The Ballad of Steve Bangalan (Part 3)

We now suffer in silence/ the quiet storm

We are the blessed’ to have known you/

Our quiet grief is blind to the world /

We have each other, and we miss you/

We are stronger now, because your strength and spirit reside in our hearts/

We are your loved ones/ and we will someday call upon you in our hour/

Watch over us, and Rest in Peace/ Heaven’s Angel

The 152s: If Only

I test my feelings every now and again, and I find that the Love we never had remained as beautiful as the day it sparked.  Had I willed for one outcome or another, would that Love have stood the test of time? 

Though we’ve gone our separate ways my unrequited Love remains.  Time perhaps has changed us, our wear and tear like badges of honor – battle tested.  There’s no going back to that moment, there’s no real chance remaining, yet there’s no regret either.  The “if only”… the “what ifs”, though entertained, doesn’t have the bitterness one would think that comes with reflecting on missed opportunities.  I find it fortunate the lens we use to look back in time is so ever merciful casting such a radiant glow on everything.  The darkness wasn’t so dark back then. 

Buried there, the remains are Gold Memories.  Perhaps in another life or perhaps on another plane of existence, but the here and now… the story of her and I... I remember her radiant smile. 

…

Me:        “Do you Love her?” I asked.

Steve:   “She’s a good girl.” The Cheshire Cat replies with a grin.   

Me:        “Of course she’s a good girl that’s why you guys are hooking up.  But do you Love her?”

Steve:   “You know, Calvin, I have strong feelings for her.” 

Me:        “Is this getting serious? Are you going to get married?  2013?  Woohoo, Vegas 2013!”

Steve:   “Come on man, no! I’m not going to get married again anytime soon.  We’re just having fun.”

I see his eyes look off into his mind; his brow furls with contemplation.  Just one more push I thought.

Me:        “Remember, we had this conversation before, but it was about some other ‘good girl’?”

He doesn’t reply.  He doesn’t have to.

Me:        “You told me you Love [omitted] then too.  You told me she was the one.”

Steve:   “You know I will always Love [omitted].” He pauses to choose his words.

Me:        “Yeah I know you Love [omitted], but this girl, Stevo.  Is this girl the one?”

Steve:   “No.” His thought complete.  He looks at me. “She’s not the one.”

…

I’m reluctant to do anything.  The weight of twelve tons of steel presses down on my chest.  The world is bleak, and I just might stay in bed all day today.  Maybe he won’t call, and maybe he’s tired too, so maybe, just maybe he’ll call off this hike. 

My cell rings.  Damn.

Me:        “Hello?”

Steve:   “You up?”

Me:        “Yeah. “ I lied.

Steve:   “Wake up.” He knew.

Me:        “We could cancel.  It looks cold outside.”  It was cold inside too.

Steve:   “Naw man.  Wake up, let’s go! I’m outside.”

Me:        “You serious?” Damn, of course he was. 

I already knew he was outside.  You could hear the world from my Victorian/Queen Mary window.  It lets in all the sounds and all the cold.  In the summer, it lets in heat and bugs.  Winter – cold and bugs.  Fall and Spring – bugs.  I hate bugs.  I can hear him talking to me into his phone from outside my window as I hear his voice coming into my ear from my cell phone.  From two places at once – space/time travel.

Moments later I was dressed and in the car with my backpacking bag stuffed for a weekend’s worth of excursion.  We were only going on a day hike.  Half a day, really.  But I wanted to test the weight of my gear to see how it carries fully packed.  Steve had coffee and offered some.  Why didn’t I think of that.  I passed.  Our ride out to Fremont was peaceful.  The grey silence that surrounded us was something out of a Silent Hill videogame. 

Me:        “I think we could die” I was only half-joking.

Steve:   “Naw man.  Come on.”

Me:        “No we are.  Look at it.  You can’t see anything.  We’re fucked.”

He sips his coffee. 

Me:        “This is how a scary movie would start – Friends going off on a trip, fog all around, it’s either a serial killer or… zombies.”

…

My negativity was a bummer.  How does anyone put up with it?  I better just shut my mouth. 

