by just listening.

But, damn is this a jam! Its that snare drum beat and then how the roughly 5 minutes feels epic. Us Millenials use that word often. Epic. But this song really lives up to it. That is why it is my argument song. "Let me tell something to you! Ok, so it is unrealistic to think staff can submit their own purchase requests when leadership doesn't even know where to get the forms! Bombs over Baghdad!"

Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins

Ok, another banger. I hear this and I am guaranteed to go at least three times faster. Play this song and I GUARANTEE you I will get all the groceries up the stairs and into the house in one trip. My wife does not yell "Can you go faster?" when I am driving. No, she plays this until my speed matches the highway's number (In this fantasy we are going west on I90 to the Dinosaur Trail in Montana) and we are MOVING!



Quick and very embarrassing story about this song. At an old job we had several Katies. I think I have blogged about this before but the only Katie on staff was Katy with a Y. Or Alpha Katy because she was on staff. At this job we all had a penchant for taking 2 hour lunches and at one of these lunches I commented how I had a spare fish tank at home. A little 10 gallon one. So, in about a day everyone had given me 10 bucks to buy supplies and set it up in the break room.

On the day to get the fish Katy volunteered to drive with me to the pet store. And...you ever drive on the east side of Cleveland, OH? The east side suburbs. It sucks. Nothing but switch backs and one ways. It has main drags but these were built for a time before cars so getting anywhere takes an extra 15 minutes due to the slew of redlights and 4 way stops.

So, there is me driving to the pet store. Katy in the passenger seat and then this song comes on. My heart quickens and the pressure on the pedal inches up and up. Katy is too polite to say anything but we are now going maybe 70 in what is supposed to be a 40 and then a car stops short at a red light. SHIT! You could have made it, yo! But I slam on the brakes and I "mom-bar" Katy. You know when you stick your right hand out across the passenger seat to prevent whatever is there from flying through the windshield? I call it "mom-bar" because its a parent thing but you could do it if say you have an ornery cat in a carrier or a stack of pizzas in the front seat. You do this enough and it becomes a muscle memory. And...my arm is maybe an inch from her chest. And....hey Katy was cute and all but Im a weirdo not a creeper or a pervert. There is a difference! I don't think I could ever apologize enough to her. The speed, the mom-bar, etc. To which she was all very cool and gracious about and we got our fish after finishing the last notes to Danger Zone.

My driving in the snow song. Also my feeling bluesy song.* Or, my impending doom song

Under Ice by Kate Bush



This song has layers. The album its from (Hounds of Love) proves to me Kate Bush is an actual witch able to weave magic with her voice. The whole thing is a novel and this song, on the surface, is wintry. But it also makes me look inward whenever I feel inadequate. Its also foreboding and tells of imminent collapse. Something will raise through the ice to attack our heroes. The sub pings in the song will fire its missiles affirming World War 3. The "its me" is an old blog post a coworker digs up. The accidental like you left on a crushes IG posts after they friended you. The doctor reading your results.

My Break Up Song

Nothing Better by The Postal Service



Ok, this is a bit of a cheat. As I have only had one real break up. But I still have my break up song because 1) "Write What You Know" is crap** and 2) I swear my wife will one day realize I am navel gazing prick who spends too much time on a blog and leave me for a man who will rub her feet every day. So I got this one in the chamber.

I can't say anything new about The Postal Service save this whole album deserves to be preserved for eternity on one of those golden satellite disks. I am glad the band never got back together as this album is too perfect to be sullied by some ok sophomore effort. It could be that the line "Don't you tell me lies of some idealistic future. Your heart won't heal right if you keep tearing out the sutures" cuts me just a bit too deep

If you are here then more to come!



*The combination of those two criteria means I listen to this song often.

**Absolute horrible writing advice used to diminish output stifle learning. Sure, you can sound very phony. I once had an editor tell me that "I wrote a strong female voice" for a man which, TBH, was probably a fluke or the editor (they had a pet raccoon so take that for what its worth) but that doesn't mean I can substitute for one. You should write what you can research and listen and learn.

