Saturdays with Sergio

A Reflection on Remembrance

2011-09-11T23:33:00.000-07:00

What is remembrance without reflection? And what is reflection without honesty?

Today was a day to remember, but what are we remembering? I am asked to mourn the victims of 9/11, and I do, but what about the victims of 9/13, 9/14, 9/15…and onward. What about the thousands upon thousands of innocents killed as they slept in their homes in the deserts of Iraq or the mountains of Afghanistan? Do we remember them?

And how do we remember? Do we remember that crazy men flew planes into buildings belonging to a peaceful country? Is that what we remember? Do you have the courage to ask yourself this question: What could possibly drive you to fly a plane into a building? Answer honestly. What could possibly drive you to blow yourself up on a roadside to kill a few people?

We are taught that there are people who are simply evil in the world, and that helps us sleep at night. If there are just evil crazy people, then we do not have to actually consider why they act the way that they do, because the answer is self-evident: they are evil and they are crazy. This is a myth that has been employed by governments and militaries throughout all of history to gather armies and drive them into battle against their enemies.

The fact, however, is that people are not just crazy and evil…people are people, and their actions are responses to other actions and events.

Those who choose to see 9/11 as an unprovoked attack have chosen to be ignorant of all the history that led up to that day. Ignorance is always a choice, and it is a choice that stands in direct opposition to honesty and truth.

If my government was overthrown by a foreign military, if my people were bombed and my family killed by strange soldiers from strange lands, if my country was forced into poverty by multinational corporations backed by mercenaries…I may well consider sacrificing my life for some idea of freedom from those people, no matter how insane that sacrifice may seem. I mourn the loss of life and the negation of basic rights to people all over the world. Do I mourn the loss of American lives more than those of Iraq? Absolutely not. Life is life, and to kill one person, as is said in the Quran, “Is to kill all of humanity.” I mourn and I lament the oppression of people throughout history, and I acknowledge that oppression across all social, cultural, class, and racial lines.

Do I support the attacks of 9/11? Obviously not, but I do understand them. Besides, I do not see the attacks of 9/11 as attacks on America, I see them as attacks by the poor and oppressed against those who are seen as their oppressors. I see them as acts of desperation, not insanity. Osama Bin Laden was far from poor, but his everyday soldiers and martyrs were always, and will always be, like the everyday soldiers and martyrs in most places in the world—the poor and oppressed. Since 1945, American and European based corporations, backed by the U.S. military, have gone unchecked throughout the world, sacking governments and basically enslaving people to create markets, and provide cheap sources of labor and natural resources to feed the ever expanding consumer demands here in the U.S. This is not a conspiracy theory, this is fact. The U.S., in this way, is no different from any empire throughout history. We are no worse (though perhaps more efficient in our conquest), but we should leave our notions of innocence and righteousness at the door.

These are the things I remember, these are the things I think of, and if we do not change ourselves, if we do not reflect honestly, there will be more dates to “remember” and the corpses will continue to pile from the suburban streets of Clovis, CA to the deep jungles of the Congo, to the rugged mountains of Central Asia.

If this sounds angry, it is not. If this sounds crazy, it is not. If this sounds desperate, it is. This is a desperate plea from someone who deeply loves humanity and is tired of watching humans continue telling the same lies, dying for the same “causes”, over and over again. This is a desperate call to courage and truth.

Peace and Love. Salaam Waleykum.

Home Comings

2011-08-10T21:43:00.001-07:00

8 years ago, a woman by the name of Katie Zanto created an alternative education program called Adventure, Risk, Challenge, or ARC. The program is a summer course that takes ten 9th/10th graders, who are classified as ELL into the woods for 40 days. During their time in the course, the students go on four separate expeditions into the wilderness. The first expedition is 8 days straight, and the last expedition is completely led and organized by the students. During their expeditions students are taught science, topography, cartography, leadership, wilderness survival, as well as intrapersonal skills. In between expeditions, students spend their days at base camp working on improving their reading and writing skills, as well as bettering their communication skills in order to live more effectively and peacefully in community.