Me:        “Damn it.  So out of shape!” There goes that attempt.

“ I can’t even see the top.  You think we’ll see anything in this fog?” Such a whiny face.

Steve:   “Come on man.  We got this.”

We had stopped twice before on account of me. 

Me:        “Of course I’d pack a giant bag and then complain about it.”

Steve:   “Want me to carry it?”

Me:        “No, I’m just complaining.”

Near the peak we came across a white picket fence.  Is there such thing as a sign?  What’s the Symbology – and I think of the Boondock Saints reference… and I think of old friends.

…

I guess eventually I did shut myself up.  Good job, knew you could do it.  Perhaps I was too tired to say anything, but moments when I just want to take it all in – I let the silence speak.

The white fog was sloppily outlined with blues, greens, and splashes of violet.  I was awake whether I wanted to be or not.  Tired and sleepy – yes please, but all too heightened and alert my senses would not let me – I was gathering it all in.  Something about the clean moisture and clean air.  This fog, now really a mist, atop Mission Peak was not going to allow sleep.  No you could drown in this mist.  My body is wrecked.  Not from the climb, though obvious I was breathing heavy.  

I thought more along the lines of what have I done to myself with the alcohol and the partying?  I know I was only partying to forget lately, but I had taken too kindly to the alcohol… it’s wearing me.  This hill wasn’t this hard before.  Where I drank to forget, this hike was so I could leave it there on that hill that overlooked the valley.  I wouldn’t have to drink to forget anymore if I could leave it all there on that peak. 

We sat there in silence. 

I didn’t want to spoil it with my negativity so I did say much.  By then, after our nice meal I was not so foul.  The jagged rocks were not comfortable to sit on but I did so anyway.  My legs felt like spaghetti.  We did the whole taking pictures thing, now I just wanted the sky to open up.  I found myself cheering for the sun.  Here and there it would break through the sky and light up the valley in blotches… at least I was hoping.  The valley below was blurred to us, and at times the eyes could see details of it far below, but the fog was unrelenting. 

I unpacked my bag and brought out my JetBoil.  With water, I made us brown sugar oatmeal.   I was glad to use some of the water in my CamelBak.  I used it also to rinse the bowl and the stove after.  I used more water and made tea while we peeled and ate mandarins.  Then I made coffee, again pouring the water.  We weren’t in any hurry to hike back down.  At least, I knew I wasn’t.  I was glad most of the water was used up.  The weight of all my gear was getting heavy. 

I don’t know for how long we sat there.  We just sat and looked out into the valley. 

I was supposed to leave something up there.  There was supposed to be some magnificent reveal followed by some cathartic release.  We sat there cold to our bones.  Warm brown something close to coffee warmed our insides.  Moving by jumping up and down would help, but I just sat.  I enjoyed my small victory – although it was not my victory.  No, Steve had carried me that last stretch. Not physically, but I knew I would have called it a day long before we reached the top.  Part of getting to this very spot was because I didn’t want to let him down.  No, this was Steve’s victory – but I was… am so ever grateful to have shared it with him. 

…

Going downhill was easier.  We traced our steps and came back confronting the white fence.  Only this time did I notice the back side had graffiti all over it.  Why didn’t I see this going up?  Words of encouragements came from strangers, supporters, for no particular reason but to motivate a general optimism or to hearten faith in others to strive for a personal best.  Of course I missed the sign before, I was too negative; I only saw the mountain and the insurmountable, forgetting the invisible forces that hold us up and propel us forward. 

We missed a turn and instead wandered unto an unfamiliar trail.  The tree before us gave pause– its haunting beauty in the mist had to be captured.  Here we were heading the wrong direction, and this tree stopped us in our tracks.  Singular, alone it stood.  Almost out of place and seemingly out of time, this tree which must have been there long before our time was somehow a sign.  Was it always meant to be there to tell us, to warn us, to give us pause, and to turn us around? 

Sometimes a tree is just a tree, but maybe with the fog it just seemed so eerie. 

