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

By Her Side

"I don't care."
"You don't care?!"
"No, I care. Just that..."
"No. No, you don't get to qualify that. You do or you don't!"

It was the fury of her intensity that caught Jacob off gaurd. The way Alice's tone shifts and her brow wrinkles makes him uneasy. Always had... probably always will. No, not probably.

"The Wedding's date has change three times already. I know you want it to be perfect, I do too. But we can't keep pushing it back. He's going to be there or not." As he spoke he feels that familiar turmoil. It's my thing he tells himself. Don't tell Alice she doesn't need to know. She's got a wedding to think of.

"Well he better or I'm never going to speak to him again." He knows it's not true as much as she did. "He says he's got the tux you sent. He needs it sized."

"I got it sized like you asked hun." He had to turn down box seats to do this for Alice, for them. The Lakers were playing the Celtics. The game was won with a buzzer beater by Kobe. 99-100. He missed it.

"He says he's put on some pounds. It's good right? He's always been too scrawny." He wonders if she realizes how her voice picks up when she speaks of him. He realizes how trancending that particular tone is whenever she uses it. It's her Re-living the Past voice and it's her What If voice combined in this controlled present.

"He'll be there. You'll see. I wouldn't want to miss your wedding for the world." He smirks, she catches his meaning, and they have a moment.
"You better not!" she warns.

He refocuses on the road. Thinking.
She looks at him. "What's wrong?" Careful. Open ended questions can be deadly traps.

"It's just... It's undue burden is all. He's got enough sense not to worry you. I mean he's got any sense at all he'd be there. You don't worry about a few pounds and sizing your tux if you're a no show."

Alice let's it go. There's always depths to Jake but he never reveals more than he has to. He's only ever whispered his soul to her and her alone. "Yeah, he'll be there. Or not. It doesn't matter we're still getting married."

"That's what I meant earlier." They kiss.

He makes a note to call Her best friend. Screw getting it sized. Get here for the reception. He, Jacob, will fly a tailor out if needs be. You owe it to me. You owe it to her. He'll come, Jacob thought about sending his brothers for retrieval. Maybe... maybe not.

One thing's for sure. Not probabaly. Not probably at all. He'll always be by her side.




-- Post From My iPhone

My life would suck without you.

I’m at work, doing data entry, and this song throws me on a tangent.

That proverbial ‘you’, who could you be?

“So many faces in so many places,” I have said before.

There is an untouchable incorruptible better than yourself kind of ‘you’.
Is it fiction, imagination, a leap of faith, or perhaps ‘you’ do exist?

I’m at work, doing data entry, and this song throws me on a tangent.

Human beings project. Before us are our dreams and that which does not exist yet.
Before us is a future undetermined and possible of change. Human beings evolve.

That proverbial ‘you’, who could you be?

You are me, or at least me as how I would like to be. You are me, that part that makes it less lonely. The missing link, the homecoming, the pieces of my heart, and through you I, we, evolve.

“So many faces in so many places,” I have said before. And we are all that proverbial ‘you’. And my life would suck without you.

I haven’t done this in some time.

I had quite a bit to drink this evening. It being St. Patrick’s Day, I had to celebrate because it had always been one of my favorite holidays growing up. In middle school, that’s pre-secondary school, it was the day we looked forward to pinching or being pinched by certain classmates. Usually, for my part, I remembered the green, but there were a few years I had to endure the “pinch” because I had forgotten to wear green that day. Tonight, I remembered how I loved this holiday, and how in my adolescence I crossed the threshold of personal space and expressed how I truly felt about a certain some one. There were different types of pinch, and yes they all hurt, but some more than others. One that particularly hurt was from H.S. Tonight, I looked at every face in the bar, and was hoping to see her. There was no particular reason or plan, and it was really a fool’s hope. I just felt that tinge of reverie, and when you dream of a moment for so long, you start seeing it everywhere. I should have pinched her harder when I had the chance. I still remember her pinch, but could she remember mine? Every St. Patty’s Day it’s all the same. I think of H.S and wonder, is tonight the night I run into her again? Because this time, she would be in for a hurt of a lifetime, and she won’t surely forget me. It’s only fair, she completely owns this holiday for me.