About 2 weeks ago, as night was setting on Truckee, California, you could find me making my way down to the river banks to try to find a place to pitch my tent for the night. Just as I was pulling my tent from my pack, my phone rang. “Hey buddy, where you at?” It was my buddy Joe. For the last leg of my recent trip I decided to go up to visit Joe at his field site (he studies the social behavior of slave-making ants), which just so happens to be the same site used by ARC. 45 minutes after he called, he came and picked me up in front of the nearby 7/11, where I had already been labeled the new neighborhood homeless man. (For real. I had to turn down change from a guy walking into the market. Stop laughing.)

“You know, ARC is still going on. You should talk to some of the people there. I think they get back from their last expedition tomorrow or the day after.” 3 years ago, when I had first arrived back from my long trip in Africa, Joe had told me about ARC and had encouraged me to apply. Unfortunately, the director, Jen, told me that while I seemed a great fit for the program, I lacked a certain wilderness certificate to meet criteria. Unfortunately, at the time, I also lacked the money to pay for the course to receive it.

2 days after arriving at Sagehen Creek with Joe, I woke up to the sound of kids running around and shouting back and forth outside my cabin. After having my breakfast I walked out on the deck of the large cabin, and tapped on the shoulder of the nearest counselor. “Excuse me, do you know Jen by any chance?” The counselor turned her head, her brown hair whipping over her shoulder, a crooked grin on her face, and said, “I’m Jen.”

For the last 6 days of this summer’s ARC program, I had the opportunity to work side by side with 10 amazing students and 5 incredible educators. Though my efforts were tiny in comparison to the counselors working for the full 40 days, I got the chance to coach Minnie, Emily, Angela, Aldana, Jaira, Oscar, Brandon, Zach, Gerardo, and Jose through writing very personal works, and then performing those before the local community. More than that, I got a chance to listen to them as they shared their stories with me over meals, during free time, and while we worked; stories of separation, stories of mourning, stories of immigration, stories of loss, stories of alienation in a culture and a world that doesn’t seem to accept them for what they are—stories of perseverance. I welled with pride as they recited their poems in front of 50 community members on Tuesday night; as they taught science lessons to local elementary school children on Thursday; and as they read their “transformational essays” in front of their families this Saturday morning. Their words, so much more confident than when they arrived 40 days prior (according to the other counselors), tried to do what words have always tried to do: explain, connect, convey. “I was….now I am,” said Aldana.

For 40 days those 10 kids got a chance to be away from all the confines, material and otherwise, of their everyday lives. For 40 days, they were given the safety and security to be themselves fully, to explore themselves, to face themselves, to love themselves—to grow, and to learn. In getting a chance to step outside of their realities for a moment, they got to glimpse into one of the great truths that many people are never lucky enough, brave enough, or supported enough to see—they got a chance to see that they are truly valuable. They gained the confidence that we should hope for any of our youth. This is real education.

At the end of the closing lunch, I gave the kids hugs, and wished them well. I watched them as they reintegrated with their families, and while I saw the love between them, I also saw the awkwardness in their interactions. I heard them try to explain stories to their families, and I watched some of the families return blank stares, feigned nods of understanding, and the looks of confusion at inside jokes. I watched frustration start to creep on the faces of the students, for no matter the great strides they’d made in language they were learning another great truth: sometimes words will never be enough.

It has been 5 days now, and for as life-changing as their experience was, it is likely that many of them are struggling with applying much of what they learned to their lives at home. Home comings have a tendency to be like that after great journeys; for all that you learned out there, while beautiful and right, the world is a complex place made of complex beings that don’t work perfectly, and nothing ever fits just right. We all have truths and beliefs, and often times those conflict, so our solutions, though logical and plausible in our minds, are not so in the minds of everyone else. In its nature, the world then presents us with three choices: 1) Embrace the way the world is 2) Reject the world for what it is 3) Accept that the world is one way, but never forget that nothing is absolute, and human beings have the power to recreate and renew. There is always hope, and we are always free if we choose to be.

On the road, things are always so much clearer, but here I am on the porch swing in my mother’s front yard, and a haze is setting in. 3 nights ago I was sleeping out in a random field at the base of the Sierras, and all I could think about was the cold and the adventure of it all, but today I’m thinking about jobs, about money, about debt, about car insurance, of all things. In the end, I’m left with the realization that anyone who wants to have a shred of happiness must come to: there are no easy answers, no final solutions, no perfect plans; there is only life and the compromises that we must come to if we choose to live our lives together. Life with others requires patience.