Sometimes a tree is more than a tree.  How long did it take for this tree to grow?  Why is it all by itself and not in a forest?  Was it a naturally occurring tree or was it planted?  Have others been lost this way too?  Has the tree also turned these wayward souls back on path?  Were we supposed to get lost and find this tree?  It stood there silent to my pleadings.   I did not voice my pleadings aloud for fear that breaking the silence would arouse something in the mists.  Or perhaps I feared the silence itself and I would only look a fool asking a tree why it came to be. 

Me:        “Um, Stevo.  This would be the perfect time for the zombies to attack.”

Of course I had to open my mouth. 

~*~

The Ballad of Steve Bangalan and the 152s:  Part 1 |  Part 2

A Letter to Cousin Stanley

Yes really. Call it a life lesson - learned the hard way.

 

Dear Stanley,

 

I hope this letter finds you in good health…

 

~*~

 

Imagine a delicate butterfly. It flaps it wings against the wind, and against all odds, it lands on your fingertips.

 

When you're young, and you're in Love, you can't wait to tell the world. You shout out at the top of your lungs! You rejoice! You jump up and down and yell to the world, “Look at me for I have a butterfly upon my finger!”

 

In your excitement, in your haste, the butterfly that happened upon your finger flourishes away.

 

~*~

When you're older, you see how fleeting that Love really was.

 

That moment was too precious then. It remains still too precious to this day. No longer the hasty wide-eyed sapling, you begin to understand that timing plays so crucial a role in this life. In this decaying state of withering age, the Old-Man You simply has LITTLE TIME to waste.

 

No longer do you seek approval from a third party. You cherish each delicate moment as life presents itself, because you realize that each moment can just as easily fly away as that butterfly once did.

 

You realized that butterfly was never yours to begin with, that it belonged to nature and all of nature’s offerings –the good and the bad.

 

Having loved, having lost, you now know what it means to seize the day, to be in Zen, to be in perfect harmony, in time, place, in the here and now. Likewise, you know what it means when all these things turn against you. At times a burden, at times a bounty, nature continues on with or without you wave after wave.

 

 

~*~

You are but a branch upon a tree, a tree within a forest. The roots of the tree are deep. Draw nourishment from this reservoir of knowledge. Take in the air and the sunlight. Give back that nourishment to the tree from which you sprung and the forest that has fared nature’s whims with you. You are not alone in your struggles. Take in the air. Take in the sunlight.

 

 

You will find that the butterfly was not Love. The Love you thought you had, the Love you thought you lost never left your heart. You will find Love was in the air, Love dancing in the sunlight, Love frolicking in the forest, Love swinging from the trees, and most importantly Love within yourself.

And perhaps one day, you will realize, that you are more spectacular than you had thought. You will shout at the top of your lungs, you will go to every tree in the forest, and you shall sing to the world, ““Look at me WORLD for I am the butterfly!”

 

 

Sincerely,

Cal

 

~*~

The Ballad of Steve Bangalan (Part 2)



I close my eyes and he’s smiling back,

I open my eyes and he’s not here.

I wake up and my eyes are dried of tears,

For every night I dream of you.

And each morning I bid ado,

I cry and cry to say goodbye.

But all I want and all I need,

Is but you my darling Steve.

The 152s: A Prime Spark

I thought it strange that I should have fallen for a stranger so easily, but then again there was a familiarity about her.  She had big bright eyes, and a huge smile with near perfect teeth.  And there beneath the stars, in Steve’s backyard we shared a moment.  It was quiet respite, just the two of us cuddled together for warmth, and I pointing up at the stars.  “What do you think that one’s called?”

Orion's Belt

…

Many of us know the legendary parties that Steve threw.  Every summer there was the annual BBQ culminating in the month of May (The Birthday Month).  Every year it got bigger, because mostly our family grew.  We would meet new friends, and together with old friends we would celebrate the three Birthdays… It used to be the four Birthdays, but friends did come and leave, changes were inevitable, but the core was there.  The family never changed, because family is Family. 

