MexicaNoMustache

My Head Hurts

2007-05-19T18:34:00.000-07:00

     Growing up people always ask you, what do you want to be when you grow up? As a little kid the answer is easy, a cop, a farmer, a teacher, a this, a that, but now in my youth (almost a child, just with more complex emotions) I just cant seem to figure it out. The answer given cant be so simple, it has to be more just this, then die, and the end.
     My chameleon is dieing and I can’t help but feel at fault. The only problem is I thought I had it all right. Its aquarium is amazing with great scenery, places to hide, lots of water, crickets galore (I even fed the damn crickets). Then why is it dieing, unable to even open its eyes to the cruel world around him, and why does his upcoming fate make my hands tremble so?
     I see the connection with him and myself. We have it all good, the place, food, environment and even some buddies to keep us company, but then what ails us. In his attire the chameleon looks tough, ready for any upcoming cricket that might spring to his side, but his eyes lack the hunger. I comprehend his dilemma as much as I can comprehend mine. Is this what it means to be a parent, to blame yourself for the outcome a being you decided to take care of? His life (more like her life since she is a female) seems too dull and uninspiring yet at the same time so amazing to just be alive, doing what she does, survive. Is that enough with her or is that what is dragging her to eternal rest.
     Before life was so simple, back and white. Now as I venture on I can see that the road curves, combines, and eventually fades. I try to be the person I once was but I no longer know that guy, although his being still inside me and I am that man. It seems like tiring to preserve a part of me that wants to fade.
     Lately everything I write I hate and that which I don’t hate later I don’t understand. Am I tiring to look to deep to answers that are just unanswerable or have more than one answer? Faith, here is a good question. To have faith in anything or anybody can be devastating, finding out later that it was a sham would condemn all that you worked for. Then again Faith is powerful, it drives men to be better, to be honest, to believe and to try again. So would it be a waist to have faith and turn out you were complete wrong even though the outcome of it was good?
     Sex before was good at anytime or place and still my instincts drive me to lust and want. Then again having sex without any intimacy has always rendered me with a half satisfaction. My instincts are suffice but my mind thinks there should be more. Sex is just sex but nothing in life (to my knew understanding) is just what it is. Boo is just a dog, and at first glimpse a terrifying one, and to some people he will always be terrifying, but coming to understand him is to see his want for attention, passiveness, but like anybody he has his bitchy days.
Death, another big question and recently brought up by Woody Allen in his movie Annie Hall, which yes I did enjoy last night. Can the universe run such a complicated cores and bring so much pain, affliction, love, and happiness for it just to be over so simple. Maybe that is the reason why people cling so much to their hope, faith, in religion, seeming almost more logical, with its complexities, than just “The End”. Maybe my mind can’t come to understand nothing, being that I have never seen it, felt it, or even heard of it.
     In a world where nothing is what is seems and you think one way one day and change completely the next, how do you make what is what? I hated broccoli as a child now I love it, or you see that movie that you loved when you were a child and now it seems so dull and stupid. I guess the question in my head is, what the fuck? I know there is no right answer but that’s the question I am struggling to answer about life in general, what the fuck?

I Change My Underwear.

2007-05-04T16:52:00.000-07:00

     Question: Are you very random? Answer: I’m a writer. Yes? She is my friend and her answer, although almost questionable whether she is being sarcastic or funny, is actually in my thought a very serious answer. While taking English classes in OCC and trying to improve not only my vocabulary but also my method in writing (not sure how well I'm doing) I have come across a very desirable teacher, a woman, unlike most I have ever met. She seems to inspires most of her students to become what she glorifies, writers.
     When analyzing the answer that my friend animates, I have come to a conclusion that Glynis, my teacher, has implanted a narcissistic view of writers in us, becoming the thing to be if you want a beauty like her, or be one.
     To best describe what a “writer”, or as Glynis discreetly imposes “highly educated” should be I have come across a film which Glynis is so fond of, Manhattan. Woody Allen is the star and the “writer” in the film, and although it was not as horrible as I first thought it was going to be, finding Woody Allen’s manner of speech irritating after the first five seconds, but it was pleasant and at times funny. AHA! See the brain washing has begun, before he was not even considered watch able and now I seem to relate!
     How cliché it is to say that all writers see the other side to life like artist when painting an abstract form of a simple object. Full Moon In Paris, again the writer, Louis’s friend finds himself at the top of society, educated and ultimately much more understanding to life and the mechanics behind it. His talks about going to café’s with an abundance of different people, becoming a is a necessity for writers, considering that the same old people would dull his life and his writing, tying my friend’s answer with his.
     It seems to me that I have none of those characteristics, and maybe neither did Kafka. Don’t misplace my intentions; writers do add the spring to our lives and those great writers, which turn societies mind into blinking light bulbs, do deserve their right of passage and their crown of glory. But to say that they are all random and separate themselves form the rest of human life, just would not work. How would they appeal and describe the normality’s of life if they themselves have not first experienced it.
     I guess you are asking, why am I writing this down trotted review of writers, what dose it have to do with anything? It must be the raging writer in me, when coming across something that I see so fake and also surreal. Then again I am doing what any writer would do, arguing against the rest and lending all to my view, the right view (It has to be it makes perfect sense to me). So are writers random? I don’t know, but damn that Woody Allen is funny!

Music, Sea, Work, Understanding

2007-04-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

     Where has my voice gone? Submissively I have disregarded my mind and fingers and only recently have I decided my laziness is constructing a life I don’t desire and almost quite clearly despise. I must admit that at my age I do have a comfortable job, a nice condo to live in, and stable friends that I can trust, but again my restlessness eats me alive. The action of work and living has become a routine, and now my mind needs a new thrill, a motivation, a wanting, but my laziness creeps up and the thought of frustrating myself or not gaining much destroys such thoughts. I have started to teach myself the violin (like four months ago) but my poor interpretation of Mary had a little lamb seems a waist compared to violin masters and their concertos. My drive to learn to sail has been almost shot down by the fear of becoming sea sick or not being sea worthy to tame the wild sea. My enthusiasm of being the Butcher for the Orange County Sheriffs has been under minded by the lack of “props” or respect that I so rightfully deserve, being responsible for the food supply of three jails: I’m an ant in a ant hill.
     Baby steps, that is my problem. Baby steps, when being the “baby” of the family all your life that’s the last thing you want to do, instead I want to accomplish, show those I love that I can, and although the youngest (and still considered the baby) I can pull my weight. Thanks to my hard work and dedication to work and worship to money I was able to reach where I am now, but now I want the next step. The problem is I don’t know what that step is. School was one way to advance, coming closer to a “rewarding” career, but after getting off work the last thing in my mind is studying or doing homework.
     But baby steps is what I have to learn. While writing this blogg I have come to this realization. I am tiring to run when I still haven’t learned to walk. I need to stop dreaming of reaching those little goals that would enrich my life and start taking those steps to improve. Damn those games, damn those women, obstacles that obstruct my mind and continue plaguing my time. My voice is here, always has been, I just need to speak.

