Circumstances fluid,
excuses, blind, babbling-on:
just friends, no chemistry,
still looking, open options,
not the type, not the vibe,
coming on too strong, too weak.
it’s me, tisn’t you.
Profiles, compatability,
just lies, games we offer,
to ourselves.
Scared of getting what we want.
I have all I need do you?
Es mi primer idioma, es el idioma de mi familia, es el idioma del amor y de la fantasia. Y con tan poquita de esas dos que tenemos ahorita decidi de comunicarme aqui de esta manera. Yo se que es un cambio de locura y si puede ser que la locura me entro y hay que manejarlo mejor, pero tengo ni ganas ni habilidad de hablar ni escribir en mi idioma adoptivo. Ya he dado bastante de mi corazon en ingles en estos dias, me lo han rechazado y ya no puedo. Estoy desconectado.
Los ritmos de mi idioma natal me llenan. Me recuerdo de mi abuelo, las poesias de Neruda, de Cuba, de Mexico la ultima ves que fui. Eso me da alegria. Paso un gran rato hablandolo. Mis estudiantes se rien y se sienten que hay alguien que le respeta su forma de comunicar.
Sabemos que necesitamos comunicarnos mejor en este pais. Sin barreras como dicen. Pero el idoma de aqui nos regala barreras entre si tambien. Nos quita una gran parte
de nuestro corazon en iluminar la conversacion del negocio, que sabemos que todo, la experencia, el amor, el transcurzo de la vida cotidiana en este paiz esta basado en el movimiento, la economia como una gran relacion y relajo entre personas.
Creemos que es asi, pensamos que asi es la vida y probablemente siempre ha sido asi. Pero yo lo niego. Busco una manera de comunicarme que esta informado por lo que se presenta y no de lo que se esconde, de lo que sentimos y no de lo que pensamos, que refleja mejor la vida surreal y no la realidad tan oscura que vivimos.
Quiero leer Garcia Marquez, Garcia Lorca y Cristina Garcia en su idioma personal. Quiero bailar tangos, merengues y salsas. Quiero escuchar mi musica en la manera en que la descubri. Quiero re-encontrar mi Radio Enciclopedia. Quiero deshacerme de lo negativo, de la vida que vivo y quiero rellenarme de musica, comida y conversacion que me respeta asi tanto como yo respeto.
Part 2: Continuing my visit to the LOS ANGELES COMIC BOOK AND SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION (man what a mouthful).
The January convention happen to fall on the day ‘TERMINATOR: THE SARAH CONNOR CHRONICLES’ premieres. The ‘TERMINATOR’ panel went big for LACON, ahh short ‘n sweet, delivering three of the four principle actors of the series; Summer Glau, Thomas Dekker and Richard T. Jones. Missing inexplicably missing form the panel was Sara Conner herself Lena Headey. Truth be told the crowd was really there for Summer Glau. I have noticed that in a world of one name celeraties it feels wrong to call Summer Glau by either her first or last name alone, but I digress. Summer Glau’s costars were not blind to the fact that hers were the loudest applause and jokingly started to leave the stage sensing their presence not required.
Their presence was validated during the Q&A session when Richard was asked to describe his character FBI agent James Ellison. His description was of a dedicated government agent pursuing Sarah Conner obsessively and that the obsession may eventually get personal. Thomas on the other hand was asked if Summer Glau’s android character was fully functional, he said he wasn’t sure. Summer Glau added that the series could run for 8 years and she sure hoped she was right. Thomas injected a bit of humor saying that the women attracted to him often turn out to be robots. I did get to ask Summer Glau one question pertaining to her prior career as a dancer and how it led to her acting.
I wanted to know if she still danced professionally. She said that she didn’t have time for ballet with her busy schedule but she didn’t like to excersise so she did dance to stay in shape. I followed up asking if she would would be dancing professionally in the future she gave the cryptic response “You’d have to ask Joss about that”. I can only speculate what she meant by that but the implications are intriguing.
-CJ
My editor at the Register.com sent me to do a piece on that recluse Artemis Bok who lived on New Balboa Island. While I waited I reviewed my notes. Born in Missouri, turn of the century, a prodigy who made fearless jumps from Caltech to MIT and landed at Scripps, a government funded think tank where he made his fortune. Bok was as transparent as the sea one hundred feet below this, his new private city in the clouds.
I expected an assistant to meet me, but instead a frail, white-haired man, with eyes as animated as I remembered, met me at the door. Ten years ago I had written, “The Travels of Time Boy”, in his honor. It was the story of a teenager that had traveled through time. He had brought back a lamppost from 19th century New York; Candle-lit.