Ice coffee, sangria, and then...

I was tripping off of both ice coffee and sangria last night. Here's what I came up with:


I woke up with a fearful spasm thinking the worst had come. She had past before I could tell her what purpose she played. It rendered my existence obsolete and void. I clung to her rock, and kissed the cold. This will be my marker that I come home to from now on. I am at once both free and vacant.

I long and live as a wraith among men, drifting through life compensating vitality with longevity. In my wretched old age, I find myself back upon that rock, and there you were. Briefly like a ghost, you dance in the light. I run towards the horizon to my midnight hour, and dying I whisper my spell. I dance in the wind for all to hear. I now join the voices of all the forlorn. I live on in eternity on the hind winds of an afterthought, wishing if only.


Yeah, I woke Monday with the thoughts again, and I tried all day to find a way to explain it. Of course, what I ended up doing was repressing it even more. So here, for all the world to see.

Testament of an Endless Friendship

Dear Mac,

You hold a special place in my heart. During a time when life was a mystery, when the relationships all around me seemed broken, you proved that the little things could impact one’s life forever. High school was a trying time, and for fear of getting hurt again, I never opened up more than I had to. In all honesty, I didn’t know what I was doing half the time. In the middle of the quad, in front of most of the school, you shared your homemade macaroni and cheese with me. We literally sat there and had a picnic.


I’ll never forget that moment, and I’ll never forget you.

When I saw you the other day, you were just as beautiful as I remembered; you will always be beautiful because you will always age gracefully in my eyes. I had all my barriers up in high school, but you found a way into my heart despite of them. You have been in my heart since.

High school and college passed us by, and I check your online profile from time to time. I wanted us to be friends like during Ms. Lara’s social science class. I wanted to let you know, that you forever changed macaroni and cheese for me.

I have changed, reverted, matured, and held fast to my ever-expanding circle of experiences. At its center is a frightened boy who was too scared to say how he felt. He writes it here now hoping for the best.

Because when I saw you the other day, though I have dreamt of that moment many times before, I was still caught off guard. Your presence knocked me speechless, and I could not believe what was happening was real. The thousands of rehearsed conversations in my dreams vanished. All I had to say was that you look amazing, and we need to catch up sometime. All I wanted was our friendship back and for us to be closer, but I could not get pass the formality of meeting an old friend. Somehow, I wanted to relieve you from your burdens, however briefly, and impact you the way that you have impacted me.

I hope you could see the genuine, bewildered, and sincere look in my eyes. If that moment could last longer, I might have been able to say something more lasting.

Something like: you remain one of the highlights of my life, and we will always be friends despite any and everything.

Your friend forever,
Cheese.

Me and Jack back at it.

My computer was on the fritz so I apologize for the lapse in posts. I will continue posting a Journey of Music (2 of 3) once I locate the back-up and/or re-write the excerpt. Tonight, Jack and me will be pontificating about misguided Love.

For every one of cupid’s arrows in his quiver, for every aim and shot he takes, sad to say, there are missed opportunities.

Tonight I saw her again. She wasn’t the one that got away exactly. She was the one I had no idea how to approach. I was scared, alone, and uncertain. The last state of being, most crucial. For uncertain, there was self doubt and with self doubt, followed complicated mixed signals.

I didn’t know what I wanted then. I have a better idea now, but seeing her again… it reminded me of wanting better. Not just for myself, but for everyone I care about. She’s included in that list whether she knows it or not, because however briefly we connected, we connected. That’s all that matters. Through the traverse of space and time, through the infinite combinations of algorithms, through wavelengths of energy, we connected and together we existed for however briefly it was.

“It’s complicated.” She says.

“It always is,” I say.

On those first cold winter nights, moving back home, her voice was a reminder that home wasn’t the prison I envisioned. That I was free to live and breathe outside the confines of my complex scenario, that I was free to love and free to touch the souls of others… hers was a soul corrupted for loving someone who hurts her.

Maybe not entirely, but enough, because there was and is pain. There is sadness. In her eyes, in her avoidance, she was not free, trapped in her complex scenario.

