The Year 2020

We stood front to back watching the fireworks shoot off into the sky behind the bay bridge. 

Five. Four. Three. Two. One! 

Happy New Year!!!!! We exchanged a kiss and entered the year 2020 without any fuckin expectations of what would occur. We danced all night, we spent our first night in my first apartment in SF. Life seemed easy, real. I waited, with youthful spirit, the obstacles I’d soon come to face. SF was unreal, it was a lonely place in the beginning. 

“Acid for the Children” became my best friend. I explored coffee shops, and kava bars, I walked to school everyday and worked mornings. Then tame impala happened: I discovered the night life in SF—I was finally 21 but that day I found my independence. The listening show was, what I consider, to be MY first night in SF.

Tamia became a single unit. We walked down mission, my feet killing me, three new strangers who I have now become good friends with somehow. The make out room, how I miss it so, how I danced and kissed and drank so many nights away there. 

I met Xxx months ago, where he lied about his daughter being his sister. The night of our meeting became a night of ER freak accidents and first dates, I can easily say that was one of the poorer decisions this year. Then came (xxx) and the romantic escapades, the drunken nights and infatuation was unlike any other. Firsts, they are harder than seconds and thirds because you are forced to feel every bittersweet emotion that follows the end of that first experience. 

The listening show taught me about drinking. I had done the dance with alcohol before, we were good friends, had a relationship, but, we created a marriage —once the pandemic happened. 

Life was unreal, it was perfect, it was new fresh, fun, exciting, it was all I could imagine life to be, and then it became not. It changed. Xxx came back into my life, hard. I created a new friendship with him, he became a sibling, a confidant, a partner in crime, Xxx and Ooo, the three muskateers. 

I married alcohol, but it was an abusive relationship. It would try to talk to me, gave me warnings within that I knew I should have heeded. I ignored them. They became more prevalent, my mind began to wither, my heart began to rot, my liver began to give out, my body was exhausted. This poor tired vessel was treated like a sewer. 

I met “the musicians”. Life changed again, I found a beautiful group of souls that have painted colorful pictures of imagination and creation. Minds that have gardens of colorful tulips blossoming from their ears. Faeries and Gypsies, hitchhikers and activists, lawyers and high priestesses, tax men and pianists. All of the traveling I’ve done throughout my lifetime can be completely disregarded when compared to the journey I’ve embarked upon after meeting these people. 

George Floyd, Breona Taylor, I heard your names in my sleep, not dreams or night terrors, I do not wish credit where credit does not deserve to be. Because someone’s death should not be a dream, it should haunt us, their names are remembered.

The virus took over like a deadly disease, because that’s what it was. The elections happened and it was like the whole world heaved one big sigh. Whether of relief or preparation of the years to follow, but the four year era is over for Trump. The asshole. 

No amount of convincing could have prepared me for the year 2020. A failed relationship later, a new one ensuing, a whole life ahead full of promise and uncertainty. Still I’m skeptical when I wake up every morning, as if this motivation will leave me, as though there will be some catch, as if my feet will slowly descend upon the cold floor for the first time in a year—but I am resilient. Old habits die hard, we’ve spent more of our years entwined within the hustle and bustle of life that it will be easy for most of the population to forget what this pace of living feels like. Never forget. 

Highlights

One of the coolest nights of my life nights to document: a two joint rotation with Xxx and Ooo, sitting cross legged in a triangle atop my bed...speaking minimally, smoking maximally, listening to good music and riding the invisible wave”

Sitting under the full moon with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city scape, sitting near the shore on a drift log singing along to redbone in the dark, looking over at xxx “peanut butter chocolate cake with koolaid” grin on our faces and good feelings 

The night I was leaving xxx’s house, only slightly intoxicated, in love with the solitude of the night. The quiet, empty streets, feeling the feeling of appreciation for life. 

Words Will Never Be Enough

a writers perspective

What is this? It has never occurred before. I am struggling to find words I concur. I find difficulty in assigning a thought to this emotion and call it a feeling, put it onto paper, make it a sentence, try to create a shape of it. In reality there are no words to describe the way I am feeling. Except there are...If I take long enough to try.