“Hello, have you been waiting long?”
“No thank you”, I said, “I’d like to begin the interview.”
“Your generation. More impatient than the last.”
He turned and led me through the halls of his private labyrinth to a large set of doors; solid oak, with gold rings and no lock. The doors opened into a smallish room that was dominated by a cot and a well-worn writing desk that held, amongst other things, an ancient telephone, a brass lantern and what looked like a hubcap from a streamlined, pre-War Chrysler. He motioned to the cot for me to sit but I declined.
“I read your book”, he said,” I liked it. ‘The travels of Time Boy.’” Then, with a faint smile he said, “I have only one regret. I never traveled through time. No one can. We brought many artifacts back like those on that desk. You bring something forward though and something returns; an eye for an eye.”
He noticed my confusion. “We were getting artifacts lost for millennia, an unfinished symphony or a lost manuscript, but the more we stole the more we lost. Objects in the present have been disappearing. A complex paradox caused by my experiments. You are my witness. Look at me and you will understand.”
He was disappearing. At first it was a slight bleaching of his features, that progressed into an unnatural ghostliness. His voice echoed from beyond the walls. “We influenced births, lives and even deaths. My own will be most important. None of this would have happened without me.” And with that he was gone.
I remembered the look in his eyes. He believed his death would make a difference. I turned to his desk, expecting his artifacts to be gone, but they were still there. I left the room and made my way back to the lobby. In my chair sat my editor, Bernie. She got up as I entered the room.
“Hello, have you been waiting long?”
“No thank you”, she said,” I’d like to begin the interview.”
“Your generation. More impatient than the last.”
I entered the death house on a whim. The New York Times had sent me to get a final interview with Lindbergh kidnapper, Bruno Hauptmann before the hammer fell. I spent the final hours of my trip getting the nerve to go in. It was easier getting than I thought. I left the guards behind with my false papers and a written request with urgent orders to interview the prisoner typed on legal stationery from the Attorney General’s office.
I approached the cell cautiously. I was surprised by my own childish reaction. I was rather nervous. For all that I had seen on the Western Front, I was obviously effected by the reports written by other reporters. Hauptmann to them was a ruthless killer. An animal. As I reached the cell, I looked inside and saw a thin, rather pale man sitting on a stool in the center of the cell. He looked tired and rather thin. Recently shaven.
-Bruno Hauptmann?
BH: Who is that?
-I have a request for you. I’m from the Times.
BH: Call me Richard. I always hated Bruno..
-Yes Richard it is. We have heard that you would like to tell your story?
BH: I asked them. To speak to Mr. Walter Winchell. From my cell. They said that they were sorry. I could not from my cell, or anywhere.
-Then that is why I am here.
BH: I am an innocent man. That is what I need to say.
-You realize that the jury did not believe you.
BH: The jury did not listen. They never gave me a chance. I was guilty from the start.
-Here’s your chance Bruno, I mean Richard.
BH: I never knew Mr. Lindbergh. I did not know where he lived. Mr. Fitch left me the ransom money when he left for Germany. If he had lived I would not be here. He could have saved me all of this. If the police had given the lie detector to Dr. Condon, I would not be here. I believe that.
-Richard, they found the money in your accounts. There were people who said they had seen you at the cemetary, where the ransom drop was set.
BH: The ransom? How could they have seen? It was dark. How could they say it was me?
-What about the note? Some said it was by your own hand.
BH: I did not write the note. There were some people that my lawyer Mr. Reilly found that were willing to testify that I had not written the notes. They disappeared when the police got to them. Sir, have you heard any word from the Governor? Have they indicted that other man? Mr. Wendel? I am told he confessed.
-No word Richard about a stay of execution Richard. Wendell has been discredited. Are there any other words?
BH: You have wounded me greatly. They gave me more time. Three days more they said. I have a note for the Governor. I dictated before you came. Would you like it for your paper?
-Yes, I would appreciate it greatly, but we have little time. They will be coming for me soon.
BH: Quickly, as you say.
Why does your state do this to me, Governor? Why do they want my life for something somebody else has done. I was found guilty you say. Lies, Lies, Lies. All lies. Why would I kill a baby? I am a man. Would I build that ladder? I am a carpenter. Did they find finger prints on that ladder? No. What about the footprints in the cemetary? They did not match my prints. Where were the letters that I received from Mr. Fitch? I gave them to the police. I cooperated. Do you know why this is happening? The poor child has been kidnapped and murdered, so somebody must die for it. For is the father not the great flyer? And if somebody does not die for this, then the police will always be monkeys. So I am picked to die.
