lost like tears in the rain

People who state depression is a choice, take a moment to think. How would it feel to wake up and not possess the emotional strength to face people? To think time is solely passing by with no tangible reason? To feel utterly alone even when you are sitting in a room full of people? To have to put on a face and hide your feelings because in your mind you think no one would care anyway? To lose friends because you cannot gather the energy to go out and you can’t physically be ‘happy’? To cry yourself to sleep, hoping you wouldn’t wake up and when you do, you are exhausted from the night before. Only for it to all begin again. You attempt to conceal your feelings hoping no one would notice. Now tell me why someone would choose that? Depression is an illness, not a choice.

I haven't been feeling well. On a mental level. Quite depressed these last few days. I have so many images racing through my head - millions and millions of images - I do not sleep much at night. I lay in the dark, coolness of my room and contemplate over the most asinine crap.

But, there lies the conundrum; I am overtly comfortable in my digs, but not happy. I want diversion, excitement, the thrill of living against all odds on the road as in the old days. Tijuana offers none of these things. I cannot connect with the indigenous locals. All my old friends have moved away - there really is nothing here that attracts me. There is nothing left here. Simply the traces of a lost soul. The walls are enclosing, like my mind, forever shrinking unto itself. The days go on and I live as shallowly as the rest of the world. Wandering in a lost city of broken dreams. The coffee in the morning tastes stale and the flowers by the window are now a gray yellow. Music is dull and ambitions are dying. Photos are no longer pretty and old post-it notes have lost their humor. My feet drag me everywhere and nowhere, unwilling to arrive to a happier place. Conversations feel distant and meaningless. Nightmares have become my fantasies. The things which I once loved the most have lost their splendor. I am just a shell now, counting down the days until my most deserved demise. I’m an outline of my former self, loveless and unexpired. I am haunted.

I have spent time frustrated and unfulfilled. Spent time searching for answers. I’ve spent time lamenting. I’ve spent time only existing. I’ve pursued hedonism. Sadism. Atheism. Christianity. Buddhism. I’ve acquainted myself with history’s great philosophers. I’ve searched for peace; peace of body and of mind. I’ve pursued social sciences. I’ve searched for understanding. I’ve searched for truth, riches, knowledge, companionship and love. I’ve hunted and been hunted by time. Reputations won and lost. I’ve confronted my fears. I’ve attempted communication with equals and unequal’s. I’ve tried drugs and sobriety. Rituals and prayer. I’ve looked for kindred spirits in literature and speech. I’ve attempted honesty and treachery. I’ve been myth. I’ve been legend. I’ve been invisible to the world and to myself. All this time, wasted.

What am I going to do? I do not know. I truly do not. And that is driving me mad.

i gazed a gazley stare

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

today is my birthday

*51

*you're not even close to baseline

black hearts in effigy

The randy old chomo Father Flanagan – he being the originator of Boy's Town – once infamously stated, "There is no such thing as a bad boy." Well, obviously the daffy bitch never set foot in Tijuana. Myself feeling rather excited – okay horny was the word - so ‘round nine I slinked out my trap and head straight toward Zona Norte – the Zone takes care of its own, you dig?

Walls of street and plaza are perforated by crumbling dwelling cubicles and neon drenched cafés, some a few feet deep, others extending out of sight in a network of rooms and corridors, hidden by mist and steam - smells of beans, seared meat, mota, and shit. Catatonic emaciated whores stand gray and withered in doorless diseased cubicles of Death – beckoning with glints of silver teeth. Salsa music wails – cops stand with ominous sneer and truckload of them rumbles by kicking up dust with the screams of the prey wailing in anguish – drunk loud Americans stumble groped by transsexual deviants of all sorts - Americans need it special. Oh there’s tequila and vomiting in the streets and the whimpers under heaven – angels in hell we, our sooty wings huge in the dark.

With a sigh of relief I am sitting in a cheap cantina off Avenida Constitution – La Cruda. The place was suffused in a dim blue light – insidiously lurid and hid the fat and nasty hooker being finger banged by the ancient cowboy in the murky corner, her silver teeth reflecting. A moldy looking bullhead mounted on a plaque hung over the mahogany bar. Pictures of lucha libre decorated the smudged walls along with strings of red Christmas lights – most burnt out. The word pendejo etched in the frosted-glass swinging door. I found myself reading the word pendejo over and over.

I had been sitting in a red leather booth that reeked of vomit with two Mexicans, drinking tequila. The Mexicans were fairly well dressed – standard hip-hop gear or an attempt at it. One of them spoke English - they were the 'So how do you like Mexico variety'. A middle-aged, heavy set Mexican with a sad, sweaty face sang ditties of melancholia and strummed a guitar. He was sitting at the end of the booth in a chair. I was grateful the singing made conversation with the two Mexicans nearly impossible.