Opaque

2007-03-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

     Head thumping, Boo sleeping on the white contrasting floor, becoming almost one with the surrounding night, sound of silence and keyboard keys echoing in my ears, light streaming form the screen to my heavy eyes, tired with thought and confusion, here I sit. The darkness of my house has engulfed me and given me almost a peaceful reminder of the trivialness of sound and motion. As I sit here typing this blogg, the only thing real is my mind and my body (a connection that lasts too little). It’s been several weeks since I’ve had the patience to sit and think, dedicating myself in the motion in life and not in its reason.
     Darkness, hiding the unknown and revealing ones fears, is at this moment blissful. As a child (even now) it has frightened me, revealing an evil side to all inanimate objects, concealing what in the day is familiar, and now, at this very moment, consumed by it, I have made my peace with it.
     Silence, brimming in solitude and emphasizing sound, is consoling my mind from thought. There’s nothing that reminds me more of being alone than silence, quiet, death, and most days I cannot stand for it, turning on the TV for a reminder of the world or the radio to communicate me with it: Alone with the world. Now in silence I am alone, completely, and it is comforting.
     Why is it that tonight all that seems depressing is soothing and calming? So much that the sound of my own breathing has become, in this brief moment, hypnotic with simplicity and congeniality. It is a brief stop, like a marathon runner as he takes a short breath, only to continue in the hardships of his goal, making it as far and fast as he can. My mind has been racing too, driven to find the answer to everything and call myself happy, but there isn’t sun all the time. Silence, darkness, and even solitude is needed once in while to take a breather, away from others thoughts to replenish myself, me, in darkness, silence, and understanding.

Hoover Hornets!

2007-02-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

It’s been too long since I have had some time to sit here and reflect over the components of what is, was, and will be my life. It seem the business of work, school, friends (even though some are now gone) and keeping up with my own self-entertainment had subdued me into an arid streak of writing. To be honest I have had lots to say but little will to say it, forgetting the trill of a well-written thought.
Recently a good friend has gone to the military, finding himself in a world of guns and ammo and I can only pray for his safe return (and hope he doesn’t change too much). Thinking about him sent me reminiscing about other old friends that’s I have lost, due to moving to new school, altering my way of living and mostly because that’s how life works. Although I must say that I don’t really miss them at all but instead feel that gratifying pang when a congenial memory intoxicates my mind.
One memory has troubled me recently, revealing the innocents that I had once lost as a child but never came to thought until recently, a bruise found in the mist of many hits…
The days were long and hot, revealing that summer was coming, and all the kids where out blissfully enjoying the simplicities that children always enjoy, a game of tag, dodge ball on the black top, and the cool running of wind hitting your body as you fly into the sky, holding on only onto two heavy welded chains, the swings. Although everything seemed to be running smoothly, the glares of the fifth graders crossed into the familiar territory of the fourth graders (in which I myself was in at the time).
The school was divided easily both by the administration and by the students themselves. The biggest separation was the Fifth and Fourth graders, acting almost like small gangs that, in any instant, would strike without warning at each other, either by a the usual circling of a forth grader and taunting him until he/she cried (it worked vise versa too) or by sometimes a kick in the shin or a punch in the face. The most complicated separation was that of the “Cycles” as the teachers called it. It was actually vary simple, Cycle A students where all English speaking students (usually all the white kids), then came Cycle B students, those who knew some English but could barely speak it, Cycle C students where only Spanish speaking students (the majority of the school) and finally there was Cycle D or as we called them in school, the retards.
School went on with lessons of how great it is to read, even though I must admit the works we were reading where horrible, and learning something I saw as torture, math. It seemed that the bell would never ring when we were inside the “class rooms”- the only things dividing a class room was a short wall that didn’t even reach all the way to the top of the ceiling, so often the appealing sound of another lesson would float into the room, drifting your attention away.
Finally the bell rings and we all went running out into the-at that time was-huge grassy field, our kingdom, sanctuary to the brain racking works of teachers, freedom from the embarrassing miss pronunciations of words which we were forced to learn but never taught why. Unfortunately even in our own kingdom there were spies, lurking waiting to give those foul blue tickets (too many of those and you were taken from your class and put on solitary confinement, working on problems and work right by the principal, being stared at for hours by secretaries and adults, seen as trash or a trouble maker.
Just when the games were getting fiery and beef with the fifth graders was boiling into some action, the bell would ring. I don’t know what happed in other peoples school but the rules were firm in Hoover, the bell, being pretty much our master, ruled our actions. In any moment if the bell rings (when outside or not in direct supervision) we were forced to duck down immidietly and put out hands on top of our heads, no questions asked. Anybody caught either moving towards the lines or not ducking, like an inmate in prison, and was seen by one of the spy ladies was picked up and dragged into a box on the concrete, in which the principal or some scary person would come and scream at you, later ending his/her speech with a Blue Ticket. Finally once the crowed of children were all sitting ducks, afraid to make any move or sound, the spy ladies would blow the whistle, designating us to slowly get up and walk to the lines in which, by class and cycles, we would line up, and our teachers would pick us up.
I don’t know if this was an action of hate towards a, mostly dominant Hispanic school, or if all school had drills like those, in which the actions seem more like that of a prison than a school. I would like to think not, but remembering those terrifying moments that came everyday made me wonder. I would almost like to hear people tell me that It was like that in every school, that there was no discrimination, that Hoover, in which I had so many great memories and so many terrible was the norm for all children. There is a fine line between teaching and manipulating and in my innocence I believe I was manipulated.

She loves me, She loves me not, She loves me!

2007-02-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

     English, English, English, English, its surrounds me and has again captured me with its untamable rhythm. Once again the semester has started and once again I sit and stare at the exquisite woman, Glenis Hoffman. I don’t know why I have fallen so deeply in love with her, considering she is nothing more than an average looking woman, but don’t let looks get in the way. Her hair has becomes a soft black with age and her smile, aaaaaaaa her smile, delightfully twisted by God herself.
   & I sat quietly on the first day of school, waiting for Glenis to make her first entrance, and once her high-spirited soul passed through the door my heart was lifted with an assurance of great lessons. She, without hesitation, began the lesson immediate after a couple of minutes of role call. Wile in the lesson, she, while looking right at me, smiled and began to break me down, making almost a mockery of what I have become. In her own words she said I was that “smoking, coffee drinking, philosopher.” At first I was put into almost a shock, thinking that she must have been spying on me and knew what I have been up to, but I soon knew that she said that out of her own experience. I started to laugh.
   & It’s true my writings have been all philosophical and “deep” trying to find the meaning behind my thoughts and other peoples actions and reasons. I believe that’s why I love her so much, considering her understanding to be almost too ambiguous to be true. At the same times she is so vulnerable, and she makes me think twice about her dynamic assumptions about life when she falls to simple weaknesses such as acceptance by her own students. Through the first semester I was able to inductively come to terms that she, as a teacher, was one of the best I had ever had, considering she was able to break that barrier of understanding of English that no other teacher was able to succeed in: A muse at work.
   & Today she sent me spiraling again to the inner reaches of my mind, instructing the class in critical thinking and pulling meanings from simple passages that would, to any inexperienced reader, seem meaningless and cheap. And then it hit me. I was taking the whole “writing thing” the wrong way, trying to write works so that everybody would understand, but it should not be so. I need to write so that the true readers will enjoy an artful creation, and again my love for Glenis strikes, considering that a life with a woman liker her, intent in learning and growing in education and wisdom, would be an epic lifetime. I respect, adore, and hold Glenis in awe, and hope that this semester brings as much new awakenings as the last.