Something early for V Day 2020

When I went to Target the other day I opened my car door and found a plastic bag crumpled on the parking lot. I went to grab it and found it to be packed with items someone had just bought. There were no other cars around mine. No receipt in the bag either. I tossed it my car (to keep it safe) and then ran through the options

Option 1: Return for store credit!
Free money! But, no receipt. Also, its an asshole move.

Option 2: Return and tell them to put it back on whomever bought this card
Altruistic. Is this possible? Will they think I am crazy?

Option 3: Turn into the Lost and Found
What I should have done but...it will make a good* blog post!

Option 4: KEEP IT!
Look Ive been there. Someone stole my coat freshman year of college and I have left too many flats of fizzy water on the bottom of grocery carts.

So...I kept it. I am sorry if you think less of me, but you are very likely a Ukrainian porn bot and do not have feelings.

Getting home I perused through the contents and began analyzing the unfortunate buyer.

Three Valentine's day cards for a daughter, cat and dog Valentine's day cards, cat and dog stickers, and cat nip mice. Did this person buy these for their cats!? Are the cats their daughters?! It would explain the two identical cards because cats can't read and maybe there was a BOGO. But, if cat's can't read then why get the cards? But there are 3 catnip mice and three cards so 3 cats!

Or maybe they have daughters who love dogs and cats and were going to use these to hand out at school?

In any case I know someone yelled a might "Damn it" when they returned from the store.

"Too bad we don't have a daughter," I say chastising that I can't convert on this free loot.

"WE DO," yells my wife.

"Well...she can't read."

I had actually gone to Target to get Valentine's Day stuff. Justifiable I can't convert on this as the fates gifted me an anecdote but no plunder. It is now on a local freecycle site to find a suitable set of 3 young daughters.

I still got my Valentine's stuff.

On that day I will tell my wife I love her even though 15 years in it borders on platitude and a more effective expression is screaming "WHAT?!" from another room. Or screaming "I FOUND THE REMOTE"

I will tell my "work wife" that I love sharing in all the bullshit with her. How real it feels when we are in these four walls and how awkward is it when we don't have that to discuss.

I will be awkward around my work crushes. I will sneak my kids candy even though the doctor has told me to quit that. Ill remember the Valentine's Day in the sixth grade when Mami pulled up to school with a beagle puppy pant out the window and tearing the roof upholstery of her Chevy Lumina with its tail wags. "FOR ME!?," I screamed and indeed it was for me.




*These always sound better in my head

What Is This Blog and A Sort of Poem

Have you ever read a book called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott? It was big in writing classes when I was an undergrad. Fiction courses. Non-fiction course. Even the "Technical Writing" course we took where we honed the art of writing instruction manuals. Note two things about this. One, someone actually majored in Technical Writing. A guy nick named "Creepy Joe" on campus and you could swear he was the first model robot built by a budding evil scientist. And, two, you may scoff at this but think about the last time you put together something and wondered in frustration at the instruction manual. Or, more likely, screamed fuck and threatened to divorce whomever is stuck with you building that.

The most famous chapter in Bird by Bird  is "Shitty First Drafts." And the premise is simple. Everything, even Shakespeare, began as a "shitty first draft." So keep writing, guys.

That is what this blog is. A bunch of shitty first drafts. But, that's ok, because one day I will be big and I can mine this blog for content. Quickly feed the editor with a list of my favorite mecha or talking about how, at any given point, there are 4 headshops within eyeshot of each other on The Ithaca Commons. Couple of Mami jokes also.

Here is a shitty first draft. Its a poem I am working on inspired by some new "corporate speak" at work. Balls, I love poetry. I checked out a bunch of collections from the library and been pouring through them avoiding even my one major vice (Twitter) for a few days. One collection is American Sonnet for  My Past and Future Assassin and I have never heard something so bad ass.  

Anyway here is my shitty first draft....again.




I want to Circle Back
to a time before you coined that
Doublespeak like riddles, Words stretched
Past points of no return
Rumble
Lets get ready for it
Everyone at the table stripping down, raising arms
Stepping on throats proving their point
Is that what you mean because that is what I see
In my minds eye I've seen you already in your underwear
Its the action that fails to reverberate. Rumble.
The Soup
Which we all make, all stir through the nod of our heads and click of emails
Sent to taste bits of the pot but we can't have until it is ready
Don't tell anyone about The Soup, ok?
I don't think anyone would understand
Parking Lot
where we rumble
over Soup spilled
Onto ideas for which new words have not been made. 

radical sign

Here is a radical metal beer sign of Puerto Rico I saw at the local PR bakery. I realize that I blog a ton about Puerto Rico. In fact, you may be seeing two maps of it right now on depending on how you have this blog set to view! Well it's because I'm from there and because its fucking crazy.