Three cops stomped in; faces blank as a mannequin, eyes boiling in hate - I figured I might get a shake, so I slipped my stash of weed in my Lucky Strike cigarette package underneath the table. The cops had a quick conversation with the bartender and then left. The two hip-hop Mexicans took off promptly. When I reached under the table, my weed was gone but the cigarette package was still there.

Pendejos.

I sat staring into my warming cerveza Sol when two guys strolled into the cantina and sat at the bar. The better looking one glanced at me. Then again. Finally smiling and raising a bottle at me, mouthing “Salud.” (cheers)

I said Howdy; they said Hola; and introduced themselves - Cristobal was tall and thin with a shaven head, goatee, blue football jersey, and green army fatigue pants. The other guy was slightly younger, about 21, with black slick back hair and wore a black t-shirt with dark cargo pants and gave the impression of being vaguely oriental. After bumming a cigarro, he said his name was Ignacio. Ignacio? What kind of name is that, I asked – the flirting engine began to rev up. I realized full well the name Ignacio – had several friends named Ignacio – just thought I’d play the cutesy-pie ignorant gringo. And he then dove into this long tirade regarding Aztec culture and how Ignacio was a name based in Aztec tradition. Whatever. I flicked a cockroach offa the bar with indifference.

Nevertheless, we three joked and talked and the beer began to flow and we got mas borracho. Cristobal stated he wanted to go to a bar and see strippers, so we left the little cantina and hoofed it to Zona Norte proper and popped into one of the hundreds of hoochie houses – the best of the best I guess, Bar La Nueva Pachanga. As I sat there in both boredom and disgust and watched this short fat female jiggle in all the wrong places up on the small stage, I explained to my two new escorts I was going to go. The last thing I wanted to witness was a bunch of old men ogling a floppy boobed dancer in a smoky cockroach infested strip joint.

Inebriated, Ignacio laid a hand on my shoulder and asked me, "Which one do you want?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, quite perplexed.

With crimson eyes, he pointed to himself and then to Cristobal, "Which one of us do you want to take to the hotel, guero?"

I sat there for a moment. Cristobal looked sick and dirty - though I guess he was clean enough actually - with a suggestion of yellow teeth, unwashed underwear and psychosomatic liver trouble. Utterly inebriated, Cristobal exhibited the expression of a masturbating idiot.

I looked at Ignacio with a serious look and said, "Come with me, Ignacio."

He agreed and we stumbled to a ten dollar a night hotel room I rented – a filthy trap no more than a coupla mattresses on the floor and a bathroom that was a biological nightmare.

Once inside, Ignacio and I downed shots of cheap Fundador and soon my head began to spin. Next thing I realized, the clothes come off, I'm escorted to the raggedy bed by Ignacio and laid on my stomach. He sat in front of me and I sucked his thick uncut dick like a champ as Ignacio fingered my ass. He climbs onto my back and slides up in me and I am taking this alleged Aztec decedent like the filthy whore I am. Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack-smack! He lunges up into me biting the nape of my neck and I am moaning and he is grunting uttering filthy words to me en espanol. Ignacio whirls me around onto my back and with my feet on his shoulders he took no prisoners; the boy went at it like a madman - kissing me passionately he pounded away causing me to lose my cool and I came on myself, splattering all over my stomach and chest. With a groan and an Aye Caray! Ignacio pulled out and hosed me down with hot white spurts of his own.

As I lay akimbo panting, covered in sweat, semen, and saliva, Ignacio lit a cigarette and after taking a drag, placed it between my dry lips. I stared at the ceiling fan and wondered why the fuck I ever think of moving out of Mexico...

into each life some rain must fall

Rain buffets hard and I mean from nowhere - like outta some damn Mickey Spillane novel. I stand under an awning on the corner of 2^nd and Ninos Heroes, sucking on a Lucky and feeling the warm effects of a whiskey shot lost in the nights darkness; drops bounce up splattering my khakis. The baying of a passing ambulance, distant rumble of air hammers, always building and repairing in The City.

The sky is illuminated with blue surges of electrical fire. Rain falls hard, drenching me and the scrawny hooker tittering on the corner in her see through plastic pumps. She bear a resemblance to a melting wax figure, like she is suffering a repugnant disease. She squawks at me and through the rainy haze and the sound of her voice that she is actually a he. I press on – dark streets now have become rivers and sewage outlets spew forth a winters worth of back up.

