Question of the week

Question: “Do you think you are clearer after being sick because being sick forced you out of some habits?” (Courtesy: Otto)

Answer: Yes.

The conduit between inspiration and myself is more open that it’s been in a very long time. But illness always causes me to shut down and run on reserves, which allows for a kind of mental sloughing. My only concern during those times is getting better. I wash away any stressful thoughts with the cathode ray. When I can find something like a “Law and Order: SVU” marathon, I’m all good.

But this particular spell was augmented by my recent trip home.

One of the aspects of home that has always appealed to me (even more so now) is the relative isolation, peace and quiet. Some look at it as desolation and hopelessness, and there’s some of that, too.

But the wide-open urban space, coupled with a decided lack of humanity, creates a landscape that sings to me with a pretty song.

I can imagine how it used to be, years before I existed. When those streets teemed with life, energy, and hope. I dream of what they can become in the future, and the possibilities are truly endless. I get kind of sad when I realize there’s a good chance those possibilities will materialize too far in the future for any of us to savor.

The people that do remain are quite the fascinating collection. I’m particularly attracted to the women (imagine that)—there’s a steely kind of resolve there I rarely experience anymore--but not at the expense of their femininity. If anything, they amplify their sexuality in a kind of reaction to the bleakness of the environment.


Which is why I’m returning for another long weekend there for the Thanksgiving holiday. That’s also the weekend where a certain personal project I’ve been avoiding for far too long will begin in earnest. The goal is to have a finished product in my hands by the end of the year. It’s been honed down to one of three projects, actually. I’m going to let time reveal to me which one is the first to fall. That’s exciting.

But the rather consistent lack of cultural stimulation (unless you really search for it) creates a blank canvas on which it’s easy to draw up something original. I feel like I get so much done there, and fast.

I have entertained the notion of returning there for an extended period of time, but not quite yet. I could definitely see hunkering down for a spell and really getting to work.

But for right now, I’m making good time in the rat race of L.A. It’s been a bitch of a fight, but I’ve actually carved out a nice little place for myself here.

Still, I look around and see faint outlines of what my environment should really look like right now. I’m realizing to bring those fuzzy images into focus is going to require discipline, determination and simply doing the work.


But I am up to challenge. This is what life is all about (for me, anyway). I’ve been training for and working towards this moment my entire life.

Nervous, excited, and kind of anxious. All good signs.

If you never tell a story

I can’t find anymore of me. I think they’ve all grown up, gotten married and had children. At least that’s how it looks on Facebook.

“Ah, what the fuck is that about?” You scoff, and rightfully so. But it’s my only real conduit into the lives of normal adult people types. I see their profile pictures of robust and healthy babies, and digitally leaf through albums with titles like “My favorite photos of Sanchin yet!!”

I am what you would call a Man of a Certain Age. Back home, I might as well be an albino poker champion. Everyone wants to be around the freak, and there’s always a whiff of easy sex and wanton abandon lurking under the table.

Needless to say, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time trolling Expedia. I might as well give the people what they want. And maybe, just maybe, there will be some left over for me.

I just wish I wasn’t so fucking cheap. Thanks, dad.

If I would only let myself, I could afford a couple of trips over autumnal months. The first one would be to take in the fall foliage, scream at myself that if I don’t do it now I never will and will die a miserable abject failure and it will be all my own fault so get off your fucking ass and fucking do it already you miserable fuck over and over, and (finally) to connect with a certain female I used to know there.

She’s a Woman of a Certain Age. She’s had lots of issues with drugs and men in the past. I had totally forgotten, but her and I actually made out exactly once. It was when I was a DJ at this club. There was one night when the party really went off and it was all sweaty and warm and open and sexy and good. When it was over she came in to the DJ booth with her roommate and they took turns making out with me. It was fucking awesome. How could I forget a story like that?

This is where the screaming at myself part comes in.

The second trip back would be over Thanksgiving. Now that I think of it, that one is probably more important than I was even realizing. That one is kind of at the crux of the screaming. Yes, that one needs to happen. OK, good to know.

I know it’s a long shot, but Thanksgiving weekend in the land of my birth has the potential to be everything that I’ve lazily been imagining of late.

It started with fucking Facebook, of all things. She randomly hit me up on the site’s instant messaging system. We talked. A lot. About many things. She asked when I was going home again. She told me that she was going home at Thanksgiving, and that it would be nice to see me.

Considering what happened the last time we saw each other, I’m a fool for not already having the trip booked. Even just the hint that it could be anything like that is the fire that stokes my soul. It makes me feel “the feeling” and the lines begin to blur and then it’s sparkly magical dreamland time.

“Why not?” She implored with a smile. “Why not?”

Even though she's not here, I can still hear her voice. Even though she'll never be here again, I can still feel her hair coarse on my face. Even though.