Crazy like buying dyed baby chicks at the supermarket for Easter and then letting them romp around your backyard into roosters. Then them suddenly disappearing and your mother saying "they died of blindess."

Crazy like all the Chinese food restaurants have over the top pornographic names. Rex Cream. Max Cream. And, no joke, Kum War. And they have french fries and ice cream along with the usual fare.

Crazy like a brand of donuts you can only buy from the guy hustling through cars at the red light. But then they start selling them in stores and they are not that good anymore.

Lots of things sold at red lights. Or under highway bypasses. Orchids. Puppies. Mangoes. Pizza.

Crazy like a waterpark because the beach is for poor people.

Owning a gun for the sole purpose of shooting it into the air on New Years Eve.

Crazy like beers at 9am for breakfast. Heinekens. The true beer of PR.

Horse riding down the highway median and every neighborhood being gated albeit you can waive through saying you are a friend. 

A UFO Story

Some founde art sketched into the side of a pipe awning in Canalway Reservation outside of Cleveland. This is from the fall and I discovered it while deleting through my camera roll. 

See, I am obsessive about digital memory. I'm still scared by the 1.44 MB of memory of floppies and having to select which paper from 7th grade to delete for my new one now in the 11th grade. Note we did not have a printer growing up so when I had to print papers I passed the floppy over the fence to our neighbor. This was past the corner in our backyard where the mango tree rose from the other neighbors yard. The one where I had to dodge rats.

So when photos no longer earn the lost power of their memory then I delete them. Same for memes I gather and send to people or have saved for quick reaction. "I used this already so it's got to go!" I also run regular updates on my machine on a nearly basis like I'm the President and in keeping my secrets safe from North Korean hackers.  "Dont worry guys, I got this. Update and restart!"

I don't have a story about UFOs save for my obsession with the unexplained as a teen. But, anything I saw in the sky could be explained by the mundane. Still did not diminish a crippling and ridicolous terror of being abducted by aliens. It would be like fearing getting gored by a unicorn or losing a drinking contest to a goblin. 

The greys would slink through my windows either clocking open the shutters from outside or, in northern climes, splintering the wooden frames. So the heavy oak pane based pop out. They are silent and emaciated but their movements are frenetic and menacing. There is always moonlight and it makes their arms stutter in a chiaoscuro a bit too fast for the eye. Then they grab my feet and here is where I would gasp, the only reaction from me. Then it's like how I imagine death feels. At least the death that seems so prevalent for us. Cancer. Heart disease. Opportunistic infections. Hundreds of hands, alternating between silky and tacky, rub down from your waist to your ankles. They get higher with each grab moving from toes to your knees and then up to your chest. They get higher and multiply until a hundred hands smoother you (or me if it's just the abduction scenario) to a place where, if you return, no one believes you.

Writing Prompt-First Memory

The writing prompt book lead me to "a character remembers their earliest memory"

So here is a brief essay on mine...


I did not learn how to ride a bicycle until I was 11. A child psychologist (one of many) thought me on the grounds outside his office. Because he worked from home and his office was a wooden building on short stilts in the hills above Rio Piedras. He was legally blind and had a "computer that talks to me." At the time I thought it magical. Like the ice in A Hundred Years of Solitude but, as an adult, I learned it was a simple few keystrokes on any Windows OS. The psychologist made me read Jonathan Livingstone Seagull and once let sit in silence for the whole 30 minute session. And he taught me how to ride a bike. Which replaced the red and white push scooter I had which had replaced the Big Wheel.

That was my first ride. First "whip" as I learned in my mid 30s was another way of saying car. The Big Wheel in Rainbow Chiclet colors. Yellow chassis with hot pink handle bars and ooze green pedals.