That was the kicker. That despite meeting so briefly and sharing the same wavelength, we were, for better or worst, from different worlds. She would go back to him, and I would continue on alone. Our paths diverge, and we trek endlessly in space. She found herself progressing to a bartender position, and I found myself there drinking alone.

“Another Jack Daniels on the rocks, please.” I barely speak, a mumble really. I need to project more.

“You’re bored?”

“Yeah…” and I mumble. It must have been inaudibly, because she didn’t respond.

Like daggers, I wish I can make her see. That it doesn’t have to be so complicated, but I know better. I’ve never really made thing exactly simple. Had I really an honest chance before? She was and still is in love with someone else. Someone I can never be, in her eyes, and in mine. That’s the other kicker, the one that makes you doubt your own ability to help others… to help yourself.

So I drink and wonder, how misguided Love makes drunks of us all?

A Journey of Music (Part 1 of 3)

(Names have been altered to maintain anonymity for the guilty)

Thursday night was filled with restlessness as I franticly pack for the week ahead.  Jason, a long friend, one of the oldest I know, had just cancelled on me.  He was on the fence whether he wanted to come with me on this road trip or not, and I made the executive decision. 

            “It’s just that I could be working, and I have exams on Monday.” 

            “Right, I’m not coming back till Tuesday.  There, I guess you’re not coming.” 

            Strange how when all those years I was living down in Orange County or when I moved to L.A., Jason never felt inclined to visit.  Now that Bethany is in Irvine all of a sudden he wants to go on a road trip.  Too bad he epically failed, which works out for me.  I work better on my own. 

           

*

 

            Friday morning, I dragged my feet out the door having checked the locks and double checked the stove to make sure everything was off.  I walked my mom’s little dog one last time hoping that I won’t be coming home to a shit filled house. 

The five hour trip was desolate scenically, but the landscape of my mind was brimming with colors and images of days long gone.  Initially, I had Social Intelligence on audio compact disc filling the morning silence.  Strange choice, but I was trying to learn new things daily, as oppose to disintegrating into complete ignorance.  It’s a strange feeling after college, that I can feel myself getting dumber.  Ironically, I’m sure I consumed much more alcohol in college as oppose to now.  

It followed with a few hours of rocking out to music; of notice were some Gwen Stefani tracks, the Orange County Girl herself.  As I entered the charted once vestal maiden lips of Los Angeles, now just a paid and laid asphalt entryway, the main California artery that is Interstate 5, “Californication” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers was playing. 

            Driving to Los Angeles from the Bay Area, you first enter The Valley.  Which is an L.A. term for the buffer that separates homo sapiens superior and homo sapiens.  Which is which and who belongs where remain matters of argument, but needless to say, the buffer exists.  The Valley invokes many memories of late night shenanigans.  At its center is Six Flags Theme Park, a giant reminder of the world I left behind, of a world I left with unexplored territory.  There were so many things left unsaid and so many things left undone. 

I instantly remember and regret never having said goodbye correctly to Mary-Joe.  Mary and Joe were two people equating to one couple, and everyone just got to calling them Mary-Joe for short.  They were cool in many ways and were the first ones to introduce me to this wayward territory.  They were Valley-folk in all its greatness and gravity, as real as people needed to be in the shadow of Hollywood.  They were built from “of the earth” people, as oppose to being built on a soundstage from dreams and the magic of light, smoke, and mirrors.  Yet even here, the Valley can’t escape completely and come out entirely clean. 

It is here you find the porn capital of the world, and it is here that coming is a matter of the bottom line.  You inevitably always lose a touch of innocence driving through the Valley.  I did a little bit that Friday driving down. 

            Out of the stereo speakers came “Perfect Situation” by Weezer.  They had performed a weekend earlier at San Jose State. I had missed it.  This song and two other songs capture the existence of Mary-Joe for me.  Their influence and how they’ve touched me is not limited or boiled down and extracted into these three songs.  It’s just that these three carry their essence to this day, and with luck, they probably always will.  The story goes, “Perfect Situation” played on the radio one night as Joe drove us back home to our apartment from some club out in Hollywood.  Mary was slightly drunk in the passenger seat, and I was slightly more so in the back seat.  We sang every line and wallowed every woe the whole way home. 