I saw him crying in the rain and many people didn’t give it a second thought. I could distinguish his tears from the raindrops as he kept his face toward the sky. He simply let the rain crash against his face as if he was releasing all that was inside him. Releasing his hurt, his pain and frustration.

I didn’t stare too long or hesitate to act. I simply walked over and put my arm around him. I didn’t have an umbrella to offer. So we walked off together without any words continuing to let the rain cleanse him of his sorrow. He utters the soft touch to get home. Pay fifty pesos for a cab. He is gone, like his tears in the rain.

2pm marks the gentle buzz of 24hr coffee shops and the placating hum of humanity untroubled in light conversation with friends and lovers. Light pattering of rain against the thick glass of the cafés windows and doors as small and pleasant reminders to not let your thoughts drift too far. The hiss of the milk steamer fully brings me back to reality. I hear people around me laughing at dreary anecdotes, flirting through generic compliments and responding in awkward disbelief. The couple to my left, knees entwined are uttering in a hushed tone about how much they love one another over the slowly rising steam of their coffees. Hair twirled in slender fingers and cheeks rise in rouge. I sigh contemptuously; an unconscious decision.  The tepid café Americano sat before my eyes condensates gently, similarly to the rain outside. The water rolls slowly down the plastic cup onto the deep mahogany countertop, creating a small pool that is sure to dampen my sleeve when I’m not paying attention. I push my glasses further up on the bridge of my nose to readjust my vision, allowing me to focus on the nature outside from the comfort of being inside. That is, assuming being inside the coffee shop is more comforting. I gaze down toward my blank notebook.

Outside the rain came down in whispering sheets. It was the middle of the night - washed-out glares of lamplight flared through the torrent that splashed upon empty, gloomy streets. No cars, no people out this night.

I’d rather be at home…if I had one.

glass doors

Dreams. Dreams are the glue of life. Without them, we obtain no hope, no ambition, no reason to even get out of bed in the morning. The point is, how can we make our dreams into reality? I, of course, am speaking about real dreams - not fantasies of high wealth, the perfect soul mate, or even world domination. Even though those three are dreams to some. Not I.

This life of mine - this life I abide occupied with madness, adventure, and wondrous mystery is halfway done. Albeit I have done things in which many deem repugnant or insane or reckless, I hold no regrets. Not one.

During the years, I have been lectured and suggested and downright scolded upon that I need to "settle down", "get comfortable" and the most dreaded "be more stable". Well, Dear Reader, I've attempted that and to tell you the truth, I fucking hate it. How dull. How maudlin. How outright insidious. I realize I have harped on this before. And, here it is again. Only with a difference.

Everything has a reason. There are no accidents.

No, my time/space location is not here. Even though I had been rewarded with a means to live a sedate and comfortable existence. That is all it is...existence. I want to live. And so, I begin my plotting to lay tracks….but where and how?

I stroll out my apartment and into the choking midday Tijuana streets to think and ponder. Amid crumbling masonry and dusty plate glass windows covered in wasted away and tattered posters, outside kind elderly sweep unrelenting filth with kind smiles and buenas dias as I make my way down the shattered sidewalks. I pass shoe shine boys vying to clean my leathers, taxi drivers on the hustle, wary looks from indigenous inhabitants wondering what this white-assed gringo is doing here. Two emo-fags swish by and give me the eye as I take a puff from my cigarette, giving them a solid Jack Kerouac B-movie production as I slip through the glass doors of the café.

The joint is packed. A cavernous room dating back to the early 1950's. Tables and booths line the cracked mirrored walls as a mammoth counter encircles the middle of the room. I locate a seat in the back at the counter and glance up toward an elaborate terra cotta work on the ceiling and the even row of original gas lamp works from a by-gone and forgotten era, now dangling with dust and verdigris.

Families sit with calm children in over-stuffed green leather booths, couples sneak loving glances across tables as elderly read newspapers of futbol scores and lottery numbers amid gesticulating colleagues chatting up the previous night’s skirmishes at bars and pool halls.

A bespectacled matron takes my order, "Un cafe de taza y juevos rancheros, por favor."

She smiles and vanishes in the chaotic ballet of the other servers; momentarily returning with a mug of delicious, hot coffee..

I sat alone slurping my coffee amid the thousand clinks and scrapes of utensils and patter in a foreign language and I thought, Only good can come of this venture. If not, it definitely will open doors to new experiences. A far better deal than simply lounging around an antiseptic con-apt in America watching television or chatting with people online who I barely know or will never meet.

"Do you speak English?" A voice next to me asks.