I looked forward to that barbeque every year.  My birthday was in December and it was unlikely I would have an outdoor BBQ party, or so I thought.  One year, after a homecoming from college,  Steve asked me how I wanted to celebrate my birthday.  I told him, I wanted to have one of his legendary BBQ parties in the midst of winter.  I also volunteered his house.  The type of guy Steve was – he opened his home and his resources to me.  Honestly, I normally dislike celebrating my birthday.  I’m reluctant, but there was something irresistible about having a Bangalan party for my birthday.  It was one of the best Birthdays ever. 

That night I met her. 

…

It shouldn’t have been that difficult to leave.  I had done so a dozen times if not more.  Going back to school, driving away to college,  should have been easy.  But her smile was just on my mind.  The thought of all the parties I’ve missed while I was away.  The thought of all the people my friends call friends that I have yet to meet.  How can something so beautiful pass by in my life, and this was the first I’ve ever met her.  What if this would be the last?  My mind was ablaze with questions, wonderment, and longing. 

I’ve held off on Love.  Infatuation, I had plenty – but the Spark… the spark was rare.  Akin to divine inspiration, it fills you with this energy that fuels this millions of thought per second madness and clarity.  You can very well be happy with this girl – with her there is a way. 

…

You see, if it were not for Steve, I would never have had met her.  Sadly the story of her and me would never come to be; it never came into fruition.  Where I thought the 152s were stories of a girl and a possible Love that never came to be, where I thought it was a story of ambition and the sacrifices we make, I was not entirely on point.  At its core, the 152s, was about Family & Friendship.  It’s about you Steve, and how you help steer my ambition in search of the core, in search of home.

…

I’m helpless to alter history.  I can’t change the fact that some heartless bastard ripped you from this world.  I can’t change the fact that you meant so much to me, and that this hurts so damn bad.  I don’t know if there will be Justice, or if I’ll get closure.  All I know is, you took me in and made me Family, and now the world is dimmer without your light.  May your light shine on in Heaven, Brother. 

 

The Ballad of Steve Bangalan and the 152s:  Part 1 |  Part 3

The Ballad of Steve Bangalan (Part 1)

It reads “Dear Steve, My Brother,”

Written long ago, unopened, and never read, the words were completely inadequate. 

They still are.

A 152 Love Story: Drive & Driving Crazy

I thought the 152s were stories about a girl – they are, but they're also about something more. It took losing you for me to realize it.

12/30/2012 - It was equally as beautiful on the day of the 152 story (albeit it was late Summer and not Winter)

“Why am I so damn crazy?”/ “She could be the one!”/ “It’s perfect!”/ “Her smile and dimples can melt ice caps!”/ “I have school tomorrow!”/ “What, are you going to do, throw it all away?”/ “What if it doesn’t work out?”/ “What if it does?!!”/ “You got to take a chance!”/ “What about your plans?”/ “Why are you talking to yourself?”/“Why am I so damn crazy?!!”

On the 152 I found myself driving crazy. Before me was a plan, a goal, something for the future. Behind me was home, familiarity, Family & Friends. In my mind there was this self-created drama; a frenzy; a panic attack!! “WTH am I doing?”/ “Why can’t I find it?”/ “Did I pass it?”/ “WTH is the 5?”

I drove back and forth arguing with myself…filled with doubt. I circled back towards Gilroy. Almost arriving into Gilroy I turn the car around. "No, no, no. The 5 is behind me! It has to be!"/ "WTF?"/ "Did I miss it again?"/ "WTH is wrong with me?" I drove that stretch of road turning the car around at least half a dozen times that day. I kept thinking I had missed the 5. My mind was obviously elsewhere...

“WTF is going on with me?”/ “Why can’t I think straight?” I pulled off the road at this exact spot. I called him in near tears. Here was a moment in time, a chance to go forward or go back… and at that moment time stopped.

It’s the simple things that made Steve such a great man.  His heart simply loved and he simply cared for everyone, especially his family.  I say simply but there was nothing simple about it.  Steve only made it look easy.  It was automatic with him.  Like his three pointers – he practiced it until it was perfect.  He must have practiced since from childhood – his smile, his tenderness endeared him to everyone.  Although he was of modest beginnings, he had the greatest treasure imaginable – a loving heart. 