Does this make the journeying meaningless? Does this make all the great lessons learned along the way worthless? No, because without those moments of reflection and clarity we might lose sight of our dreams and hopes, caught in the mire of the everyday struggles. “Ideals are like stars…we may never reach them, but they can guide us,” my priest once said in a homily. Our ideals, our dreams, our hopes, though often unrealistic, give us a sense of what matters and of who we are, allowing us to rethink those things that seem so set.

Perhaps it is in the moments of retreat and in the irrationality of our imaginings that our better selves connect.

on the banks

2011-08-04T00:07:00.000-07:00

I have no plan here. I am just writing, and maybe you’ll gain something from it. Maybe, like a man in the late evening hours troubled by restless thoughts and questions going out for a walk, I’ll tire myself with the wandering and find peace in the curving of the crescent moon…and then soundly sleep. I really don’t know.

It’s exhausting sometimes. “What’s exhausting?” you ask. You know quite well what I’m referring to; you have found yourself worn down by it many times throughout your life, though now you drink wine and eat pleasant meals with friends, and you laugh so much that you cannot remember the feeling of heavy strained eyes staring into everything you once knew and seeing nothing but grains of sand and crashing tides.

In the womb I swam happily about, but then one day I was born into a world that was full of big loud things. The womb was far away. The womb is far away. My eyes developed slowly, my ears and hands as well. I let the womb go, and found that there was much to explore in the world. I crawled around the small living room floor, and when I bumped my head on a table leg I cried until my mother picked me up and rubbed me on the back.

On another day I stood up and started walking. I don’t know why that day was different from others, nor do I know quite how I did it, but I did it, and there I was walking around the living room, then the bathroom, then the kitchen, then the porch, and 12 years later I found myself holding hands with a girl I liked, walking into the woods for my first kiss. The stars were bright that night, the pine trees fragrant, the river rushing. I let go of my house and the small things in it.

But not without heartache.

A man I know built a small cottage on the east side of a little known creek deep in the Himalayas. He spends his winters by the fireside, eating jerky and reading books on agriculture and spirituality…always alternating between the two. When spring comes, a wild garden grows on the back side of the house, with little cultivation on his part. On most afternoons he fishes or walks to the houses of his distant neighbors to eat or go on small hunting trips. He has written me for years, and always in his letters is an underlying peace that I must admit I long for.

On restless nights like tonight, I imagine him there in his cottage sitting quietly and alone, with nothing but the cracking of the knots in the burning wood, and the muffled hush of the creek outside. I love this image, even if imagining it leaves a slight tinge of envy in the recesses of my mind, but I wonder if the image is true. Is peace like that true? In my wondering about this acquaintance of mine, I wonder further if he will ever cross the creek by which he lives and dare to venture past the great river he has written about, 50 miles to the east. By all accounts, the river is nearly impossible to forge, and beyond its banks are a collection of remote villages and people with customs and beliefs completely unique to that part of the world.

When does peace become comfort, and comfort slip into sloth? How long can a man hear a river incessantly calling and not decide to go to it? And can he cross that river and meet those people and not be changed, in turn feeling the pain that comes with it? Is peace possible without moments of war? Is growth?

Sitting on the banks, I sit and listen.

Why I do this

2011-07-19T09:42:00.000-07:00

It took me 2 days to climb Mt. Whitney. Looking at the map I thought, “Oh, I can do these 22 miles in a day.” 4 ½ hours later, when I arrived at Trail Camp, 12,000 feet up, and only 6 miles into the hike, my knees were shaky, my heart was beating out of my chest, my eyes were swirly, and my breath was short. Unable to move any further, I set my pack down and slowly set my tent up for the night.