Three Cigarettes and Some Coffee

2007-01-25T10:31:00.000-08:00

    Its January 25, 2007, my day off, and I am sitting here on my dining room table, finishing my Irish cream coffee after a breakfast of eggs, enjoying my first cigarette of the day (always the best), and contemplating over what I will do today. Louie Armstrong and Duck Ellington are playing in the back ground, conjuring a suitable atmosphere for a blogg and a relaxing morning. My brother is still sleeping away the morning after a night of watching movies late at night and drinking pulque (an Aztec beer like drink made from agave juice, taste horrible, but I love my brother and I try to give him some sataisfaction by drinking it.).
     Sitting here I cant imagine what lies in the future for me, considering that life moves on and that one day I might leave, or my brother might leave, or maybe my sister sell the place. The truth is that the future no longer bothers me so much anymore. If making it means being rich and powerful, well then my future looks dim, but I think there so much more. Looking around I see that these four walls are (for now) my home. When I was living with my sister this place was really just hers, and I was living in her home. I felt a little homeless, only with a place to sleep and have fun on the weekends when she wasn’t home. Now it seems more my pad, ignoring the rules set by my old roommate and now having my own rules to follow.
     Thinking back, I would have never imagined myself renting a place with my brother, actually I never thought him being around after he got married, but it’s nice. It’s always nice to have someone around to just chill with and have a mutual goal (ours being to make our pad up to date with technology and spending large amounts of money on it). Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if my brother and I get married and have kids but decide to live together or close to one another, considering that I have the closest relationship with him than any other in my family. Honestly, I cant imagine not having contact with any of my siblings and although sometimes I want to go to the ends of the world and see everything and meet everyone, loosing any contact with my brother or sister would ail me.
     My coffee is done and I have smoked three cigarettes in the time it took me to write this blogg and its time for me to get up and do something. I’m considering just jumping back into bed and reading some more of Lady Chatterley’s Lover or some of Jonathan Swift’s satiric proposals (both have me intrigued). The only problem is that Louie, with his trumpet, has me hypnotized into my chair, and my lust in writing glues me to my keyboard but Boo also needs a walk and dinner needs to be cooked (both are also very enjoyable), so I think I will start with his walk and work myself up, but first I need a cigarette to get me in the mood.

Jesus is a Momma's Boy

2007-01-20T13:20:00.000-08:00

     Yesterday I had a short but great conversation with, probably the friend that understands me the most, considering we, most of the time, agree on certain subjects, Jeremy. For some reason the subject of Jesus and religion came to mind and we had a short laugh about the whole deal. Don’t get me wrong I’m one to defend religion and the positive things it can hold in life, but sometimes it just sends you spiraling into misery. We talked and came to certain conclusions, and like most teens we brought down Jesus and God to our reality and to our own convince of “real” life. Jesus is a tadytell.
     Its funny growing up in a very catholic family where God was everything and the answer to all of the questions in life, all knowing, all powerful, all seeing, and all merciful. Stephen Colbert by my view. As I child God was a view of my friend, there to help and get me by the bad times, listening to my prayers and helping guide myself through the difficulties of life. It was a great time to know God, but suddenly my penis started working and I grew hair in certain places and girls were now interesting and exciting, then God changed. She (yes God is a woman) no longer showed me how to be happy but instead set rules that I could not break and if I did hell would break loose (literally). The worst part was that these rules seemed like California laws, set up to make you fail, all your body, and mind, and emotions went totally against the laws she brought down, tiring to keep you in her grasp.
     Jesus, don’t let me get started and that guy, or more like that butt hole perfect older brother! As a child he was cool, looking after you and always having your back with God, giving you slack and being chill, inviting you to a party every once in a while (that didn’t last long). Then suddenly you’re at that defining age and he turns into the butt hole brother, going up to mom telling about your “sins” and showing off how he never did what you did. Thanks Jesus for putting such a high bar for us, now we all look like looser and total sinners, maybe if you fucked up once a while we would'nt seem so bad. I know that if I was ever permitted in heaven he would be there asking, “So how you do?” knowing that I fucked up plenty of times and waiting to rub it in. Jesus is such a momma’s boy, being perfect, obeying all her rules, and thinking only of others (yeah right) and never in himself. You know he must have yanked his monkey at least five times a day, considering three times is regular to me.
     Now as an adult and considering my thoughts and my will in God, life, and happiness I can say that I have gotten over trying to beat Jesus and given up tiring to be that good kid for God. She might have given me life and pretty much everything but I don’t think she really cares anymore. We now are able to coexist together, I do my thing she does her thing and we acknowledge each other, hold a conversation here and there, and then secretly laugh at Jesus and how much of a kiss ass he is (but make sure he doesn’t know about it so we don’t hurt his feelings). I think Jeremy summed up God in my teens in his interpretation of God, “I gave you free will and this is how you waist it?!”

Appletiny Please

2007-01-16T22:34:00.000-08:00

     Being the butcher isn’t what I thought it would be. I must confess that at first I thought the glory and the power would rise above the rest of my co-workers and I would be even more respected and appreciated, but I have come to see life isn’t so. Being in charge of cutting and sending meals to three Jails is a challenging task, which consumes my whole workday without a moments rest. Today was one of those foul days, disregarded by my co-workers as just a simple worker, forgetting the pressure and responsibility that hangs over my shoulders, they bitch. With no one to back me up and no one to blame but my partner (who apparently doesn’t give much of a fuck) and myself I take their snarls and ill words.
    Sometimes I wish work were more like my favorite show, Scrubs. Where in the end everyone gets a drink of beer (maybe even an appletiny, if I’m feeling crazy) and laughs it all off, even when death is involved. In my line of work there is no happy ending but instead cooks get pissed and stop talking to you. Everyone expects perfection of everyone ells but fall short in judging themselves. I do not pretend to be the best at everything but I must admit that I try with all my head, heart, and soul. I come to miss my old co-workers in the main, intent in helping one another and me in completing the day’s work without hesitation.
    There is no use in wishing I was back in my old position of just a cook; now I am the butcher. I took the path the no one dared take and now I realize why, pressure and stress sends you spiraling into solitude, stuck in that cold damp refrigerator with inmates that don’t wish to be there and work with minimal effort. That is my kingdom now, where my actions and work effects the consumption of about six thousand nine hundred inmates. Here I rule and I realize that Scrubs is nothing like the real world, but the real world can be so much better!