Another song was “Dani California”, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (almost anything by them reminds me of Mary-Joe really, but this song does so particularly).  Mary-Joe towards the end of our lease brought back to the apartment a dog they named Dani.  Dani was a black Labrador who was sick, and Mary-Joe nursed the poor creature back to good health.  They were really good at that. 

The last and most important song is Champagne Supernova, by Oasis.  I can still hear Mary’s raspy voice pouring out as Joe strummed his bass guitar.  We’d all have no doubt been drinking, and found ourselves in a circle singing again.  There was always an amazing high while we mostly likely butchered this beautiful song.  Even now, when I play the song, if I close my eyes, I can here them, Mary-Joe, raspy voice and all. 

Between the Valley and L.A., L.A. lays Sunset Boulevard.  I’m sure many people have thought of the irony as they sat there waiting for the 405 to move.  Driving that stretch of the 405 was driving home for two years.  It tugged at the heart strings as I exited Sunset at the cusp of the 405 traffic.  I was back in Westwood, and the first leg of my journey was complete or so I thought. 

 

*

 

            There’s a place in Westwood called HQ.  It’s changed location throughout the years, and consequently its nature has changed somewhat.  What happens is that several friends move in together, usually it takes two, but somehow it ends up being three or more.  We get a place, split rent, and live together.  This becomes headquarters or HQ for short.  Friends move in and out, locations and the names on the lease changes, but I know there will always be an HQ in Westwood or L.A. in one form or another.   That Friday, I knew there was a place in Westwood for me, I called anyway. 

            “Hey, Audrey. Yeah, I’m in town.  Are you around?”

            “I’m at the apartment.” 

            “Can I swing by?  I need a place to crash tonight.”

            “Yeah, of course.” 

            “Thanks, I’ll be by in a bit.”

            And so I came, and soon after we, Audrey, Kitty, and myself, found our way to Sawtelle Street.  Over old stomping grounds at Hurry Curry, we reconnected.  The songs elude me now, but at the time, they were the icing on our diner conversation.  Hurry Curry had some interesting beats. 

            Audrey and Kitty, like Mary-Joe hold special places in my heart too.  Before, Dani, before the collapse of HQ Prime, before the falling out of Mary and she who will not be named, I found myself thrown into a pit with several wayward souls.  Together we found our way out, but in the process, we fused an ever lasting bond.  Audrey and Kitty were two of these wayward souls that I welcomed into HQ.  I fed them as best I could, and saw to it that their respective vices were seen too.  They were younger but not in the way I was older but not.  We watched movies on projector and laughed ourselves to sleep. 

            There, before me, I see the changes in them.  The music has changed somewhat, and they’re now older.  Not the graying older, or the degradation of time older by any means.  It was older in the lost of innocence.  It was older in the lost of friends who moved on and those that are left behind.  I had seen it in myself, and now I saw it in them.  It pains me, but I couldn’t stop time and stop them from growing up.  Not that we were all grown up, talking about silly things there at Hurry Curry, just more so. 

 “Is it hot in here?  Or is it just my curry?” was a button that held the evening’s coat tail in place.  The music, the warm curry and chicken cutlet, the familiar faces and places, they compounded, and it was music.  It wasn’t completely the same songs from our yester years, though there were familiar repeats, there were some new songs for better or worst. 

            Back at HQ, we fell routinely into our respective spots on the lounge couch.  We idled in front of the television watching our favorite shows from behind our laptops.  I didn’t bring mine, because I wanted to be in the here and now to take in as much of it as I possibly could. 

It was like old times, and just like old times, just when I thought the evening was winding down, we head out for a drive. 

            Kitty had a birthday party to go to, so it was just me and Audrey.  What was supposed to be a simple car swap, drive up to Audrey’s parent’s place in Valencia to switch cars, wasn’t that simple. 

