a junkies journal

The sun slowly crawled over the horizon. Off in the mist, a dog barked - a car passed. The depression hit me full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.

The apartment – what’s left of it - was a filthy, dank den smelling of burnt metal and musty farts. The mattress lay exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to possess - all sold for dope - the cramped room had become empty harboring the long shadows of a prison.

I lay on my bed with a cigarette in moist hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I had nothing. Nothing. My family hated me. I could not, would not, fall in love with anyone. Yet, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I attempted since my move to Tijuana ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my own sick mind.

The loneliness draped over me like a cold, black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits of dope I took throughout the night.

What is wrong with me? I thought.

I began reflecting on the myriad of routes in life I could had taken - remaining in Los Angeles, keeping a menial job, becoming a writer, or perhaps making movies. All those nostalgic plans in due course collapsed into failure. Everything I attempted ran to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile and vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into an explanation of the dope addicts I associate with. All they cared for was their drugs and whatever they do have, it was never enough (As for me, it was never enough - ever) – so, they would hone in after my supply like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.

I wanted to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.

I attempted to focus on the future.

One time, long ago, I harbored great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young lover, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all faded into mist. I had no future.

Over the years, I apparently acquired a mental state of such downward bleakness, whenever I did deliberate of that hopeful future, I was confronted instead with a dark, cold abyss in my mind’s eye.

The depression sunk me lower on those spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there was no point? I should simply die. It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen by these damn naco junkies.

My face wrinkled into worry and melancholy. I glanced over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.

I picked up my only meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Inspected its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. My rage blossomed. It was this shits fault. All the blame of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattered it against the white-washed concrete wall.

I yelped and leapt out of bed toward the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! Now I have to go buy another one from some bitch I couldn’t stand. I examined the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a dismayed, kindred spirit toward the little fucker and I just killed it!

Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing.

Nothing.

I rose and stumbled into the kitchen and, removing a butcher knife out of the drawer, I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would had forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents didn’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…

I stood grasping the knife, clutched it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel felt cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow.

Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck was I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a ragged towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain began to throb. I was embarrassed more than anything - mortified at the foolish attempt I had committed.

I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.

I went to the corner farmacia and purchased a roll of bandages from an unconcerned clerk; returned home to wrap my arm.

Shortly afterwards, I sat in a nearby park. Kids jovially played, vendors sold balloons and frozen flavored ice, couples strolled in love, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. Around me the ever present heartbeat of life.

I sat there; a disgusting stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression.

Trembling, I held my head, cigarette dangling from my chapped lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life and today I failed at ending it.

Composing myself, I stood up and walked over toward Coahuila Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.

- Tijuana, 1992

all tomorrows darlings

We’re all rocked by the waves of struggle when it comes down to those circumstances that change us from within. Whether you’re hurt, angry, jealous, or longing from afar, they prompt you to keep on fighting.

You’re carried on such currents from somewhere that was once near-perfect in a moment, and permanently tattoos every moved thought and emotion that traverses through the delicate fibers of which you are composed. Your downfalls are brought about by the hesitance to loosen the grip and let things be as they may. Returning to an existence that is uninspired is feared, and so you try to run from it by holding on to that short time when reality seemingly dissolved away.

You do whatever we can to chase down a fond memory, and in doing so, you bring out the worst in yourself. Your own emotions dig craters that go bone deep, and you’re left as cold and hollow as a winter’s night lacking even the slightest breeze. You begin to loathe time itself and the cavernous distance it creates between the past and present.

The moment you realize that it will only continue you corrode you from the inside out is the moment when you stop putting up a fight. Like even the best of times, the worst can be carried off with every stroke of the second hand as long as you make amends with what is, here and now.

The fondest moments will always bring longing bubbling to the surface, but loosening ties with it and accepting where you are is the only way to keep being and moving on up. Perhaps if time is on your side, such moments will reoccur.

Only the rise and fall of the passing days hold that answer.

birdbox orchestra

rockets red glare

I think a lot about Holocaust victims who neatly packed their suitcases, took their children by the hands and boarded the trains, believing as long as they listened, as long as they complied, everything would be okay. The lies compound until, by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s too late.