Conversations

2007-01-12T10:38:00.000-08:00

     Sitting with my sister, exploring the infinite guest books she has to choose from for her wedding, we chat. The big wedding is coming closer and closer as time passes and is a big thrill for the whole Gonzalez family (including my brother). The fitting of tuxedos and the excitment of the party are being mumbled form the near reaches of Tustin to our families in Mexico. My sister and I, smiling and joking with one another, hold a brief moment of bliss, a conversation. Although it was mainly centered on her-women enjoy that-it was still a topic I had much to convey about.
     While her girlishness and my childishness assimilated in her excitment, I could not help but enjoy our talk, centered on life, love, weddings and especially babies (I want her to have some already!). Thinking about it, conversations are, to most people I believe, the basis for enjoyment. Searching through my mind and my past I can confirm that some of the best moments in life was spent in a moment of surreal exchange of thoughts.
     In the beginning of most relationships, basing it mostly on mine, conversation is everything, almost becoming a climax when both of us (me and my ex’s) are entrusted in it, combining each other’s minds in a form of play. I remember hours of talk on the phone, bargaining a witty remark for a laugh, which ultimatly, would lead to my smiling and pleasure.
     Conversation is the welding to any relationships. Those I have (and had) with my friends are just as pleasing, bringing time lapsing moments of congenial fun. Each one adding his or her own spice to the stew, turning to so much more than talk but instead history. It can be so strong that, in some cases, it can make friendships almost unbreakable.
     There are other forms of conversation that one can have, dis-formulating the concept of only two or more people talking. Recently I have had a sudden lust for good books, those that pose exciting questions into our minds. While reading and captivating myself in other's monologs, enthralling my mind as the reader, I have come to have certain conversations with myself (yes I know it sounds mad), concerning different topics. One that a book has recently sent me spiraling is this topic, conversations. Others have sent to explore my freedom and few my very existence. I know that everyone has those secret conversations to themselves and it would be fascinating if I could just listen. Then again, that’s what books are, and my writings.
     What ells is there to say about conversations other than it is one of the fundamental structures of human nature and dare I say nature itself. It brings people close and the lack of it can break them apart. For myself, I can only hope that for the rest of my life I will have someone to hold interesting and fun conversations with, without them I might as well be nothing.

Letters to my Master

2007-01-06T10:47:00.000-08:00

        To my noble master,
             Sir Edward el guapo

    My master, upon who’s destiny and will was to take me from my loving mother and affectionate soul, has for the better re-established me within his compounds of love and familiarity. I write to you this letter, knowing little of the omnipotent language spoken from your honored throut, brought upon by the land of kings and queens (notable in your manner of being sir), to apologize for such incidents that, like yesterday, my creator, such as yours, has entwined in me my instinctive nature to be appalling.
     What foul deed have I unfolded yesterday that form that noble speech, and noble not form its origin alone my master but form the form in which you do express it, were you to express such malice and authority against me, considering such words that would send an angel plunge into the inferno, entering it’s nine gates, bewildered weather Lucifer has conquered the mortal world. I, myself only a beast and not a figure of greatness like yourself, although both our hearts do beat the same, created by the God who does rule the universe, can with some reason (being that I am just an animal) understand your words, echoing through my soulless body, “bad boy” where those wrenching tools of oppression that you did speak late in the evening.
     O master! What woe did I bring to you that has now brought me such grievance. It has brought dishonor on my part, being part of your noble crest, to be cast down upon your eyes. You who in all virtues holds the highest and most notable, taking after those high kings of ancient pasts, Arthur was one, that fame has brought stories and fables of his greatness, only to in truth fall short upon your name, consider the plead of your broken slave.
     Woe beast! Condemn yourself from your master’s house! Such acts, that late that evening did send your masters wrath, breaking my noble spirit and dishonoring my ancestors, of cleansing my rear are not of noble blood. O those itch! That sent me spiraling into the pit of lonesomeness. Master, lord, and protector, forgive this beast of such faults, as most beast do have, and bring back my noble self to equal just a small size of your greatness.

        Your Benevolent Servant,
                Boo

Still a Slave

2007-01-01T21:41:00.000-08:00

     I am free to read, write, say and do what I please. To myself slavery was a thing of the past, referenced in books and taught as a long forgotten obstruction in American history, becoming almost like the stories heard of medieval times and the fantastic romanticized wars retold. But not long ago was there terror and pain spread through out our great country and until we gained concise of our evil deeds, and those deprived and once ignorant of their lives stood up and fought back, did our world change.
     Have we forgotten the bewilderment of our past and subdued ourselves again to a form of slavery? Growing up as a lower middle classed Latino I can see my people (including myself) have not yet opened their eyes to the clues left by others in books and in knowledge. That which we lack-the drive to learn and be educated-has been enslaving people since the beginning of time. A mental chain. We have been surrounded and manipulated to forget our education and instead driven to work in the fields, getting jobs at early ages and earning a struggling income to conform to a materialistic America.
     Like blacks in the 1800’s that were fooled into believing that slavery was their best bet, there only upcoming, given slack once in a wile to stop rebellions, the same is happening with people today. They have been fooled by our capitalist nation to believe that if you “bling” then you have made it, considering that a nice car-that will consume half your months income-is an indication of making the American Dream. What fool I have been to let myself be overtaken and swept in such a manner, letting my ignorance and materialistic mind enslave me to my state of incomprehension. Frederick Douglas, a slave, set himself free from his bewildered mind and learned the secret to his enslavement. In his book, The Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglas an American Slave he reiterates, “…and a little experience soon demonstrated,…that education and slavery were incompatible with each other.” (44)
     To this day it holds true, education and knowledge will set a man free from his brute state of being, rendering himself free from the shackles of others and himself. Although the answer might seem easy enough; the fight will be considerably challenging. Years of manipulation by media have molded young Americans today, confusing my own mind to a great extent. Those seen as making it with large sums of cash have been show to be thugs, gangsters, and dealers, living in the ghetto but living in splendor: Tools to fool.
     How frightened are the leaders that they fear our knowledge. Public school have become under funded and districts with good schools draw boundaries separating children that can and can’t go to the schools, separating economic classes and leaving the poor with a declining education and excelling the wealthy. Although it irrupts a ravenous beast within myself when I think if such enslavements I laugh and think of the fear that those people have instilled in them, knowing that If we were to get a glimpse of the light-education-we would be a threat in taking what they now hold so dear. They fear us.
     Where do I point the finger? Whose greed has sercome to enslaving people for the shear purpose of the “mighty dollar” or fear? I can honestly say that partly at fault is ourselfs, letting our own personal greed impatiently overtake us, enslaving ourselves to our corporate masters and fearing those who fear us more. Unlike the old masters and overseers of the south our masters and overseers that are putting the blinds over us are unseen and unknown, considering running away would be useless, knowing that they are everywhere and can easily track us down and hunt us. But just like so many slaves were able to be liberated we too can break the shackles that hold us down. Education must be a priority, giving us the strength in knowledge to fight back our masters and make those decisions without that blind of ignorance over our eyes. Here I am still a slave to my materialistic masters, confused and manipulated, I have found my strength and pray to God to guild me in my path of knowledge.