Though it was only 5:30 in the afternoon when I arrived at the camp, the sun was already blocked out by the mountains encircling Trail Camp, which sits in a bowl-like valley. On almost all sides, nearly vertical sheets of rock and snow stretch up 2,000 feet from the valley floor to the surrounding craggy peaks of Mt. Irvine to the South, Mt. Muir to the West, Keeler Needle to the Northwest, Pinnacle Ridge to the North, and Wotans Throne to the East. Whitney itself is hidden behind Pinnacle Ridge. There are 2 small lakes in the valley in which Trail Camp is located, both of which were nearly completely frozen over. Just south and north from camp about a ½ mile in either direction, are larger lakes, Consultation and Iceberg, both of which are still frozen through. Due to the elevation and the cold there is nearly no vegetation, giving the valley a Martian or moon-like appearance. There, among the lakes and the growing dusk, I set up camp with 5 or 6 other small groups.

When my mom dropped me off in Mojave early in the morning on Tuesday, I had no real intention of climbing Whitney. It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s just that when I had looked it up the day prior, it seemed that it would be nearly impossible to obtain a hiking permit. When the ranger at Lone Pine station said, “Yeah, we have a bunch of permits open,” I was surprised, but nearly as much as when I showed up at Whitney Portal, where the trail begins. Dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and water shoes, I laughed as I looked around and saw men and women in specialized pants, jackets, boots and packs, with ice shoe cramp-ons and ice axes in tow. “So you going on a day hike?” a man in a group asked me. “No, I’m going to the top.” The group looked at me in unison perplexed by my reply, “In those?!” they asked, referring to my water shoes. “They’re all I’ve got,” I answered.

On the first day the snow wasn’t too bad, and through both days, there turned out to only be about 3 or 4 relatively intimidating snow crossings. Each of those 4 stretched nearly a football field in length which wasn’t a big deal, except for the fact that if your foot was to slip the slightest bit you were looking at a 600 – 1,000 foot slide down an ice sheet into huge boulders at the bottom. No, the snow wasn’t bad, it was the altitude sickness that was the hardest to overcome.
After sluggishly setting up my camp, I changed into warmer clothes, forced myself to eat some canned tuna and trail mix, took a couple Excedrin tablets that a woman was kind enough to give me, and retreated into my tent. My head was really shaky, and it was hard to hold a thought. As tired as I was, my eyes kept fluttering, and my heart rate was still above normal, which made me anxious. I could feel my heart beat in my throat and shoulders. I had the momentary thought that I might die, but that’s just because I’m dramatic. Somehow I slipped into a shallow sleep, and an hour later I woke up much calmer and aware of my surroundings.

Outside the tent, the last bit of light was still lingering in the sky. I stepped out to take a breath and stretch my legs. An 18 year old Vietnamese boy named Brandon, there on a trip with his older family friends, was out taking pictures. I asked him if he’d like to walk with me around the bend to see if we could spot Whitney’s peak.

For the next hour and a half we sat together on a collection of rocks talking about many things. Mostly I listened to him tell me about his current struggles and questions concerning love, manhood, and his life path. We laughed as we talked about how amazing it was that when your body is so beat, a simple energy bar sounds like the greatest meal you could ever have. “I’ve never done anything this hard before,” he told me. “I really like it, but it’s so hard. I didn’t think I’d make it.” The night had set, and the moon reflected off the lakes, the rocks, and the snow creating a soft glow that sat like mist above our heads and the valley floor. The air was stiller than I’ve ever known air to be. There were no critters and no leaves or plants to rustle in any breeze. The only sound was silence, interrupted intermittently by the cracking of ice on the hills and lakes. The earth felt bare, and still my senses were fuller than almost any time I’ve ever known.

People often ask why I travel the way that I do. Part of it is financial, but that is the smallest part. I hitch, I hike, I camp, and try to live on very little because in doing so I am stripped down to my core. I suppose this is a type of escape, though unlike most escapes, the intention is not to flee from reality, but rather to delve deeper into it. Our lives are filled with so many things, so many distractions, that our finer senses are numbed, and we become detached from all the things that matter most. In denying the body for as while we can grow closer with the Spirit, which is what I believe we are in the end anyways. We come closer to the essence of ourselves, both in our interactions with nature and in our interactions with others. This is a sort of fast, and I believe it to be the reason all religions call for a period of fasting: in depleting and depriving the material self, the spiritual self can grow.