I glance over and notice a ruggedly handsome man with thick Mexican Indian feature grinning at me. He is neatly dressed, obviously American - or endeavoring to imitate the fact therein. Clean shaven with a long hooked nose common to his people. His short-cropped hair is jet-black with gray at the temples. Something in his demeanor told me he was queer or intellectually so. His eyes were sad and grey. They reminded me of a stormy Sunday morning or empty like used shotgun shells, just a hollow space where life used to be.

In broken English he repeated, "Do you speak English?"

"Fluently." I croaked. I had to admit, even though I was somewhat put off by his extreme good looks, with dread I was waiting for the inevitable pinch for cash.

"Are you visiting from San Diego?" He asked continuing to smile that smile which would melt any heart, cabron.

"No." I said. "Actually, I live here, that way." I thumbed behind me towards a row of silent, crumpling skyscrapers disused for decades.

Our brief discussion was quite pleasant. He related how he would like to talk more in English and had "un million preguntas." He introduced himself as Johnny - not Juan, you understand, but Johnny – Johnny Vargas. I introduced myself and threw caution out. I had no idea if he was queer or simply overtly friendly, but friends right now being in high demand on my end trumped a pointless lay.

We sat and chatted on a multitude of subjects, he in his broken English and me in my atrocious Spanish. He was quite impressed when I stated that I was a writer.

"Do you have any books here? I'd love to read them!" He said.

"I have copies at my apartment." I said.

"You live near here, si? Let me check them out." He asked.

My stomach was in knots. This is why I adore this culture so much. So friendly. Not mired in suspicion and arrogant distrust like Americans. Still never dropped the queer bomb, so I had no idea where he stood. I was hoping he didn't deteriorate into a hateful macho fuck once I told him. Once home, I'd have to. I mean, how could I discuss the subject matter of my writing without revealing the queer angle?

Johnny and I walked the few short blocks back to my trap. Once inside, I retrieved copies of my books. He smiled when I handed him one with PUTA emblazoned across the cover.

"What's this about?" He asked chuckling.

Okay...here it goes. I explained the story and subject with him. He stood there nodding, listening as I gesticulated wildly as only a writer can who is passionate about his work. After I was spent, there was a long pause as I allowed him to soak it all in.

"So...you no like the women?" He asked solemnly.

"I didn't ask you here to force you into anything you aren't comfortable with." I explained.

"That's okay." He mumbled. "No problema.”

I excused myself to take a piss. Offering him a bottle of orange juice in the fridge. In the restroom, I did my business. Took my time. Swishing Listerine around my mouth to get that coffee and cigarette taste out of my mouth. Opening the door, I was actually surprised to find Johnny huddling under my blankets on my bed. His clothes neatly folded on a nearby chair.

"Comfy?" I nonchalantly asked with a smirk.

He said "Ven con migo." (Come here with me)

I undressed down to my boxers and crawled in bed with him. We lay side by side with his arm under my head. His body, though rail thin, was so warm. I immediately began fantasizing of trailing my hand across his lean copper-colored torso. We talked a bit about his work, how he wanted to get to the States for a better job, a better life. Standard conversation. I was about to roll over and kiss him when I noticed he had fell silent and was fast asleep. I wasn't angry. The man worked all day. I would be exhausted, too. I simply snuggled in and embraced him. It was much needed. Human contact. Not virtual. An insidious setback which had plagued me recently.

Ten o'clock at night and Johnny awoke to urinate. I watched as he creeped across the cold tiles in saggy briefs. When he returned he mentioned he had to leave to go home. (Most likely to his wife. It wouldn't surprise me) He had to work early again the following day and lived far. However, he asked if we could meet again and perhaps go out for drinks. "I know this place has good cerveza and plays live jazz. Since you like jazz music."

I smiled warmly and agreed, got dressed and walked him to the corner. Before he made his way to his bus terminal, we shook hands. I lit a cigarette and watched him briskly disappear into the chilled Tijuana night. I returned home and, inspired, wrote more in my novel before crashing around midnight and dreamed of far away places both strange and beautiful...

en la carcel

dear hearts and gentle people

I awoke at dusk and catatonically made my way to the local café for coffee. My mind ached with a kaleidoscope of a million images. It had to be round nine at night, the bars were in full force cause the sidewalks were crawling with twinky Mexican fags. They swaggered and cooed to and fro from one cantina to the next - all glaring and giggling at every crotch. The cha-cha beats thumped as insidious and verile hustlers lurked in shadowy shadows to rob the unwary tourist or desperate old queen with time worn accuracy. I stood outside Patio Bar and nonchalantly smoked a cig until I was summoned inside for a much needed drink. He said his name was Cesar. Short in physique with a thin build and black curly hair. I adored his smile - heated me pants every time he did. Ambled in and was met with smiles, back slapping and good cheer from a myriad of acquaintances. Out of the smokey gloom, Lalo approached us. A lanky Mexican I had met before - a good looking guy but acted like a fucking twelve year old when left to his own devices. A bitchy bore, to be honest. Both Cesar and Lalo were already lit. I ordered a bottle of brew and hunkered down to shoot the shit with them.