In my earliest memory the Big Wheel flies out from under me as my mother yanks me up from the sidewalk. The sky has turned a foreboding orange the color of Mars. She is wearing a yellow jumpsuit and white leather sandals. Her hair is a short bob with bangs that frame her face. She is 40 but is often mistake for someone 29 years old. At least that is what she tells me at home.

It's mid September but seasons were something I would miss until age 18. Instead it was nice until it wasn't and my mother pulled me up and into the house.

The tiny island of Puerto Rico is shaped like a classic tube of toothpaste. At the far eastern end of its 110 mile length the spots of land twist onto each other making switchback trails over inky marinas. The eastern end typically takes it the worst from hurricanes. Another method is for one to swing right through the center until the entire island is covered in a atmospheric bomb five times it size. But Hurricane Hugo in September 1989 grazed along the northeast side dropping 10 inches of rain and winds of 104 miles per hour. 

We did not live in the northeast but even the modest 40 miles between us and the tip of the island in Fajardo offered us some protection. It was a hard yet glancing blow. The worst stubbed toe you could ever received. And the El Yunque rain forest with its lofty by Caribbean standard peaks shielded everything behind it. After the storm my father would drive me out there to see shucked trees standing naked in the wet earth.

After this the memory crystallizes into sharp lucidity. My sister and I are in my parents master bath.

An aside on my parents bathroom. I've mentioned before how they were 80s yuppies with a mix of barrio slapdash and Dallas gaudy. The bathroom lived to the master name. A marble sink shaped like a scallop shell into a six foot counter top. Behind it a walk in closet that seemed to have nothing in there except my mother's. The tiles on the floor were burnt tan insets with large spaces in between them. There was a step up into the same shaped tiles except now they were blue the color of well worn Jean's. This area was smaller dominated by a marble tub set into the side and flanked by a toilet and bidet. And outside, past a metal shutter window, our backyard.

In my memory the bathroom is mid-day dark. That is a phrase I made up to describe the twilight of when the power goes out mid-day. The sun is out yet inside it is twilight. Growing up in Puerto Rico you get used to mid-day dark. Outside the sun shines but life feels different. Going inside will often be a disappointment.

The only light is the haze coming in through the storm. This is very different than a thunderstorm crossing across the plains or beating up a waterspout on The Great Lakes. Here there some light and contrasted with the darkness of the room it appears as a supernova outside. In my memory I feel a weight coming from the window that is overpowering yet aside everything is movement. My mother had let us open the shutters briefly to see. The lime tree in our backyard appeared sinister. Free of any leaves it had a storybook element to it, the last tree before crossing the mire to the witch's house, all black and covered in moving thorns. 

My mother then comes and closes the shudders just enough so the light comes through the slits My sister and I return to a game of dominoes we had been playing. With wooden dominoes embossed with animals. The six-six domino (the domino I believed to have the most power) was a tiger.  In the last segment of my memory I recall their texture.Glossy and smooth on top and then prickly wood on the side.

Purple Monday

When I write for this blog I sometimes realize that I end up cannibalizing older pieces. At some point in the past I felt anxious and thought myself clever and mashed something out on the keyboard. Some pretty woman (A customer, a coworker, etc) laughed at a joke I made and I fell instantly in love and had to tell the Internet. The stories I wrote in college that mattered so much to me just collect digital dust on eyes unseen. I kept all these in a lonely Google drive and found one I had not yet shared. 

Note that this story cuts across a screeching intersection of a younger me: sustainability and science fiction. Or in this case fantasy. And you can't argue that some excellent science fiction has environmental elements but I read A LOT of 70s scifi (Including Ecotopia a groovy novel of a separatist state in the Pacific Northwest that is both very sustainable and also has a helicopter war with the US. This is also fantasy a genre that I like playing but I rather get teeth scraped by a dentist's kid than read or watch. But the blog and its dedicated set of porn bots is an never satiated maw that groans for content. So, here you go. It's....

Purple Monday

The flower on the purple plant stood high above the water line and opened up into vibrant violet bursts. The invader appeared beautiful, in a garish sort-of-way, but Lor still approached with hesitance. Even though the best plant reader in the entire province, she knew this plant to be unknown and unwelcome. It could have been a Free Lander trap, coated in poison. She lay by the water and debated whether to touch the thing. The Free Landers were never known for their cleverness and Lor lived in a deep part of the wood. She wanted to read the plant and get a better understanding of why it was here, in her garden. If it was poisoned then she did not care, because Lor tucked her legs under herself and started the breathing exercises. Divining plants was what Lor did for a living and she had read unknown plants as both master and apprentice. She cupped her hands around the striking purple inflorescence and closed her eyes. The plant swayed in her exhaled breath and then it all clicked.