At Audrey’s parent’s house, I sat as a spectator observing and absorbing.  Her parents always amused me as I can see and have known Audrey for quite sometime.  I was observing the science and mystery of development, parents and there affects on children.  It’s like Mr. Smith said, “Parent’s, they just don’t understand.” 

I got to figuring as I inevitably do, that at one point, as a family and not just limited to Audrey’s, I’m sure all the members played in sync and in accord.  There must have been times when the music was harmonious, while at other time it must have been chaos.  There must have been down notes and up notes, and like an orchestra, they played onwards together.  Just watching a family interact, just on the surface, and just here and the now, it was strange to see that people are a residual bunch.  We cannot forget as we hold on to that last note. 

Audrey’s Dad’s dog, a variation of a basset, took to me kindly as Audrey paid her visit.  For some reason, the dog remembered me as the guy who would pet her if she insisted.  I’ve only been to Audrey’s parents place once or twice before.  Yet the dog insisted, and I obliged to make her happy.  I tickled behind her ears and rubbed her belly.  Some would say I’m a sucker for bitches, but in truth, I acquiesce to their needs simply because I know their sweet spots.  It makes me happy to make them happy if you will.  The rules still did not escape me, simply one: you don’t get between a man and his bitch.  So there I was rubbing down a bitch in the man’s own living room, no, that wasn’t awkward at all. 

            “Calvin, you want some Scotch?”

Triumphantly, I declined Jerry’s offer.  Audrey’s older brother Jerry was helping himself to some scotch.  After a long drive, and now as I was rubbing down a bitch, I could have definitely used a drink, but that would have been an easy out.  No.  Pounding scotch was not the answer.   I resolved to the situation I was in, trying not to decline too many hospitable offers, and all the while remaining stubbornly and nonchalantly oblivious to any awkwardness whatsoever.  Reminding myself that the wagon was definitely worth the trip, I stayed on it despite insecurities urging me onwards with the good times. 

            As Audrey pulled out of the garage leaving the scotch and the dog, the house and the family, and the whole exchange behind us, I felt relief in staying sober and relief in calling it a night.  But the evening wasn’t over, not by a long shot. 

In her old civic, Audrey turned on the CD player.

            “Let’s see what’s in here.”

            If there was a theme for Audrey, the track that came out of the stereo would be it.  During the many shenanigans that went down those Westwood nights, it was Audrey driving to this song.  We were welcomed fellow journeymen along her trip.  To “Knights of Cydonia” by the Muse, there, supposedly as I can neither confirm nor deny, were cars racing around UCLA campus playing Nerf gun hide and seek at midnight.  As the backdrop to many a late night Mickie-Dee’s runs or the Sunset Blvd cruises, it was this song.  Up and down the PCH it was Audrey’s drive that propelled us on this wavelength.  And so began a detour that propelled our night forward.  We ended up at a 24 hour Wal-Mart.  Ode to days long gone. 

            Now I understand the arguments against Wal-Mart, but admittedly I am grateful for such a well lit refuge for those insomniac nights.  This Friday night in question, had me digging through the $5.00 DVD bargain bins.  As if going to Wal-Mart to hunt for bargains wasn’t sad enough, knowing full well how it undercuts the competition in pricing, you’re also reminded of your station in life even further as you dig through unwanted or unsavory DVDs in these bins.  Like a kick to the mouth as you scurry about in the mud.  There are hidden jewels mind you, but they must be earned.  Like making a monkey dance and squeek to earn a treat, we dug and dug bin after bin.  It was late night, and like the freaks we were, Audrey and myself dug half attempting to organize these miscellaneous discounted DVDs.  Organize, had we actually done so, we would have been there still.  With Wal-Mart, there carries a heavy buyers guilt, and because of one Alfred Hitchcock, I was able to assuage away some of it.  Still the fact remains, I was slopping around in the mud, and Wal-Mart kicked my teeth in, thanks. 