In him, I saw a measure of a man I respect and honor.  Through him, I found definition of what it means to have an adopted family, to have brothers in arms.  Our adventures were great – and for a time we were invincible. 

Here, I’m reminded of your beauty.  Here your life touched mine in a way that profoundly altered my existence.  That moment in time – was when we became brothers.  Lost in the wilderness, adventure ahead of me and home some distance behind, I reached out for your guidance.  Selfless like always, you calmed the storm of my maddening thoughts.  Like a beacon of light (bright like a diamond) shining through the night - you calmly spoke words that I will hold to my dying breath. 

“Go take care of business man.  Better yourself.  We’ll always be here for you.  Your homies and your family – we’re not going anywhere.” 

...

He always said, "Your homies will be here when you get back." But Steve will no longer offer that advice.  He will no longer greet me with a smile, or treat me with a round of spirits. He will no longer be able to calm me with his voice, tell me to relax, don't be an idiot and go to school.  “Don’t drive yourself crazy.  Just drive.”

I didn't come home soon enough; I was away at school.  Two nights before my drive home, five nights before Christmas, Steve was stabbed in the abdomen by a punk filled with violence and stupidity.  The knife punctured his liver and he bled out. My brother Steve died alone amongst strangers in an ambulance.

The grief and loss would have been unbearable save not for our mutual Friends & Family.  Together we grieved and mourned.  Together we remembered your simple deeds of Great Kindness, and we remembered your life and your spirit.  Though your death left a chasm of despair and inconsolable rage, though it unjust, sudden, and cruel, we but cannot help but think of you and see you smiling back.  And yet it doesn't end... we still remember, we still cry, we still mourn...

I now yearn and jump at every news; any details about seeking justice, there will be no closure until there is justice.  In truth, I don't give a Frack about closure - all I want is for Steve to be here.  To hear his voice telling me that’ll he'll be home waiting with our Friends & Family.

You see the 152s wasn't just about a girl. There’s more…

The Ballad of Steve Bangalan and the 152s: Part 2 | Part 3

Recycled Transcendence

This thought dawns on him how cyclical his life has been. As if he never learns or perhaps is too stubborn to change, he looks for answers in all the same places like before.

The Time Wars are ending, but somehow even faced with his mortality he yearns for A Touch Eternal. The ancient ones mentioned that such a fate is bestowed on the chosen few. In works of art by brilliant scholars and etched into bathroom stalls is a vein of that spoken truth, The Utterance. As if, every child born of this galaxy knows that there is something out there around the next stellar system, but they lack the words.

We can only make primitive sounds in a cosmic symphony. We utter and babble as infants to the stars; their music closer to Giants that came before. Recycled. Evolved. Transcended. But not home... Far far from home.

Lost, adrift in the Sea of Galilee, he feels a storm coming. It has been too long since he made music. That his death will come like an aforementioned afterthought puts a smile on his face. Fuck em'.

He'll ride out the storm and find safe harbor as he has always done. And his starship will continue to fold space lapping experience upon experience a music compilation.

His home long since gone. He once again hits the reset button. This time he'll play the game as a wandering villein, a smuggler, a scoundrel.

He'll get home this life or the next. It's all in the touch. The right touch.

There's No Doubt and there's No Doubt

She Walks In Beauty...

Lord Byron captured her beauty by comparing her to the night. As I look out unto the stars, I'm awed by the vastness of the universe. Eternal night littered with speckled golden jewels.

Black, our favorite colors. I don't think spacey was the right word I was trying to convey... It's funny so it stuck. I thought of endless and eternal but I couldn't say it... Eternal night, eternal black... It is scary.

Then she gives me knew meaning... Black is not so alone. Black is not emptiness... It's proof that despite the void, despite it's vastness all we have to do is reach out... We connect with music, with light, with Love.

She walks in beauty like the night,
And I being Apollo's son find myself glimmering in her prescence.
And all I want to do is hold her hand,
Together, we traverse the endless night.
A Love Eternal.



-- Post From My iPhone