In the past 6 days, I have been given rides by 9 different cars, and have shared some very real and important conversations with at least another 10 people. In 6 days I have connected on a very deep level with 20 – 30 people, and in that connection we have shared a bit of our lives together. Somehow my adventure has become their’s, and their lives mine. Meeting people in such humbled circumstances creates a vulnerability which allows for a deeper honesty than is usually possible on such short encounters. The usual walls that are thrown up in our everyday routines for the sake of stability and security, are stripped down, and there we are standing face-to-face, fully present. In such ways, the soul is refreshed.

Still, personally, I know that an entire life in the barren wilderness is not for me.
I must live among the living things. For now I trek…

The State of Hawaii

2011-07-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

One thing struck me from the moment I got off the plane in Hawaii: “WHERE THE HELL ARE THE HULA GIRLS WITH MY LEI?!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I figured starting light was probably best for this entry. Truthfully, the first thing that struck me was a simple and incredibly obvious thought: “This is a different country.” I’ve been to my fair share of foreign countries and Hawaii was no different: poor indigenous class, wealthy foreign class, large tourism sector, heavily marketed “local” culture.

Hawaii is not a part of the United States, and the fact that we call it so is honestly an abomination.

Did you know that Hawaii is the most remote populated archipelago (group of islands) in the entire world? This means that it is the most distant place, really, in the world from anything and anyone. How is that a part of our country? 3,000 miles in the middle of the ocean, and that is a part of America? That doesn’t make sense. To be honest, staring at a map it hasn’t made sense for a long time, but being there called it all to present mind.

Did you know that Hawaii imports 90 – 95% of its food? It has some of the most fertile ground in the world, yet it does not grow its own food. Why? Because the natives are too stupid? Because the natives are too lazy? Because they don’t have a good education? Because the natives rightfully signed away all rights to their own land to the landowners? None of the above. Because wealthy people came and pushed them off their land to grow pineapple and sugar for a global economy. The landowners grow rich, the indigenous people struggle. This is our country? Maybe it is.

The fact of the matter is the United States was faced with a dilemma in the 1950s: it needed Hawaii for its strategic location (it’s a crucial stopping point for all cargo going West to Asia across the Pacific), but it didn’t want to have a “colony” because all the colonies around the world were in revolt. How do we solve this? Let’s make it a state!!! So in 1959, as Cuba, Vietnam, Algeria, etc., were in revolt, Hawaii was busy becoming a “state”. But what makes it a state? The fact that it has McDonald’s everywhere? The fact that it has a Wal-Mart and Costco? Explain to me, what makes it America?

And really, this begs the bigger question: what makes America, America? I’ve been lucky enough to travel this country more than most people. I’ve been to 49 of the 50 states. I’ve slept in, ate in, stayed in every single one of those 49. I’ve driven across the country 7 times and each time I was left with this general feeling: “I love America. It’s amazing how it can be so different, yet still so unified.” That observation, I have come to realize, is a farce.

America is not united. The unification and the “oneness” that I felt with all the different regions had nothing to do with “America” and had much more to do with the commonality and general unity that exists within the human race. As I drove around America I marveled at the fact that we were all so different, yet that we were still a part of this one country. The fact is, however, that we ARE all so different, but our unity is not in our country, but rather in the fact that we are all human beings.

What makes America, America? What makes a nation a nation? How can a government 3,000 miles away from me, represent me and provide for me? How is that logical? Why should that be the goal? How am I a part of America? Am I truly an American, and what does that mean?

These are the questions we must ask ourselves. What is the nation-state? I believe it to be an illusion, but what do you think? We can only manage so many relationships in our lives, so how can we believe that a government governing hundreds of millions of lives can govern honestly and effectively? And if it can’t, what are the answers? Where do we go from here? Is the development of the nation-state, the way that it exists, real progress? I live in a community and I don’t believe that Washington can represent us, so why shouldn’t we have our own government? Why is bigger better, and if bigger is better, then at what point do we stop?

Hawaii is more than palm trees and Waikiki. Hawaii is a microcosm for some of the world’s most important questions.

The Word of the Lord

2011-06-28T16:10:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time the idea really dawned on me. I was lied up in a hole of a room in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. “Hole of a room” isn’t descriptive enough. The room had a springy mattress full of mites, covered with a dingy floral patterned comforter. I slept in my sleeping bag. The walls were bare, stained yellow and brown from water leaks, and the pain was chipping onto the creaky floor boards through which I often heard mice scurrying. Outside the solitary window in the door leading out to the back lot, the sky remained grey for the full week I was there, and I’m sure this played into much of the gloom I felt in those days.