We occupied time talking of generally nothing, laughing and playing goofy tunes on the jukebox. The drunker Lalo became the more touchy-feely, the bastard blatently goosing me once right there in front of this hard-nosed straight clientele and God. Had to spat to cut that crap out. As a fact - after I had played Star Wars by Mecco, that tacky 70's disco ear sore for kicks - for some reason, we were informed by the scowling bartender the cantina was closing and given the boot - and it only being 10:30!

Fuck it, we stumbled the two blocks over to an equally shitty shit hole dive called Noa Noa, passing a ragged beggar scrounging through a heap of trash for edible scraps timidly ignoring malicious wisecracks by Lalo. Fuck, some people got no tact, know what I mean?

So, at said cantina – we three sit with our caguamas. Across from us at the rectangular shaped bar was a drunken construction worker uttering drunken nothings to anyone who cared and for some weird reason Lalo got on the warpath with this fucker and began loudly insulting him. I firmly mentioned to Lalo he needed to calm the fuck down and the asshole took a goddamn swing at me! Fuck these drunks, I thought and walked out the door and back home - drunk and irate.

I stormed down the darkened streets with little Cesar bounding after me squawking "What's wrong? Whya leavin'?" I quietly walked on until he fell away.

Stopped at an Oxxo and bought a packet of smokes being eyed lasciviously by a young Mexican vagrant shivering in a huge tattered overcoat sipping tepid coffee from a styrofoam cup and yep, even deliberated on inviting him back to my lurid trap, but wasn't really up for it.

I have come to view this town as so foul, streetfulls of wild boys all night, drunken nacos in yellow Stetsons and sagging pot bellies, distasteful restaurants, nasty whore hotels, annoying musicians, half American stores, jumping beans and tortilla concessions, Chinese Masonic lodges and big halls for hip-hop discos and ranchero music, painted crudely with monolithic donkeys. A portrait of a Chihuahua glares down at me donning a Sante Fe style kerchief and bejeweled vaquero hat. Dust and cold wind blow under a noxious full moon.

The ever present dread of desolate depression washes over me once again. I am certain the end is soon. My end. What a life. I burned out too soon. A blazing comet I was. I went cold far too prematurely. The abject loneliness is far worse. On account of I don't want to talk to anyone. Who would understand? No one, that's who. I crashed and burned. Anyhow, my lifestyle is old. At one time it was praised, envied, imitated. Now I am simply an extinct relic. Despised. Reviled. Ignored.

I think I am going to finish my new novel (It seems the only inspiration I contract to write these despicable prose is when I am suffering - if I become too comfortable, I don't write. Just wanna drink and masturbate.) and focus my sights on getting to Cambo as originally planned.

these spiderwebs are my home now

You, Dear Reader, literally cannot understand what a debilitating blow it was missing the airline by ten minutes to Cambodia last January. Emotionally, it bore an insidious effect on the old ego. For the past two months I spiraled down from anger to depression to angry depression to simply giving up. I scoured the internet for an affordable apartment in the United States in a plethora of out of the way shit hole towns in lieu of a misguided desire to simply disappear. This notion of finality drove me deeper into an emotional funk.

Yet, last night, as I lay in my windowless room counting down the hours to purchase a plane ticket to one of these dead end burgs to grow dusty and discontent in some section 8 housing, accepting the fact I settled for what all that is, I said no. No, I will not go out like that. I have so much more life to live and I do intend to live it.

The immediate plan? I will bide my time here in Tijuana. The first thing in order is to renew my passport. It is months within its expiration date. Cambodia’s visa policy is you need to attain at least six months left on your passport. It is also essential for me to acquire at least $2000 minus airfare for a start in the Kingdom. I believe this could be done within five months. Perhaps sooner. I’ll simply have to relent on all extracurricular activities, if ya know what I’m sayin’? To curb the monotony, I actually have a new idea for another novel which I plan to begin.

Unfortunately for you, Dear Reader, I will not be posting as much on this blog. Why? Well, for one, the activities I enjoy require money, and my goal is to save as much as I can as quickly as I can. So there is that. I believe I will be using this blog in the encroaching months to hone my writing. That being said...

Let’s do this.