- Bruno Richard Hauptmann
I thanked him and left. I did not want to press my luck. They never bothered me on the way out. I should have been more honest with him. I did not know the status of Mr. Wendel or his discredited confession. I would not know until later. It still didn’t make me feel any better that my rediction came true. I had hoped that this one lie would have given me what he would not give anyone else before. A confession. It would have meant a Pulitzer for my wall. I would have retired a year early. I called in my story, but I knew mine would not be the last word. He died three days later and I knew that they had killed an innocent man. I retired that day and left for Paris the next week. I never saw the Eastern seaboard again.
Sitting in our favorite booth,
our coffee getting cold,
the waitress takes our orders,
three burgers, chili-fries.
Add a stream of sugar, skip the cream,
java must be bold.
Sheets of paper, stacked in rows,
it’s time for playful lies.
Scarred by battle-marks, we said,
pizza, ketchup, beer.
The game books on the pocked marked table
piled a columns’ high.
Twenty sided die are out,
corners filed from yesteryear,
bringing luck to countless games.
Our dull lives remade.
Stories that spanned the years and played
three hours at a time.
Another friday night at Spartans.
Memories fade.
Passion honor, hope:
lessons from our summertime.
Would I have those lessons back
to ring between my ears.
Remembrances are all I have
to allay adult fears.
Lord of Winter sails from west
of ancient dragon’s isle to lands
that hide behind the rising of the sun.
Lord of Winds has traveled far;
slavery pits to temple’s tile.
Dragon Lord awaits them both
beneath a mound undone.
Betrayed by Nighthawk’s clan,
arrogance and envy.
Winds and Winter start anew
with lessons learned
friendships spurned.
Alone they offer tales
of other wars and sorcery.
Of a traveler stranded
far before his time
and of a bard who never sings;
fugitives, runaways.
Of a thief who spurns the life;
robbery, petty crime.
A Wizard born of night’s womb,
life in disarray.
And Death in name
strains against
the memories of his father’s name.
They linger far beyond the realms
of our childhood’s game.
Sitting in my living room,
my wife asleep in bed.
Next to her my infant child
a toy in tiny hand.
I wake from one more sleepless night,
I cannot rest my head.
My too active brain
cannot perceive or understand,
where our souls have ebbed to;
myself my wife, my son.
Taking comfort from themselves,
I return to misspent nights
playing simple games
where battles are only lost; or won.
She never understood
our need for fantasy.
Grandma asked, on our behalf,
God grant us all that we’d need.
Soon each found a match,
the break in our confederacy.
Now she’s gone,
I can’t help but turn to this in need.
Friday nights at Spartans
was no flight from reality,
but a search for meaning
to win ourselves sanity.
Four friends on a cold concrete slab,
afternoon lunch sitting in the park,
our minds drifting on the wisps
trailing from the ends of a half-burned clip.
In a daze the words come in a steady mumble,
can’t hear them above the noise. The jumble.
Our lives just the half-filled bottle, turning in my hand.
Head turns to the bottle, hands to the cap,
the oily scent of forgetfullness.
The body reels, head to the ground.
In dreams the body won’t move,
the hands won’t act, the fear paralizes.
My head turns to the warm pool near my left ear.
My mind turns. Captured in time,
a sad smile on a little boys face.
Before the need in his belly
or the pain in his bowels.
Hair caught behind a back-turned cap.
Jams and a board. Peach-fuzz on the chin.
The red jacket with no sleeves.
From the floor, I see him now.
They pay me no heed, as always ignored.
The words he said to our mutual friend
escape the haze of the moment before.
By their own hands will it end.
Small lives made smaller by their own promises.
Near my ear, the bottle rolls away,
picked up. Spittle rises in my wordless
mouth but their desperate need will not
be denied. There is no pain when flesh is dead.
Zippo lighter fails near the newly
drenched flesh, scent of a misty wick.
The words I should have said, I ask.
What my lies have brought, I say.
The sickly smell of death, she said,
on a beach. A moonlit stroll. Dramatic flare even then.
Her father had died from a blow to the heart.
A sudden burning in his chest.
The sands held no solace then.
Other scents, other regrets. Other sands.
My brother really died a long time ago,
result of a lifetime of sibling neglect.
Subtle damning words. Never heard from again.
The body would follow him down. Years later
on a concrete slab. “Lunch in the park.”
She left with our daughter for Ontario last summer.
Our own inequities paling in our brother’s light.
The fires within occluding the fires without.
As the world decays, time burns us to our essence,
That is why we live alone.
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