In those days I did a lot of peering, outside and inside. Under those dingy covers I flipped pages of a book that to me seemed to be much more than a book. I followed the Brothers Karamazov from the depths of sin to the heights of sanctity in pursuit of Truth and Redemption…in pursuit of God. I wept with them, I laughed with them, I learned from them and with them.

The day before I packed up and headed to northern Ethiopia, where they say the Arc of the Covenant lays hidden in the small town of Axum, I finished my journey with the Brothers and their illustrious storyteller, Dostoevsky. Upon finishing the last page I closed the book and whispered, “The Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.”

In mass on Sundays there are 3 readings from the Bible. Exempting Easter Season, those three readings are broken down as such: 1) An Old Testament reading 2) A new Testament reading 3) A Gospel Reading. Upon finishing the first two readings, the lector says, “the Word of the Lord,” to which the congregation responds, “Thanks be to God.”

Now some, my mother included, may call me a blasphemer for suggesting that The Brothers Karamazov, a story told by a womanizing drunkard, who by all accounts was brash, anti-social and repulsive by most standards, is equivalent to readings from the Bible. Fortunately for me, I do not fear being called a blasphemer, though true blasphemy is something I should hope to avoid.

In reading The Brothers Karamazov I came to really question what the “Word of the Lord” really was, and in questioning that, I was also forced to question what “The Lord” was. So what is the Lord?

I will not attempt to define God here, because to do so might truly be blasphemy, and because I would be lying to say that I know what God is, when in fact, I have but the slightest inkling as to what God is, and I’m sure something may come to sweep my inkling away.

What I do know is this: The journey towards Truths is a journey towards God, and the Word of the Lord must be something that carries me towards that Truth. So what is Truth? Or, better asked, how do I know if something is leading me towards the Truth?

The Truth is out there, everywhere, around us, and within us, but we don’t see it….why? We don’t see it because it is veiled, by who? by all of us, by our insecurities and our fears. In this context, I believe that the Word of the Lord must be anything that helps to unveil Truth, and so to limit that power to the Bible would be folly and in my opinion blasphemous for it goes to ignore all the other channels through which divinity is constantly speaking to us. Indeed it goes to ignore the fact that we all have the Word of the Lord and the capability to speak It within us.

These are threatening ideas to some, but I believe they can be liberating ideas for all. They are ideas that I have seen further echoed this year as I’ve studied Education, and on which I hope to expound in the coming months.

Today I finished quite possibly the most challenging book I’ve ever read—Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. Upon finishing the book, I felt much the same way I felt 4 years ago in Ethiopia. I closed it, and set it on my floor, ironically, next to my Bible.

“Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth.”—page. 359 Walden, Henry David Thoreau

A Messy Room

2010-09-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

A messy room.

Pants and shoes litter the floor; a few glasses have made their way up, but never back down to the kitchen sink again; papers are strewn about; the sheets are bunched and tossed across the bed. You have to clean this. You know you have to clean this. You even want to clean this, but the question rattles around in your head: “Where the fuck do I start?!”

It’s been a month or so since my last blog. I wish I were more consistent; not for you, but for me. It’s good for me to write. Sometimes I wonder if I was the only one left on the planet, if I’d still write. I think I would. Writing for me is a form of prayer. (this is a tangent) We pray, we meditate, to commune with God, with the Unknown of all that surrounds us, with all that swells within us. We pray to both know God better, and to come to know ourselves better. Watching my words march out onto paper, even the typos, the mistakes, the outlandish things, helps me focus, helps me concentrate, helps me slow myself a little. When things are slower it is easier to examine.

So why haven’t I written? It’s not for lack of thoughts or experiences. My mind doesn’t shut up, and my legs don’t stop moving much. My life keeps on living. So why haven’t I written? The truth is, I’ve had too much to write. I have really good ideas for a fiction book, for a blog on love, for a blog on rejection, for a blog on life choices, for a blog on career paths, for a blog on…you name it, not to mention an ending for my book. SO MANY IDEAS and thoughts, and not a completed work to show.

Paralysis.