“We’re just moving you to another town.”

“We’re just taking your children for a bath.”

Authoritarians count on our trust and us believing it’ll be easier to comply than resist. The fight ahead is going to be hard, but we can never give in to our better nature and compromise with monsters.

You do not appease authoritarians. You destroy them.

I apologize that this entry isn't "funny" or dripping in sexual skirmishes. But things have been getting way out of hand for this Nation.

into each life some rain must fall

It was an hour after sunrise in Park Ingerente Guerrero. The ftt-ftt-ftt of sprinklers momentarily shut off and the grass glistened from early morning dew. The sky was an overcast gray common to early summer months in Tijuana, which carried with it the lingering chill from a brisk night. Glimmering palm trees – their trunks painted white - swayed slowly in a slight breeze.

The old queer lit a cigarette. A faro – spitting the flecks of tobacco from a moistened mouth. He stood on the corner - the sidewalk damp from the lifting fog - pulling his beige sweater tighter around a potato-shaped frame. He casually waited to see if any of the young rentboys were still around. Many did stay up all night and eventually filter toward the park in search of a free breakfast from kindly gentlemen such as himself and perhaps some quick cash for a room to sleep in lieu an all-night romp of disreputable debauchery.

With rheumy eyes, the old queer scanned the vast park. No one. No one worth his attention, for that matter. He took another drag off his cigarette and glanced over to a crazed, ancient Chinaman selecting a greasy slice of half-eaten bologna out of a cascading garbage can; washing it off with a discarded bottle of water.

The Chinaman cackled to himself, mumbled something in a squeaking pitch, and began to nibble. The old queer looked wearily away. Blew smoke out into the brisk air. Off in the distance, a dog barked.

The park was occupied with about thirteen, ratty immigrantes - darkly clad phantoms, their  grimy collars turned up to ward off the night's chill, slouched over on the cold, metal benches, snoring loudly. The misty, early morning air was a light blue with overcast dew, the sharp tang of stale urine wafted past him.

The old queer curiously peeked back as he witnessed the scrawny Chinaman rummage through something behind a bush - watched as the demented hobo hooted and shoved objects into the pockets of his bulging, tattered jacket, shiny over the grime. The Chinaman’s head popped up like an animal sensing danger, quickly looked around, and then scrambled off into the post-dawn mist.

The old queer casually, curiously ambled over to where the Chinaman was previously hunched behind dirty bushes. He stopped in his tracks, a gasp of disgust jerked out of his throat, hissing through stained dentures.

A body of a twenty-two year old man lay akimbo in the slimy muck under the shade of a dusty bush. His pockets turned inside out - the white cloth of the front pant pockets poked up like obscene tongues. Both shoes missing; one foot had a dirty, white sock, the other bare. The young man’s lank, shiny, black hair cascaded into a pool of sprinkler mud, urine and old, dog feces. His thick, chapped lips were bluish-white, the look of astonished horror frozen on his inert, handsome face - scattered near his torso was a syringe, trash, a few old condoms. His attractive and masculine face, the color of a brown paper bag was mottled with splotches of blue, discolored white around the open, grimacing mouth. His dirty shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a lifeless tattooed torso.

The old queer flashbulbed the image of the youth’s face into his brain, a look of shocked, unmitigated horror frozen on that young, cold face. He recognized the boy: a popular hustler who prowled Plaza Santa Cecilia hooking the drunk old men and bloated American tourists who frequented the bars and cafés.

The old queer pursed his lips in disgust. Oh, dear! What did you see the moment before you died, sweetie? Whatever did you see?

The old queer glanced toward a pay phone on the corner – a fleeting thought of calling the police.

He faltered, then casually strolled toward the Plaza, decided to score for a boy, instead. He was certain the rentboys would be working the breakfast crowd at the cafés. Possibly young Cesar would be there. Cesar always knew how to make a drab day turn exciting…

rest in peace Juan Carlos, tijuana 1992