Tamales

2006-12-27T20:07:00.000-08:00

     Opening the door to my parent’s house sent a surge of warmth and aroma of tamales shooting straight at me, rejuvenating my Christmas spirit in one whiff. Both my brother and I arrived to a pair of smiling parents and delighted sister, constructing dinner and setting the mood to entertain the two most pampered people in our family (my brother and I). It took a couple of minutes for my eyes to completely adjust to the bright Christmas decorations glistening and reflecting off of the wine and tequila bottles in my dad’s bar. The greetings were quick and comforting with hugs, kisses, and technical handshakes.
     While the tamales were steaming we began our holiday mingling, something that happens three times a year: my mothers birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s quite a site, observing a family of secrets and mixed emotions trying to be intimate and personal with each other in front of one another. It’s a challenge for all of us, considering we are not used to sharing our sensitivity with one another: A shy family. The night continues like all holidays, my brother bullying me all night and my mom ending the fight with me getting the blame (because somehow I put myself in that situation), my sister and I making dumb jokes to entertain my mother, my dad trying to get some personal time with my brother, and my mother in the middle of all of our craziness.
     Finally it was getting late and my reunion with my co-workers was inevitable so we pursed in opening objects covered in paper boxes finished with sparkly colored paper: Materialism wrapped in materialism. There was nothing special given but instead we used those gifts as an excuse to take pictures with each other (something we are too scared to ask in a “regular day” in fear of rejection). These couples of minutes were the most uncomfortable and best minutes of all Christmas (I get to hug my brother!). The night was over and it was time for me to head to work, giving our goodbyes and gathering our presents my brother and I headed back towards our home. I dressed quickly and headed towards work on the eve of Christmas.

Coffee and a Homosexual

2006-12-19T21:12:00.000-08:00

     The creamy and bitter taste of coffee has for some time seduced me to a daily habit of consumption. Working from midnight to morning is a challenge that has become manageable thanks to the assistance of that Colombian bean, roasted until all the moisture leaves the it, crushed into powder and then brewed in steaming hot water and finally drank by night crawlers like myself, using it only for its caffeine content. A matter of survival and pleasure. Although I must admit that I have come to enjoy its flavor with no sugar added-black like the night sky-or any flavoring at all; I love coffee with Irish Cream flavor.
     Seven Eleven has been contributing to my Irish ecstasy, having fresh brewed coffee anytime of the day and a gay smiling face awaiting my arrival. Yes I did say gay. While indulging in my bitter addiction I have conquered a young man heart unwillingly. My handsome face and sex appeal has a young man cuming in his pants every time I go in to buy a cup if coffee. Thanks to his crush on me he has been giving me free coffee drinks, stamping my coffee card two to three times every time I go in. I cant say I feel bad that I am using him for the coffee but I can now say I understand the power that woman use against men to get what they want, never giving up their goodies but using us to hook them up.
     I have been neglecting him for the past week or so, feeling a little guilty from my newfound powers (that and I don’t want to send the wrong message). Then again if I could have a gay guy get a crush at me at all the stores I shop at and get hooked up I really would not mind, considering the possibilities of cheap merchandise. The funniest part about the gay guy at Seven Eleven is that he is the stereotypical gay Mexican, having his feminine accent and dramatizing homosexuality, having highlights in his hair and colored contacts. With every sip of coffee I take I can taste my chargeless appealing powers to gay men. If only it worked with women.

Masturbation Makes It Better

2006-12-16T20:45:00.000-08:00

     I have found myself tossing and turning all through the “night” these past couple of days, haunted by something beyond my conscience mind. My dreams have all been skewed, finding myself in real life situations but in doomed bearings. Yesterday I was trapped in a math problem with a couple of other colleagues. While they proceed in answering all their Herculean mathematical problems, I struggle to find the solution. Almost unwillingly I abide in formulating an answer, tossing my body with every failed attempt and loosing sleep.
     I had another dream, staring off pleasant, agglomerating myself (and yes I’m still fixated) my ex but they’re a twist. Time had past and although I still looked the same-a sexy, charming young man-she had transformed into something hideous, losing her congenial beauty that captivated me. I still gave it a try, remembering the good times we had shared together but she had lost all essence of the person I had known, condemning me into a questioning reality.
     Before that I was surrounded in my usual atmosphere of inmates and jail bars, conducting my usual business of running my kitchen. Then my mind lost the grasp of power and the inmates no longer listened to me, leaving me vulnerable to their tauntings and misbehavior (doesn’t sound scary but it was horrible). That night my bed was a running ground, waking up with tossed blankets and wet from perspiration.
     There were others to faint to remember in detail except for the agony that I felt all through my half dazed sleep. I don’t understand the significance behind my apocalyptical dreams but I must conclude that my daily stress has finally caught up with me, portraying itself in an imaginary gauge. All I can do now is masturbate (releasing some stress of cores) and hope for the best.