Where do you start? You start with a sock. That one sock, which somehow managed to drape itself on the night stand, next to that now empty glass of water that quenched your thirst in the middle of the night. You pick up that sock, and you put it in the hamper. And you move on to the next one. There is no other way.

For an instant, I think we like to really imagine what it would be like to be able to snap our fingers and have the whole thing done. When that instant passes, reality sets in, and with it the dual realizations of how severely limited we are and of how much work is required of us. Frustration. Life is full of work. Full of mother f$%*@$ work. Sometimes, we revert to child like states, and we pout and scream and yell in protest, in anger, in defiance against God and life and whatever else; other times we just stand there completely immobile and nothing gets done. Both are equally destructive in the end.

And so the only thing to do is start. Starting this blog, I wanted to go back and write others, but I decided to just write this one, to put it out, to finish it. It may not be the best, but it is something, and it’s a good step towards other good steps.

How can one describe the sea? The whole sea? It’s too much. But focus on a ripple, on a tiny swell, how it grows and recedes, grows and recedes, ebbing and flowing, and maybe you can describe that, and in that description come to know the sea a bit better.

We will not accomplish everything. We will not see all there is to see in the world. We will die someday, and some things may be left undone. But, while we’re here, we can do what we can do, sock by sock, blog by blog, goal by goal, ripple by ripple, and avoid being swallowed in the sea.

Further Thoughts on Friendship (Revised)

2010-08-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

I think it is of utmost importance to understand the nature of your relationship with someone, and what you gain from them, and in turn, to be aware of how they see the friendship. (Yes, I believe you should gain something from all your friendships, whether it be insight, support, love, challenge, mental stimulation, inspiration, kindness, generosity…whatever.) We live in a society of extreme transience, and perhaps precisely because of that, we are overly obsessed with finding things that last forever. Best Friends Forever. But not all friends are going to be “best” friends, and not all friends will be “forever.” Those are impossibilities, and I think we waste an extraordinary amount of energy being disappointed by this fact. There is only one thing eternal in this world, and we are all a part of it, but singularly, we are not it. If we put all our faith in the momentary things, we will always find disappointment, but if we focus on that which does not end, then we can give and receive from an inexhaustible store. When one thing ends, something else begins.

I love my friends. I am grateful and lucky to have them in my life. Some I talk to once a week, some I see every day, some I talk to once a year, some I haven’t seen or spoken to in years. Many I may never see again. Some I tell jokes with, some I talk politics with, some I go camping with, some I have a history with, some I call when I’m depressed, some I call when I’m happy, some I play cards with, and some I can do nothing with, pleased simply with their company. Some know my darkest secrets, and understand me in ways deeper than I sometimes understand myself. I have not chosen the connections I have with these people, nor have I really consciously chosen the friends that I have. Circumstances and life have brought us together, and circumstances and life may take us apart. But every single one has been a touch point of God’s grace in my life.

BFFFFFFFFS!!!!!!

2010-08-24T00:53:00.000-07:00

You call, they never answer.
You leave voicemails, they never call back.
“Sorry, oh my gosh, I’ve been so busy…HOW ARE YOU?!!!!”
They write on other people’s Facebook walls, but never yours. And they’ve got tons of pictures up from a party they were at last night. “Yo, why didn’t you invite me to that party? Haha,” you try to laugh it off, “I would’ve loved to come.” “Oh, sorry, I didn’t even think of it, my bad. Next time for sure!”
You stare at your phone, and it never seems to ring.

You’re on the outside, and you don’t know why.

In your hovel of a room, the winter air freezing you beneath dirty sheets, you feel alone. It’s a bad feeling. 550 friends, and not one person to hang out with on a Friday night.

By the click of a button you can enter into a 5 year “friendship” with someone you meet one drunken night. There’s something cheap in that. Confirm or Ignore? That’s the question. It’d probably be better to ignore, but then we think that somehow that momentary ignoring, will be worse than years of false friendship and caring. What a funny world. And once we’ve confirmed, oh heavens! To delete a friend would just seem horrendous. We have puffed up self-images.

Have you ever felt rejected? Have you ever felt abandoned, even by people you’ve loved very dearly? I have. And, though it’s hard to admit it, I am sure that people have felt rejected or abandoned by me, no matter how hard I’ve tried to be as good a friend as possible.