With their energies combined Lor dove into the mysterious plant’s botanical psyche. She felt the brewing angst of any young plant but that would dissipate with time. The intense desire to be left alone came across strong and so did a relentless self-love that could shame narcissuses. This plant did not want to be read and threw up walls of anger that enveloped Lor’s own energy. Whatever this plant was, it was an angry plant and Lor let go before it could taint her with its negativity.

Still fearing a Free Lander hand in this plant, Lor wrote a message to the local guardian: her childhood friend, Saria. She attacked it to the talon of one of the broad-wing hawks she kept as couriers. She choose her fastest one and told it to avoid the village altogether and head straight to Saria’s. Last thing she wanted was the entire village learning about the invader. Lor was up for re-certification in two months and while she had confidence, the purple invader could ruin her chances in an instance. She let the hawk loose and watched it cut through the canopy before heading outside to the marsh.

Now there were ten of them. Nine more purple plants sprouted in the few moments that Lor spent writing the message. She read some of her other plants and they all expressed fear for the new plant. Her lotus, still tucked neatly in its pod waiting for the right time to blossom, asked her how she could let this happen. Three separate invaders flanked the lotus and it trembled when it spoke to her. Lor comforted and told the lotus that the invaders would be dealt with. She reached over, snapped the three plants at the base and threw the stalks to the side. “There,” she said to the lotus, knowing it could not hear her real voice.

Lor had seen the slow, day by day growth of her plants before, but she had never heard actual growth. The invader grew so fast that the air around her pond crackled with the snap buds and blossoming of flowers. The water was already choked by a mass of doubled over purple and green. When Saria showed up, Lor lay sprawled on the floor twirling the lotus pod in her hands. Saria sat down next to her and pointed at the lotus stalk. “What’s that?”

Lor cocked her head to the side. “A mercy kill.”

“Oh,” Saria gazed at the wall of plants that lined the pond now. She pressed her hand against it and felt the thick strength of solidity. “What is this supposed to be?”

“What I called you for. I have no idea what it is. There was only one of them this morning and now it has saturated the entire pond.”

Saria cocked her head up and her dreadlocks rustled over her eyes. The plants had not just filled the pond, but turned the water into a foundation for a column of plants. Saria saw three new flower stalks develop at the very top. The entire tower inched and wiggled its way up to the tree line. “Have you tried cutting it or something,” Saria asked while kneading the base of the purple and green stalk. She pulled her hands back and noticed the dark green pigment under her fingernails.

Lor kept twirling the lotus and nodded. “Yes, but cutting does nothing. It just grows back.”

“You told anyone in town?”

The lotus fell to the ground and Lor snapped to her feet. “You crazy? Of course not. Imagine if any of those hags at the academy found out about this!” She slammed her hand against the plants and felt the column shake off the impact. “What would my apprentices say?

Saria shrugged. She was not the plant reader, just a guardian. Saria grabbed a tuft of plants and tugged at the flowers. It felt solid enough, like the stalks were embedded in the deep heartwood. “Let’s climb it. Plants grow from the top up, right? Maybe there is something there.”

Before Lor could answer, Saria had already begun to climb the thing.

The ascent was easy, the ever growing reeds made convenient grips. Lor expected the column to shake them off or swallow them in a crush of blossoms. Every grip she took made her feel quick wisps of the plant’s anger and its consuming ego. At the top, the column still felt solid and the girls knelt down at the center. Flowering stalks curled up towards the sky and Lor felt one of them graze her leg. Saria pointed at the horizon and motioned at a rippling sea of purple in the distance. White figures waded amongst the reeds and wove silver staffs over the plants.

“Freelanders,” Saria said pulling back her arm. “And it looks like the same plant too.”

“Maybe it is an attack.”