Work and a Soundtrack

2006-12-13T17:35:00.000-08:00

     Driving towards the dungeons of jail is not the most exciting thing to do on a weekend, but it pays my bills. During the winter the night air seeps into your bones, effortlessly sending your body into an indomitable shake, starting from your malodorous bowls, shooting simultaneously down through your (hairy for me) legs and up into the back of your neck. With my hands in my pockets and with an erratic skip I head to my car, avoiding running to fast so that my beak of a nose doesn’t freeze up.
     Once in the luxurious TIJ bought Ford, I strap on my seat belt and have my usual weekend drive down Santa Ana. As I conduct down the streets, windows down, seat tilted low, and smooth music playing in the car (all this to look cool of cores), I see the lustful body of a Latin princess. Her hair so black that it almost seemed to be night itself, holding the stars in her hair, and as I admired her beauty the guitar starts to play, Its Santa Ana: Maria Maria. My heart begins to race, intoxicated in the untamed eyes of the street flower; I slow to link our sight together.
    Getting a red light I stop only a couple of feet away and I smile at her, taking the initiative in embracing a connection. She takes a swift glance at my dazed eyes and immediately turns away, giving me a little smirk to hang on to (dare I say a flirt?). My blood begins to race through my body, sending a volcano of heat to my cheeks, creating a beacon of excitement. With every Maria Maria being sung in the song, my heart skips a beat, being sucked into my fantasy of lust and romance. If I could only step out of this car and take her into my arms, showing her the passion that her beauty had ignited in me, exploring every curve in her body that screamed to be caressed.
     Suddenly the light turns green and the song abruptly stops, delivering me back into my car. I look back the lady and realize where I was. It was Bristol, known for male prostitutes that dress up like chicks. I slam the gas on my car (avoiding anymore contact with her, him, or it) and abide in going to work. Shaking off the awkward feeling of me fantasizing over a guy (in my defense it might have been a chick, I’m just not sure) I promise myself not to mention it to anybody (but I must be faithful with Blogger) and I park my car next to the stone fortress.
     Going through the huge iron doors, the comforting smell of the jail wakens me up and sends me into an apathetic mode. I head to the bubble (where there is a sexy deputy and yes it’s a woman) to receive my power and rite given to me by the county: Jail keys. As I hand my identification card to the cold and heartless but beautiful deputy my head wonders off, playing the Eagles: Hotel California. Receiving my keys the song continues, walking and song playing in my head, I can imagine the deputies singing me the song. From the entrance all the way to the kitchen the intoxicating song controls me, sending me in sudden burst of smooth dancing (when no one is watching), thinking of all the inmate residence in the fortress and wondering what at that minute they were up to. With only the sound of my feet echoing through the walls and my humming, with sudden burst of me singing “Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place” (the only words I know to the song) I continue into the underground depth of the kitchen, becoming more romanticized as I imagine it as a hotel. I stop in the tunnel to enjoy my last moments of my imagination and deep connection with the badass jam and step into a world of cock and balls, leaving the Hotel California behind for another midnight entrance.
     Inside the kitchen I meet my fellow cooks. All of them crazy, obsessive, or just down right fucked up in some way, then gain what do you expect when dealing with criminals and grown children. At exactly 12:15am we all meet in the supervisors office, receiving the daily information on what happening for breakfast and also not forgetting the gossip. Everyone smiles, laughs, and shakes hands but once we step out of the office and head our separate ways the shit talking begins (the formalities of any job). I quickly run out of the office grab my equipment and head to the IRC kitchen and call for my crew.
     As I sit in my office waiting for the crew to come in I work on the endless paper work, thinking about the speech I will give the crew and how I will stand and move. Slowly I feel the beat hitting me, giving my speech some rhythm like a free style rapper feels his flow. When I hear the door open with blue jacks and tired faces walk into the kitchen my heart starts to race and the sudden rhythm of Mos Def: Mathematics hits my head. For a minute I’m not Ed anymore, I’m Mr. Gonzalez, gangster tamer, always having to seem harder, smarter, and tighter in order have control in the kitchen. Having the beat stick in my head and seeing the inmates lined up in front of me I bust my lyrics, having Mos Def trapped in the back of my mind, I talk.
     After my “Monday” speech I give every single inmate a responsibility or job to do, sending each to their positions and giving instructions to all the new workers. Once everything is settled I head to my office, keeping an eye on the inmates and working again on the reiteration of paper work that County demands but never reviews, writing down every temperature of every refrigerator and every word I say to any inmate. There is not much to do for the first hour so I sit comfortably and wait upon the arrival of breakfast (either eggs and potatoes, eggs and beans, or potatoes and beans) to serve the inmates. The office smells of old and new coffee (brewed 24-7) with paperwork spread all over the office. Glass walls surround the office, giving me full view of the kitchen the entire time, making sure the inmate are not tiring to steal form me or beat each other up. As both the inmates and I wait we have our usual morning staring contest, seeing who chickens out first with the dirty looks (I always win, but it wasn’t always so, especially when I first started), giving me a sense of pride (I’m Macho Man).
     Finally the food arrives and to my surprise its minced meat and potatoes (or as the inmates call it “shit on a stick”), sending the inmates in a jubilant mood shown in their smiling faces as they get the whiff of the beef. I step out of my office and like a traffic officer gives the cars directions in who goes next, I stand straight in the middle of the kitchen, giving orders in where everything goes and what people should be doing. The first twenty minutes are intense, keeping me on my toes as I safely get the “line” in order. As the inmates line up on the food serving line and I give my final inspections, getting ready to serve about 1300 people in one hour, there can be no mistakes. Looking into the solemn faces of the inmates lined up, forced to work in my kitchen, Nina Simone comes to my head and her interpretation of…Work song. The line starts to run and there is no stopping it until all the inmates are fed. The blues song hits me hard as I see the inmates start to tire from the repetitive movements they make, sending sweat dripping down their faces, muscles tensing and steam burning their already hot faces. Just as fast as the song finished the line seems to finish, relieving the inmates from the hellhole called the “line”.
     For the next half hour the inmates get feed their double portions (something I like to reward them with). I sit back in my office again filling out another packet of paperwork that I have come to memorize, no longer thinking while filling it out but instead just a repetitious thought. While I work I observe the workers, seeing the complexities of human behavior and the spirit that rest in our hearts. The inmates always win. Although they were jailed and raped of their natural freedoms they still laughed and smiled and joked and played. It boggled me. And at the same time it gave me hope, knowing that if I was in their spot, lively and hopeful people like them would surround me.
     After their half hour of eating was over it was time to get the kitchen clean, messed and ragged form a couple hours of intensified work. I step out and give the shot callers the orders (leaders of each gang) to start the cleansing. Like a brush fires starts in late summer the inmates stat rising and picking up brooms, mops, towels and soap, smiling and happy after a well earned rest and hardy breakfast (for them at least). I go back on my office and watch the frisky inmates, dancing and singing as they clean the kitchen. The happy workers remind me of a song I heard in “Scrubs”, a German eighty’s song. I still haven’t been able to find the song but it matched the dancing inmates to a “T”. As I watched their spunky cleaning I could not help but smile and laugh at their interpretations of what is called “dancing”, ones doing the robot, others the fast movements like dirty dancing, and others doing the gangster twist (I’m good at that). My first instincts (as an oppressors) was to stop the fun and go out yelling and threatening for them to stop having fun and start being bored as they clean, but my conscience convinced me not to.
     A couple of hours later the three shot callers come to the door in my office asking me to give my inspection of the cleanliness of the kitchen. I agree and head out to review my kitchen (and yes its MY KITCHEN!). Walking around the kitchen seeing the tired faces of the inmates sends a chill down my spine. What sent these guys to do the things they did, robbing cars, dealing drugs, beating their wife or joining gang violence. Staring into their faces the Beatles: Eleanor Rigby came to my mind as I saw all these lonely people, coming back to jail for the comfort and love that they get from each other (something they lack in “the outs”) and for a minute I hated myself. Good hard working men jailed up because of addictions brought upon them by society and life were suffering and here I was making a profit from them (Something I loose sleep over). The sad violins of the song finish and I head straight to my office, avoiding the truth of the business of jail.
     In the office I wait for lunch to be sent up, thinking of anything that pops into my mind. The continuous subject of my ex-girlfriend always comes up everyday, considering that I have told some of the inmates about her and I still haven’t had the balls to say that she had left me, thinking that they might see that as a weakness and use it against me. So when they ask me everyday how she is doing, I smile and say “she’s good” and as they ask another question I dismiss their questions with a “don’t worry about it” and head to another corner of the kitchen, acting like I’m to busy to talk: Skilled trickster. So while sitting in the office reminiscing of good and bad times the only song I can think of is by David Olivares: Cosas Del Amor. The Tuba is hypnotic and the accordion flutters my heart with amazement, considering that the song was written just for me. As I go off and hear the song in my head, thinking of my old romance, my supervisor contemplates of my awkward smirk and nod shaking. Later speaking to me that I need to “remain in jail with him” and not go off in my dream word.
     Lunch arrives and my head comes back to reality, leaving the wondering mind and going straight to work. Again I come out of my thrown and start my finger pointing and order giving gestures of authority. For the next half an hour I assemble the line, inspecting and following food health codes. Once the line is calibrated I send the inmates to go get clean and adjust to go back to the barracks. One of the inmates, calling himself Edge reminds me of Aerosmith: Living on the Edge and while seeing the battered and forgotten inmates wash their hands, changing their working clothes, and put on their county jackets the song plays along. As Edge stands next to me he can hear me whisper “There’s something wrong with the world today…” and he turns to look at me and abruptly mentions, “Mr. Gonzalez you really can’t sing.” Sending me into a moment of embarrassment and denial.
     When the deputy arrives and picks up the inmates I feel relief hit me and the knowing that another morning has passed unnoticed inside the concrete walls of jail. Little by little the new cooks come in and one by one I inform them of what to expect for lunch. Once I have transitioned form my shit to the next shift I take a big breath and head back to the tunnel, accompanied by some of my coworkers, eager to go home to their wives, husbands, and children (me my bed). Again I see the sexy familiar face of the female deputy, smiling at each one of us and willing to give us back our cards. Maybe it’s the fact that she is leaving also that puts her in a good mood every morning but I like to imagine that it’s the fact that she recognizes every morning just how long and hard we work and gives us the little dignity and respect we deserve.
     As soon as I hit the fresh air outside I take a beep breath, remembering the nasty used air inside the jail (great smells). My eyes take several minutes to adjust to the blinding sunlight and I hid from it for several minutes like a vampire. I walk to my car, considering the work day and all that I have learned from the inmates and myself. Once in my car I turn on the radio and an appropriate song comes on Queen: We are the winners. I turn up the radio and drive safely back to my awaiting puppy Boo and my warm bed. As I drive away, winning the days work and smiling at my badassness in every job, I sneak past the wakening city that has no idea what occurs as they slumber.