            Before returning to Westwood, we stopped by Receda in the Valley to see Mark.  I had found out about his accident along the 405 and wanted to pay him a visit.  It was the least I could do.  The story goes, as he drove home one late night on the 405, somewhere near the Ghetty exit, he lost control as his car flew off the highway and onto an adjacent street, one Sepulveda.  There was a sign he bulldozed, a hill he tumbled down and somehow his car still managed to land right side up on the street below.  Amazingly, he got out of the car and walked away as it caught fire and went up in flames.  In my mind, it was like a Hollywood movie, with loud explosions and all.  Lost in the fire was a new iPhone, various personal electronic devices, laptop and such, and what hurt the most was a notebook filled with music Mark and written since junior high.  He survived, and that was the important part.  I imagined a part of him must have died that night, but rather that than too lose all of Mark. 

When Mark and Audrey hang out, inevitably Bob Marley plays in the background.  That night in Receda, in the car with windows rolled up, I heard “Buffalo Soldier.”  I’m happy to say that I resisted the urge to partake in the exchange between Mark and Audrey, but in a car with windows rolled up, you end up secondhandedly absorbing the positive vibrations friends radiate  as they celebrate those special “escaping a near death life experience occasions”.  

Afterwards, in Mark’s room, he played for us some sounds he was working on.  As a musician, artist, and producer, Mark had a sweet set-up.  Guitar cases laid on the floor and leaned against the wall.  Sound dampeners lined the walls.  His rig had two monitors, some switch board, cross fading equipment, and cool software to produce his sounds.  He sampled a song for our listening pleasure.  Though it didn’t have a title as far as I knew, the beat and sound was inspiring.  It was the song that followed.  When everything goes up in flames, keep working and write another song.  You can only live in the moment; let that be a life lesson. 

As we chilled, Mark answered his ringing cell, a quick replacement flip phone.  The night wasn’t going to end just yet.  How would we feel about going on a car trip to K-Town?

“I’m cool.  I got nothing to do.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen you in awhile, let’s hang out some more.”

So we drove to K-Town.  That’s Korean Town in the heart of Los Angeles to the non-natives.  Here, you will find non-English signs, gobbledygook to some, but hidden treasure to others.  You’re in another world inside the L.A. microverse.  For several blocks, only street signs will help you find your destination, unless you happen to read, write or speak Korean, you’re shit out of luck.  It so happened, Mark was one such Korean.  Natives managed to find their way navigating such streets after several trial and errors.  Somewhere between a native and a non-native, I was once again grateful that Mark was there.  

We had to go K-Town to pick up Mark’s girlfriend, Sofia.  She was at a bar, club, lounge or some combination there of when we picked her up.  She was booking, a term use for having a host that escorted your party from venue to venue.  She was also highly buzzed.  It was another car swap, as I drove Mark’s rental (his blew up) to a drop point, and he drove Sofia’s car to pick us up.  In the backseat again, I watched Sofia describe her evening.  Her larger than life mannerism struck my humor bone as Audrey and I sat in the backseat enjoying Sofia’s description of why Brittney Spear’s “Womanizer” was a good song.  Sofia continued to share her thoughts regarding our next destination, Mickie-Dee’s.  There was the Monopoly event taking place, and being Asian she no doubt had to play and not only play, she had to play to win.  This was Mickie-Dee’s Monopoly, and this was serious.  If you’re Asian, you understand the nature of gambling.  I laughed at the humor and truth of her statements.  There was a big smile on my face as Mark drove and Sofia told us what was on her mind.  We left behind Hollywood and the 101 in the rear window and found a disappointingly closed Mickie-Dee’s in Receda. 

“That’s no bueno Baby.  You need to make up for it tomorrow.  You have to eat Mickie-Dee’s for breakfast.  We need to eat Mi-ckie-Dee’s as much as possible.  Oh my god, I’ve eaten Mickie-Dee’s so much already this week.  I feel so gordo.” 

We ended up at a taco joint, Del something, and Audrey ordered a coke.  She spilled it on herself, and capped the evening with another lesson.  Sometimes the lid is not secure, and shit spills on you.  Wipe yourself up, put a cap on it, and go home.  When we reached Mark’s place, Audrey and I said our goodbyes.  It was back to Westwood, and it was finally an end to the evening.  In one night, I relived many an L.A. adventures.  “Knights of Cydonia” played again as the curtains came down on part one of my weekend adventure.