Saria shook her head. “I don’t think so. That used to be a marsh just like your little pond. Had lots of good game in it that we used to hunt, but then something just choked out the water and animals.” She ripped off a stalk and held it up to her eyes. “I thought this looked familiar.”

Lor gave her an annoyed look. She could have mentioned that at the bottom, before the climb. “Then do you think the Freelanders could help us? Maybe they are trying to get rid of it.”

“You want to go and talk to some Freelanders about how to deal with this? A second ago you thought this was their first wave of attack.”

“Until I saw that,” Lor motioned back again to where the Freelanders were and the exploding violet that seemed to beat, infinitely, towards the horizon.

* * *

There were about six of them, all working separately, from a burgundy red pickup truck filled with powder blue barrels. Saria moved deftly through the undergrowth but Lor lagged behind, feeling awkward around Saria’s stealth training. They got within ten paces of one of the Free Landers, the one closest to the truck, and crouched down in between two patches of the plant. The air smelled acrid and appeared hazy under the sun. All the Freelanders wore crackling white suits and globular masks that reminded the dryads of deep wood insects.

Saria pointed at the figure. “We’ll ask the one closest to that people mover there and see what he has to say.”

Lor snapped off a piece of the plant and nodded. “Ok. What do we do if he sounds an alarm?”

Sarri tugged at her left cheek and indicated the three green chevrons tattooed there. “I’m the guardian. Remember?”

Lars K. Dudley thought it must have been the chemicals or something when he saw two elfin, green-haired figures poke out of the reeds. But there they were, clear as day and one desperately sad looking. Lars pulled off his mask and spoke. “Now, there is something you don’t see everyday.” He waved Lor and Saria over. “What do you two want? It is dangerous here.”

The dryads got closer and leaned against the truck bed. Lor tried to remember Saria’s command to “stay calm” but still felt nervous. She had never actually seen a Freelander up close and this one was missing a few teeth along with bits of his wiry mustache. He stood tall and even Saria only reached up to his armpits. Lor felt Saria’s hand push her forward and she stumbled up to Lars, who hung his spray wand over his shoulders.

Lor swallowed and looked up, “Hello. We are having some problems with this plant.” She held up the flowered stalk for him to see. “Maybe you could help us?”

Lars arched his eyebrow, grimaced, and then smiled again. “Well so is the rest of the county. That is purple loosestrife and it is one bastard of a plant.”

For such a fearsome plant, Lor thought it had a weak name. “Purple loosestrife,” she whispered to herself.

“Yup, Lythrum salicaria. Introduced by some foreigners from Europe way back when. Spread across the entire nation.”

Saria spoke up from behind. “How do you get ride of it?”

Lars held up his wand and swung it side to side. “This stuff. Rodeo brand herbicide. You two ladies have access to a pump sprayer?”

Most of the words were new to Lor but she got the gist of it. “Poison? No we can’t use poison.”

Lars swung down his spray wand and moseyed over to the truck bed. “No poison? You two must be some of those tree huggers then? Well that is ok because I have something here in the back of ol’ Red that is right up your alley.” He pulled out a tiny paper box, lined with holes on top, from the truck. He cracked the lid open a bit and inside Lor saw dozens of scurrying beetles with shimmering gold carapaces. “I have no idea what these little guys are called but they eat the roots of purple loosestrife really good.” Lor curled her hands around the box but the man quickly snapped them back. “Now these are paid with tax payer dollars you see. Can’t just give them away but I think I could make an exception for you two. How does fifty sound to you?”

Lor bite her lip and had no idea what the man was saying. “Fifty? Fifty what?”

Lars’s face scrunched up into a grimace. His nose perked up and his right front incisor peeked out from his lips. “You two must be really hippie if you got no money! Here I am trying to do you a favor and no compensation.” He put the box back in the truck bed and then positioned his spray wand forwards. “You know this area is restricted. Can’t you eco-freaks read?” Lars reached over for a walkie-talkie he had clipped to his waist and muttered something about the boss but Lor did not bother to listen. If she could not stop the plant and the Freelander did not want to help then her garden was over.