What I'm saying is what I'm not able to say, and that is that I'm saying the wrong thing. Over the course of the weekend I have discovered a depth within myself I had never explored, and it took "a little help from my friends." Subliminally, the universe has been masterfully painting a scene before me; and the canvas I am beholding is one which depicts a bright orb of golden light. If I look closely enough, I can almost catch a reflection of myself in its brilliant face of gold. Like pictures, I realized that there are simply moments that cannot be transcribed onto paper, no matter how hard we try. As though in an attempt to describe the color blue to someone who has never seen it before, I have been pulling at the deepest parts of myself, driving myself mad, incapable of applying meaning to a feeling. Even now I continue to dance around what I am trying to say, but because dear reader, I do not want to mess this up. I want to get it just right.

In order to get this right I have to go back...back New Orleans, a place with weary foundations but strong roots. Where the term 'southern hospitality' was coined on a front porch in St. Roch, and jazz was discovered. It is-and was-the mecca of soul searching, zydeco, and black magic women. Just up river, in Lil 'ol Mississippi, the blues were born and raised. Admittedly, jazz and blues are like cousins holding hands on a summer afternoon. New Orleans jazz is the kind of jazz that can be served alongside craw fish mac and cheese and po boys. The kind of jazz that makes grieving into another celebration, played and sung alongside Sunday dance lines. It is the jazz that draws you from the beaded streets of Bourbon to the French Quarter's Preservation Hall. It makes you spring to your feet, let a jazz cat swing you around the cleared area, giving you a yearning feeling of hearing it’s music the way it was played the first time. New Orleans jazz can only really speak through brass, bass, and heart. Sweet hep scarlet jazz has got soul, rhythm and:

"Hey-yo!"

"Hey-yo!"

...a lot to talk about. What I am trying to say is that there isn't one way to describe the feeling you get from the inside of a jazz club, there is too much history to begin with.

We are in the era, after a world apocalypse, where we have been granted three wishes, and nothing more: the chance to pay off our debts, the space to allow for suffering and reform, and the ambition to do the things we set out to do. We use our language to spin together these elaborate stories about our selves and our love, but those can fall short when there is no tangible proof of success. I no longer want to speak, I want to let the results of this success do so itself.

Let's go back up stream to Mississippi, where Jazz's cousin Blues sits lowly on the piano stool. Because I have not yet immersed myself within its birth place, I cannot set the same stage for the emotion it coerces. I have heard the blues. I have sung the blues. But have you ever heard of the happy blues? I was brought back to a place near the river, by the swamp, where the two states meet, and I can remember how hot that November was. There was a trumpet playing nearby, and a piano on the Mississippi shores, a sax within the trees, and someone singing under willow. It was a man by the name of Ernest. He makes his way to my music venue in San Francisco every Sunday after service, and sing us the blues. He sang us blues that reminded us of yesterdays and tomorrows and yesterday's tomorrows. In an improvisational jam, four men, from four different parts of this giant world, congregated outside before the setting gold sun-to preach the holy gospel.

I did not get down on one bended knee to pray, but instead to worship the feeling stirring up inside. Looking around I could see smiles and faces I had never seen before. Truth and spirit shone within each glistening eye of the small audience. Before the fleeting moment vanished I tried to remember the feeling of what it meant to be amidst this picturesque scene. I did so as a reminder that there was no where I would rather be than in the present. So that when times turned tough I'd know what I know now; about how smiling through the tears is not pretending (is not make believe), but instead it is lending hope to the future and the love that lives within it. Like the all knowing goddess she is, the universe kissed me atop my head, gently enveloped me within her rosy scented arms, and assured me of the beauty that perpetually exists within the world. I knew then what I still know now, that even if I told the story a million times to my nieces and nephews, I would never be able to make them feel like I did that day. For the first time in a long time I was listening, and this time I was finally beginning to understand.

Don’t Trust The Cacophony

There are two tiny people running around as I write this, chasing each other. Tiny persons, tots, children.

They are more like little adults conversing in their own way which is why I describe them as little people. I guess I begin to wonder what occurs exactly when we go from being a baby to being considered an actual functioning member of society. The answer must lie somewhere within how much we can contribute to it. Therefore, in those moments I couldn’t help but to perceive them as a "little person" because the behavior they were displaying was so unlike children, and more of a "contributing to society" energy. As it goes, children endlessly inspire me. They are the most determined creatures I have ever observed. They have this willingness to fail and explore and experience. Toddlers communicate in a special way, and like the fascination I have for animals and their thoughts, I always wonder 'What the hell is going on inside there?' These complexities will remain as such until we somehow tap into the telekinetic world and read each others minds.