Mother:Lover Father:Teacher

2006-12-05T10:22:00.000-08:00

     It seems that the more I think about the actions and tribulations in my life the more I discover that they are all centered around women, harnessing their seductive and subconscious power over my weak mind, lingering in the depths of my neuron paths, congesting it with their comments and remarks: A teas in my head. Every insignificant detail or thought turns out to be manipulated, almost directing me to the path that I should follow. For example when I choose the clothes to buy (always sexy by the way) for myself it becomes almost an immediate thought if any chick (woman, girl, lady whatever you know them by) would perceive me as “sexy” while wearing them.
     Subconsciously I roam deciding things in life that ultimately are skewed by a force I have no power over. Women, for me, are these being I try to understand and want to be coveted by, but so far I have landed short. They have for so long been something I longed for that now they are instinctly in my every handshake, smile, laugh, and reason. How long have they gone unnoticed by my conscious mind? Was it on the blurry night when my reproductive organs finally gave out and shot that first stream of ecstasy out of my body that they crept into my mind? Maybe it has been even earlier than that, growing up as a little child, seeing a woman’s firm breasts in my father’s magazine, which he so possessively hid.
     The answer I have concluded comes much earlier than that. It comes those nine months of contentment inside the woman that harness nothing but love and well being for us. In the dark-with no sight to blur our vision-we fall in love with our physical creator. Although our father does add to the splendor of birth, it is our mothers, who share her flesh with us, her young. While lying in an almost dormant state we grow, hearing the heart beat of the “creator” or our other half, creating a pace for our own hearts to follow.
     My mother has been for me a strong woman that irritated the fuck out of me. Her connection to my own was apparent in how she read my mind and it baffled me away. Growing up as a Latino and male unfortunately obstructs that link between mother and son (dare I say daughter too?). A good Mexican son had to be strong, outgrowing the childish love he held for his mother, dragging him down into the depths of lonesomeness and idleness. For years I pushed away what in the ocean of my mind always held as great and beautiful. Instead I threw myself at what man must do, work, brining in the “bread and butter” for the family-the imaginary one I have-to enjoy.
     Now that I have thrown the cloak of ethnicity off my shoulders and instead stored it in my head for a lifetime of memories, I feel the cool breeze. I feel free to the fact that my macho attitude no longer stands in a pedestal of images and stereotypes but by the words I have to say and the actions I take. And again women contribute this action of almost re-awakening. The search to find her has lead me to a path of self-absorption and thought and the creator has been there every step of the way. I have fallen for her.
     It is cliché to say that all men want to marry their mothers, following with the argument that only their mothers can love them the way they are. Recently I have been slowly disembarking away form my architect because of the new found love I have found form her. I have been “romancing” her; wooing her to show her the vision of love she has tough me. Arriving at her house I would be sat down on the table and feed dinner, which she has made (something she rarely does). Instead of drinking soda I bring her a bottle of wine, soft and smooth so that she could enjoy it. We sit at almost candlelight dinner, talking about whatever hits out minds, sharing secrets and laughing at the world’s expense. Smooth music swayed around the dinner table and we both smiled.
     Often times her favorite song would come up and I would ask her to a dance (I’m not a good dancer so there was a lot of toe stepping) and she would give me a smile that I have never recognized before. With a look into my eyes she saw my tenderness that has won the hearts of those women I so loved and I also saw the love witch one faithful night captivated my father. It was at that moment that I realized my creator, mother, daughter, sister, and soon grandmother was nothing more than a woman. She was the basis of all my past and future love, creating the love and yearning for that connection the moment her heart beat rang in my body. It was that epiphany that helped me let go of her and her of me, knowing that the woman I choose will be because of something she gave me so long ago and not something I have come to develop.

     It is true that my designer has influenced me greatly in the matters of women and love but my father has proven to be a skilled teacher. Although I have never shared a great connection with my father; we share a connection that no other men can share. Like the creator gave me flesh, blood and soul my initiator has given me knowledge. My work ethics and strong will has come from years of his teachings and patience in willing to teach me everything he knows. His mind is free to me and his children that want to know anything. Not many being in this planet can give you that, giving of knowledge for nothing. Many clench to their knowing and hid it form the world, greedily wanting it all for themselves.
     That figure of a father has been a strong one to me, everlasting and willful. Through the years of being married to an emotional bitch the initiator has hung on to his loved ones knowing that to let go would mean to fail, becoming less than a man and more of a child (he’s crazy). I can only imagine if my sister shares that bond with my father that I share with my mother. Is he her idol being, reasoning her choosing of males based on his structure of life, love, and work?
     Working in the kitchen the seed planter has created an image of himself that not one of us has been able to seize form him. His skills in the kitchen are bountiful, creating meals worthy for the riches and poorest man in the world. I have long tried to capture his knowing of food and love but his knowledge seems so immense. The moment I feel my skill are adept to his I find that he shatters my wisdom with his eternal knowledge. It has been his dexterous hands and mind that has initiated my wanting and drive to surpass him, reaching that glory of being a man. My father.
     Even my longing to be a good friend comes form my father. He has always been that knowing friend willing to help, just because. His kindness and joking being has contributed to my almost lust to-just like my father-being a great friend to anybody needing one. I have never seen my idol fight or become vengeful at anybody that agonized him. It has been his ethics that have bound into my soul and given it innocence and understandings, helping me get ahead at work, liberating me to understand the lost and hurt.
     I find myself more open for my father to teach me and hand me some advice that he as rightfully earned. I have set aside my foolish young pride and have given up to his mightiness and I know that I will never reach his state of patience, love, skill, and being until I have walked the path he has: Long and arduous. He has although armed me with a weapons mightier than any sword or gun, giving me the strength to pull ahead in trouble times. Teaching me that love is no more than a game than work is, but it can be fun. My mother gave me body and soul but my father gave me reason and will. With them together I have become the person I am today.
     If I have been shackled by the emotions and teaching of my parents then what about those who have none? Are they bound differently than most people and where do they get their inspiration in becoming who they are and what they want in their mate? I have for a long time never been able to see myself as a married man with children and a house. It has come to my mind but the fear that I would be a horrible parent has bound me to my faults. Now as I steer away from my old family and head into a new and maybe even more insane one I know I can handle it. I know now that even though I will affect my children in the way they act, love, live, and work I will do a good job, reasoning that my parents are instilled inside me.