The radio beeped when activated. Lars puckered his lips and held down the ‘Send’ button. “Hey, I have got…” His voice stopped there and then a wet gurgle, like bubbles breaking the surface of a pond. Lor looked up and saw Saria bring her leg down from an arching high kick. Lars hit the ground and crushed dozens of purple loosestrife plants. He hand his hands wrapped around his neck and he gasped in broken wheezes. Saria reached over into the truck bed and grabbed the box. “Come one,” she yelled while the radio screamed out requests for authorization.

Lor looked at Lars and then back at Saria, who was already running back towards the forest. “Saria! You had to hurt him?!”

As they ran, the air filled with the sound of snapping reeds. “He was going to call for help! We planned for that, remember? You got the bugs so what is the problem. He’ll live.”

Lor clutched the box in her arms, actually cradling it against the slapping reeds of angered purple loosestrife.

* * *

The column was massive now and almost towered over the tree line. Lor crouched by the water and spread the beetles at the base of the purple loosestrife mass. She watched the insects climb onto the plants and meander their way into the purple-green core. She looked at Saria, “Thanks for your help. I don’t want to take up anymore of your time.”

Saria nodded, realizing she had to get to the village. “No problem. Make sure to tell me how this all works out. I still don’t think a bunch of bugs will stop this. I can always bring a contingent here tomorrow with some axes or something.”

Lor imagined the gossip that scenario would create. There went re-certification and the Elders would never let her divine plants, for a living, again. She waved Saria goodbye and debated whether to read the purple loosestrife again. She decided not to, the plant was probably laughing at her. She left the tiny beetles to their work and went inside. The entire day had been a drain and sleep appeared too tempting to resist.

She later awoke to soft snap of falling reeds. Outside, the column was already down to her knees and the beetles lazily lay in the sun, engorged on purple loosestrife. She saw the tips of her old horsetails and elegant cat tails poke out from the curtailed purple loose strife. When she read them, her own plants, they were annoyed and gasping for breath, but mostly happy. They told war stories of crushing close quarters and how they avoided the purple bully. Lor listened to each of the survivor’s stories and reminded them the day was over.

Heart Shaped

Elaborating on an earlier post but if somone throws a heart into a message then that is my shiny flashing object.

"Thanks for the help!"

- Hackneyed 

- Did you really need help?

- Strangers say this to each other 

"Thanks for the help! ❤"

- Brilliant

- You could not have done this without me

- Are we best friends, now?!

As an older Millenial I remember a time without texting but it was never truly absent. I had a pager in the 8th grade that Mami said was only for emergencies. And paging others meant calling a switch board and reading your message.  

"What is the message?"

And it was always something so bland but I wondered about the people who wanted to elaborate out essays. Or who wanted to say something beyond the Hallmark card aesthetics. "I love you" must have always been awkward. Did anyone ever page something tawdry? Did anyone ever page "I DONT love you"? Beacuse I imagined that all required Greek epic levels of bravery. 

And we had original emojis where heart was a slapdash monster of slashes . Guys like this =).

However that carries no weight for me. It's the desperate need for validation or the grinding compeltionist in me but that tiny nod (in ink or pen) makes me want snap into an all pro mode. It does and fires a flurry of dopamine that is outside my daily routine. My kids who I push away because I am tired and who then say they dont want me when I find the time. My wife who shares in my exhaustion of 15 years trying on our terms. The back burner projects at work and hobbies I could be better at if only I gave one more iota of a shit about them. 

I'm writing this a bit dizzy tired. A sort of auto writing as I realize I should brush my teeth. I'm a sucker for curls. I've said that once and in layers of falling sleep I see them. Wispy and color of box elder wood. Every message is punctuated by a heart reminding me of first dates. Of a college crush with red hair fanned by dinosaur kale leaves. "You're funny," someone once told me. And I felt seen yet also isolated and hollow. 

Some Plays

Too long for a tweet but I got to make these two reference at work today eliciting chuckles from the audience and, indeed, I am human so I was proud and thank you to all my teachers in high school and college.

A Play 1

Colleague 1: Oh, they were mad they had to share their room today for tutoring

Colleague 2: No, you are kidding. I told her about the double booking.

Me: Yeah, that's bullshit. I told her too! And what does she tutor? Algebra! She is not broadcasting some top secret stuff. Its algebra. We have known about algebra since the fucking Crusades!

Colleague 1: I like spicy you

Me: You are now my favorite co-worker!