A scene: two small humans chasing each other between the garden lane, the tops of their heads barely reaching the undersides of the tables on either side of them. Back and forth, and back and forth, running through the puddles, shrieking with excitement. It is exciting! I could see it. They made it look so fun that I looked down at my own unmoving feet contemplating why I had stopped finding joy from mundane moments. My answer: repetition and exposure. I forget to appreciate things the more often I experience or indulge within them. Shavda's voice always pops into my head when I see a sight like this. "My greatest guru is actually my four year old granddaughter. She reminds me to walk gently upon the earth and appreciate its beauty with newness each time," she said to me while we were both tripping on shrooms. Shavda is my greatest guru. At 74 she is like a glowing orb of radiant childlike joy and light. Not only is her hair the starkest white that reflects the sun with brilliance, but her aura is white. Her smile heals, her eyes sparkle, her teeth gleam, her hands hold. Before this piece becomes a complete ode to Shavda, I must lastly state: she epitomizes childlike wonder and excitement.

While appreciating and acknowledging the little people running around my plant nursery I realized that despite my previous notion I was experiencing the world with new eyes, even if the lens was not mine. By observing the newness they were feeling I was led to remember my first time. The interconnectedness of experiences is what makes us relatable, which is how bonds and relationships form. Except until the moment familiarity sets in, it becomes far easier to find things redundant and dull. I tend to consume things, people, experiences with a type of infatuation until these things become absolutely repugnant. This characteristic could be a result of the undiagnosed ADHD my mother highly believes I have. The way my little thoughts work...I am beginning to believe her.

The cacophony of voices in my head like to lie. I know they do. Sometimes they are intuitive and can save me from a situation I should avoid. These days it has become rather difficult to silence their whisperings. Thoughts are like mind flowers which bloom and die with time. This restless and troubled mind runs circles around itself and it always has a problem with something. I then have to ask myself: Is this me and my thoughts or is this a result of my lifestyle lately? Sleep, diet, and substance consumption contribute to our mental health. I know this. I experienced the results of health negligence in Barcelona when I acknowledged that the panic attack I had was not induced by any real panic at hand, but rather by a chemical reaction occurring inside of me. My body was responding to what I had consumed, or more accurately, hadn't within 48 hours. As a result, I almost lost my fucking mind. On days like today I have to sit back and question how I have been treating my body.

What do you call it when you forget to eat? I don't mean: 'I am depressed and I cannot bring food to the threshold of my lips' kind of forget. It's more of a 'I am not hungry and will continue to go about my day until I get hungry.' But then the hunger does not come. Tack on my tobacco consumption which curbs appetite, and fasting until 1pm, a beer after work which fills me up, and soon enough it's 10pm and I've cooked up a perfect numbskull meal. I could find it "edgy" or even comical, but I am more mindful than that. I sit myself down and ask: 'what is wrong'...and then we think. It's been a week of this "diet". Last Sunday I acknowledged it only because the person I was speaking to was trembling with each drag of their cigarette. It could have been from the cold, or drugs, or being malnourished. But then I brought my own cigarette to my lips only to find a slight shake in my fingertips as well-and I was not cold or on drugs.

I found it inspiring and romantic, as a writer would, but there should be a point where my shakiness must be observed as a visceral sign...my body is trying to tell me something. Here I find myself, at the writing station again, using this outlet as a way to figure it out. When I woke up today I thought my problem was external, that the sadness was my reaction to a situation, or the weather, but I have found my hands resting on my heart and my belly several times throughout the day as a form of self soothing. I realize I am not O.K. As I said before, don't trust the cacophony because the voices will instinctively lie. Putting the blame on exterior factors and dereliction can ruin someone, be sure to take responsibility so as to facilitate a new perspective or outlook.

This blog is supposed to be honest, raw, and philosophical, but today I find it extremely hard to fulfill all of these prerequisites I have set for myself. This piece will not belong to me when it gets published, it will be for the world to use and interpret as it wants. I have spent so many hours writing this now, existing within my mind, and I keep looking at the time, seeing the hours pass, causing myself more turmoil and pain. Today time has been representative of my worth. What this means is that I have observed the amount of literal thought I have put into a person and the way it signifies my prioritization of them, where I then have been questioning how mutual that feeling is. As I step back from today and the emotions its brought, I can easily see how stupid my inner monologue has become, but the only way out is through. Therefore I have forced myself into a headspace in order to overcome the situation, be better, and change my attitude.