Turkey is Over Rated

2006-11-29T21:34:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving was as it usually is-the reunion of family members that are not used to being all together-uncomfortably delightful. The combination of our family, me (mingling with everyone, showing off my relationship with all), my sister (genius that tires to imitate my mom and like to pretend we are still little kids, fighting over simple and childish things, something we just do), my brother (always distant, preceding as the complicated and dominant one, not needing the family but just completing with his duties), my father (the true cook and baby of the family, tiring hard to be able to please everybody and using any excuse to start a conversation with my brother George), my mother (the heart and soul of the family, loving and understanding in her insane and menopauseial way).
The night goes one with arguments, compliments, alcohol and lots of loud music to cover the awqward silence that sometimes surrounds us after an argument, shifting first form my fathers music to my music to my brothers and ending up with my mothers favorite songs-usually the most romantic-since she is drunk by then and wants to hear her songs. The dogs wander around getting love from anybody wiling to give it to them, usually Boo form me, and Jimminy from George. Well the night continues with cooking, eating and lots of showing off. So enjoy these pictures I was able to muster. They are a traditional Gonzalez Thanksgiving.

Asian Pussy

2006-11-28T09:39:00.000-08:00

My rooms had become a scared temple of sex and dreams (sometimes a place to sleep). Recently I have been dreaming of meeting someone of my stature, calm, working and with an ambition for a higher purpose in life besides just having babies and dieing (and likes sex). It’s not easy to find someone completely different but have the same structure in life, feeling the same rhythm you feel and wanting the same things in life you want: Patience is necessary. Well this weekend I meet this chick (asian by the way) and things seemed to be going well for the first couple of hours and then her essence, that things or latency and directives that make us that person we are just swallowed me up and threw me spiraling into a pit of discontinuation.
The outdoor night was cold but my house was warm with mixed emotions and ideas. I sat there shuffling a deck of cards, old and worn by many nights of poker playing with old friends. Now they were being shuffled with someone new, a being sitting in front of me, knowing little about her the cards were dealt like fate usually does when meeting new people. Who would have the right hand and who was playing the right game? Smiles and jokes were fling through the air, each hitting the each others soul, setting that barrier between people to a minimum, ignoring the questions one must ask in real life, now only the pace of our hearts where important.
The lively music played in the background, easing the slice that is usually shared with the aspirating sounds coming from two creatures connecting at an aghast commensurate. As we drew closer and jointed together, locking to each other in sight, smell, touch and sound, with a burst of emotion and wanting we both struck each other, ravishing our bodies and combining them to where our heart beats became one. Lust captivated us.
The next day the game was shorter, each knowing already what we were engaging in. My room was our main source of attraction and we spent it well. As we connected our body fluids and she and I felt that gratification in sexual practice the pot was brewing. The boundaries in the relationship were predetermined; there was no relationship. Then after the orgasm the swelling of liquid, created by the emotionally instability of her being was drawn from her ancient appearing eyes. That very second when I asked her what was wrong she told me “Just let me cry.” I knew what I had become, a monster. Instead of finding out more of this frail soul and why she was so outgoing and so easily entwined with other people, I satisfied my hungering sexuality and ended up in a room ever-closing on me and trapping me in her desolation. I knew then, after two days it had to stop.
So far I have not talked to her, knowing that it will be uncomfortable and confusing for both of us, and the only thing I’m looking forward to is writing a blog about my thanksgiving (I took lots of pictures) and putting up the pictures. So for now just enjoy this pictures and the calm feeling it sent me yesterday, showing the beauty in California in it’s rainy season. Something that lets me know it’s all good-ED.

Writers Begining

2006-11-23T15:13:00.001-08:00

     It's funny to think how life changes and sends people spiraling into different directions in life. If you were to tell me just a couple of months ago that I was going to be writing-anything-on line I would say it would be a joke. My life was too consumed in materialism and the goal of becoming rich before anybody so that I could be "happy". I ran around working and striving for the perfect girl, house, career, and even friends (something I had already obtained) and so I was blinded. My sudden thrill and aspiration to become a good writer came from a love I still hold secret and only a couple of friends know: An unpublished truth. My writing has become now more of a release of thoughts into the world, knowing that only fate will let certain people read my confused and drained out mind.
     Lets start at the begging of my writing, starting on a small project instructed by the most eccentric woman I have ever met. Mrs. Hoffman is what I define as the "Mac" (the computer) person, complicated and hard to use but once mastered a great asset as a person (I can only imagine as a lover also). Her twisted smile reveals anything a man wants to know and like a bird knows their secret chirps, knowingly sings her thoughts into great lessons and teachings, burning the writer within anyone willing to listen. She comes dressed in colors that any Chef can taste, brining in spring squashes, summer fruits, autumn apples, and winter wheat. She’s a savory dish. As I write I can only think of her thoughts in my words, clinging to her state of mind, hoping that maybe a thought or a certain defining sentence might cling to there her and she might call me a "writer". I would cum in my pants if that ever happened. So as I wrote my first Flowing sentence for Mrs. Hoffman I was also opening a new page in my "adult" life as a writer.
     And to whom do I also owe a great deal of gratitude to introduce me to this blog, in which I feel like a dog in a park, drooling and spunky with the though of endless fun awaiting my arrival, Jeremy. He has for some time been a great friend to me, and is truly a gentleman and a scholar. Although Jeremy seems reluctant to head out into the “real” world (or what people think is), he is as real as they come. I find him to be truer than many people I have come to meet in my early travels. His ambition to learn-on his own-give me a source or definition of “higher education”, being one that a person really wants to obtain and not out of obligation or pressure. He has given me that source of wanting to write, not for a purpose of making money or even getting through school, but instead that self fulfillment that we all really wish to get.
     Before writing blogs here (not that I have many) I was posting my blogs on myspace (not a good idea). It was a good beginning but I found my writing becoming biased on the side of my ex-girlfriend (to make a long story short, she left me and is with another guy now and she has pictures of them posted in her page). My writings showed hints of things that she liked, ignoring or setting aside my actual accountability. My writing became more offensive to me, ruining my thoughts and showing the world a view of something I was not. Pointless writing, all for the purpose that she might like something I said and maybe want to talk to me or-anything.
     Now liberated and with the a little more enthusiasm I will start to write again, starting a new begining in the world of Blogger. Sitting here listening to Jack 93.1, enjoying the nibbles on my feet by my dog; I see a universal and almost unfathomable amount of possibilities. So sit back relax and let me tell you about my life.

YES!!!

2006-11-22T18:25:00.000-08:00

Im posting my first blogg that is not on mysapce! YAY thanks Jeremy!