A Play 2:

Me: Everyday its a new grievance with him. He is like Martin Luther except without a church

Colleague 1* (Over text): I screamed laughed.

Its Like Mad Men

I did not watch The Super Bowl. Not because of some sort of need to be mega alternative but because I did not have cable and, without a horse in the race, really did not care much. You can still follow the zeitgeist on Twitter and ads later. Next year...Go Browns! But, for now, here is a round up of what I saw on YouTube the next day. Note this is not comprehensive

Planters



Boo to Baby Nut! People putting him in the same echelon as Baby Yoda need to recognize they are stanning the wrong infant. Something very off putting about Baby Nut as there was with Mr. Peanut. A weird sort of reverse uncanny valley where it should be more real than it is.

I do like that Kool Aid Man's tears resurrected Baby Nut. Because that is not Kool Aid insidie Kool Aid Man but stolen blood. Because, if I just ran through a wall, you know I am going to fuck someone up so why not keep the incidental blood for when you need to bring your buddy back from the dead?

That is the commercial I want to see! Kool Aid Man reviving great heroes and martyrs to see how history would unfold.

Jeep

I will admit to only every watching Groundhog Day once and while I agree it is good I don't hold it as rarefied as others. So this did not hit as hard albeit nice a clever but still not memorable.



Disney Plus/Marvel Shows

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG!



Rocket Mortgage

I liked this for how quirky it was and really went the other direction with what you expect. Its like those old Carl Jr's ads where the hot lady ate a hamburger but not so banal. My wife also likes Jason Momoa so I am obliged to say it was great! Also, who is so privileged as to shop around for mortgages? I just need one bank to throw me a bone.



Tide

I love Charlie Day in anything and he really carries this snoozy piece.



Doritos

Since I didn't see this live not sure if I got the right one but this appears to be a series of bits that watched together are awesome. Its just the gravitas of Sam Eliot saying anything with the deep impending bass of when Lil Nas X is riding up. You really feel a gunfight is about to break out and it can only be stopped by Doritos! Long time readers may not my disdain for Doritos which I swear are made of ground up bones but this is art.




Walmart

Wasn't the same pitch as last year? You can pick up your order from Walmart, etc, etc. What is most impressive is how much cash Walmart must have paid out for the rights to these characters. Snooze fest.



Hyundai

This would have had much more punch if the actors doing it had been known for being all Boston-y. It really overstays its welcome and I could watch Chris Evans and John Kransiski clip toenails they are so ultimately dream. Its ok.



Cheetos

Nice! Cheetos dust is a horrible feeling akin to rock in your shoe or kernel of popcorn wedged in your gums. I appreciate the cleverness of taking something so nasty about their brand and making it something funny.



Ads that I watched but I feel were no more special than anything you can see normally are Audi, Micholeb Ultra and those Genesis ads with John Legend and Chrissy Teigen. I am sure I missed a bunch but at this point it loses any panache.

Now...another Super Bowl add story....way back in the go-go 90s I watched a Super Bowl where American Express had an ad with Jerry Seinfeld where I remember him using his credit card to pay for gas and how he nails the "perfect pump" ending both the cost on even double zeroes. And I became obsessed with doing this when pumping gas for my mom's car. We used to only go to the Gulf station by the bakery where a man named Jamon (Which translates to ham) pumped the gas. But one day it went to just self serve so I always did it. I would count down the numbers and whip out the nozzle always missing by some fraction of cents

. Note doing this almost meant a spray of gasoline whipped back onto the cars in the neighboring bays. Or dribbled onto my shoes. I never got the perfect pump but fuck did I try.

Goodness, Its Another Poem

The writing prompt book told me to write about "ink"


Writing Prompt-Ink

In the margins I draw hearts
When someone walks by who
twirls their hair on a finger tip

The palimpsests of blue bank pen
Make a vertical landscape on legal pads
Three pages deep
There are hearts

The rest of the tally
Counts things less important
Cars that drove by
Number of pitches
The history of pens scribbled on the sheet
It can be anything

When someone frowns
bringing hurt curls to the floor
I make the heart bigger
For support in thick doubled back lines

Alone in the room with nothing
I trace swirls onto one another
Concentric bands that frizzle to my end point
A purple-black dot poured from ballpoint