As a reminder for anyone who struggles with the intensity of their thoughts and emotions: You are valid. You are loved. Love yourself first and the rest will come easily. As a reminder to myself: I love you and I love my life. Be healthy to your body because if not it becomes increasingly difficult to heal yourself-inside and out. Walk gently and relinquish the tendency to stifle your inner child...because after all, despite what the cacophony says, life truly is so fucking beautiful.

Life’s Shitty First Drafts

Things do not change; we change.

Henry David Thoreau

What happened to us? Maybe it was a YP (your problem) and not a MP (my problem), but it could have also been that we simply outgrew each other.

I'm talking to you Marissa, Ike, Holly, Angel (one and two), Valerie, and Raymond, Charles, Elizabeth, and Justin, Zeke, (reader you aren't required to read or retain each name listed) Kaleb, Alice, Jean...

But maybe it's not that we have outgrown one another, and instead it is my self involvement that was a causal factor for our demise. The prioritization of my own happiness, enjoyment, or peace has led me on a long, lonely, nomadic path. We all had things in common, we once bonded, and might still do so, but to me keeping a friend is truly hard. I can't bring myself to blame adulthood (despite wanting to), or believe that the wages of aging and increasing responsibilities help contribute to our shitty friendship patterns. Frankly, I have not decided whether I love people or hate them, an opinion which is synchronized with my own internal self love/loathing. I can be cynical, I can be lighthearted and gentle, cruel or kind; I am capable of personifying all these traits: things I have learned from living and creating so many different friendships. We tend to unintentionally absorb characteristics from the world around us.

At the most pivotal moment of my life I made a choice which led to a lot of pain. At the time I did not foresee what the cause of my actions would be, but in two years flat I would begin to observe the results of a life I had obliviously built. By the same hand which writes this blog I fell victim to its alcoholic escapism and retrophiliac nature as the blow would make its way from the table into my nose and Janis Joplin's remastered version of Kosmic Blues played loudly in my ears. I let myself slip into the hands of two equally damaged and jarring individuals, being shaped into a sharp edged, kinda pudgy, awkward mold who stood there like a naked monkey: afraid and itching. Shifting my weight from one misshapen foot to the other, I restlessly lay myself into my grave each night, only to wake up with the moon again. How many years has it been?

Ten years of wanting somebody to love me. That movie love, "I got your back, call me anytime" love, mind reader love, tea on the back porch love love. Back then I just wanted someone to love me...enough. I thought I had finally achieved that, in some demented way, those two friends of mine were as sad and lost as me, but we were each lost in such different ways. I was battling crippling substance abuse which caused depression and guilt, we all were, but tack on our personal issues and a global pandemic: we were living in the shittiest self victimizing rom-com rock drama and we could not decide who the lead actor was. As a result, I just began to hate all my friends, as a projection of my own self loathing, but it made things easier. No one could tell, however, I silently suffered, like an animal of prey, falling more deeply into a toxic relationship with myself. I hear that blaming people for our own shortcomings is a sign of a lack of accountability and bitterness. I forgive You. I forgive me. I have chosen to let go and forget that feeling and shed the rotten skin which I was gifted, taken from a place of rotten souls, (as I write these words I know it's only for the sake of their poetic justice).

And yet, I waited...still longing to be loved back. I still long to be loved. I still long to be longed for, longed for by You, whoever that is at the moment of me publishing this. My mind whispers: "You cannot welcome love in if it does not exist within you." I love the Earth. In a nihilistic manner I am skeptic of my love for my parents, but I do love them. I love myself, and that sometimes comes with preconditions. My predispositions on self-love arise when I am alone, (sometimes not even then--I too often desire not being alone). I feel happiest when I am alone with tasks to occupy the space and time. I want to be in a room surrounded by people but I am tired. That's all. I am tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. I have written the word so many times it's begun to look like tried, losing its meaning.

This part of life sucks, with a capital S, and from what I gather, it gets slightly easier...to deal, but not less tiring. I wish I could be a tree, a plant, an animal, a blade of grass, something that only existed to exist. After all, our sole purpose is to nourish the land, despite the fact that we fail at this time and time again, however, we are not very different from the natural world. When we are all dead and gone the mychorrhizal fungi will envelop our brains, suck out the knowledge, transform it into nutrients, and give life back once more. Until one day "we" (nature not humanoids) are reborn from the same Earth we died upon. I guess when I put it that way we are a lot more like animals than previously perceived.

I vow to make the most of my regrets, never smothering my sorrow, but tending to it and cherishing it until it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.

"...and the blue bird carries the sky on its back."