All things are passing. I believe that if you can understand and accept that, you are far ahead of the vast majority of humanity in finding peace and contentment. Everything has a time. Being that I am religious, I believe that everything has an appointed time, and I try my best to be aware of that always. Things come, and things go; people come and people go, just as you come and you go in and out of the lives of people you encounter along the way. People die. People move away. People grow apart. Someone leaves, and someone is left, and in the leaving there is a loss. And in the loss there is a sadness, a time of mourning, a slight depression; and all of this is natural. But do not let sadness turn to anger and embitterment; it profits you nothing and weighs down your soul.

A man saw a woman, and she mesmerized him. “I must have her,” he thought. He approached her, and with wit and charm he had her. And she was beautiful. Her thick black hair, curled in wild waves down her shoulders to cover her breasts. “I cannot let others see her,” he soon realized, in a fit of jealousy. With manipulation he kept her for himself behind drawn curtains, and tightly sealed doors; she lived in shadows until she became a shadow, her beauty lost to greed and lust. Beauty dies a tragic death when it is caged.

I know it’s hard to realize when a chapter has closed, when a friendship has changed, when things just don’t work out, but dwelling on them will never get you anywhere. If a friend wrongs you, tell them. If they respond with kindness, make amends. If they respond with anger, hear them out. If they do not respond at all, there is nothing to do, but continue on.

Let fond memories and lessons learned make light your steps. Enjoy today for what it is.

Thanks Giving

2010-08-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

Not the holiday, the act. Thanks giving. I went to confession today with my priest. I didn’t even realize I was going to confess. We were just sitting around talking, and then there I was, confessing and feeling much better for it. My penance? Give a thousand dollars to charity. No, I’m joking. 100 hail mary’s. No, again I’m joking…penances don’t really work that way anymore, at least not in my experience. “Sergio, I want you to offer up the Eucharist in thanks giving.” I thought that was a very fitting penance, considering that I woke up feeling quite blessed.

29 years. Look at me go! Pretty soon I’ll be 80, and I won’t have the mind to write…but fret not, I’ll still have this pretty face, just deeper grooves I suppose. 29 years and I’m on a mountain top. At least that’s how it feels. It’s been a great day, and I haven’t even done all that much.

I spent the last month, traveling with family and friends up in Northern California. I saw a lot of old friends, friends I hadn’t seen in years, and I got to spend a really great amount of time with my family. It has been 4 years since my mom, my sister and I did a big camping trip like this, and with the way life goes, who knows when we’ll do it again. I used to get bothered and nervous by the uncertainty of life. I’d spend all my time worrying about future times, instead of just enjoying the time at hand. I can’t say I never do that anymore, but I’m getting better.

Before leaving on the trip, I thought, “Great! I’ll get some writing done.” I think I wrote all of one page at best. Sometimes things don’t go the way you want them to, and you can either huff and puff and blow houses down leaving poor little piggies homeless, or you can knock on new doors until someone opens up and invites you in for tea and biscuits. In fact, I haven’t written much at all over the last 4 months, but I’ve just chalked it up to living a lot. Maybe that’s a copout, but it’s a copout that has brought me quite a bit of peace so I’ll keep it in my pocket.

I am lucky. Every single one of us is. When I was younger I used to look down my nose at others my age that had not traveled as I had, or had not gone to university. Many of my peers, kids I grew up with, had had children young, had married foolishly, had been imprisoned, had made stupid decisions. I would think myself better than they, and shake my head at the decisions they’d made. “They chose the life they’re living,” I’d say to myself, so proud of the life I’d chosen. I was a prick.

The fact is, I’ve made tons of horrible decisions in my life. I took risks, not noble risks, but foolhardy risks based on lust, on greed, on selfishness, on drunkenness. I took risks with my life and the lives of others. Do you know why I’m not in jail, a father, on skid row…homeless? Part of it was my family, part of it was me, but the vast majority of it was luck. Actually, that’s too secular for what I feel. I’m at where I’m at because of forces I don’t understand, and I call those forces God and His divine plan. I had very little to do with much of where my life has led me.

Two men, each young and adventurous, decide to invest heavily in the stock market. One decides that Stock A is the best investment. The other decides to invest in Stock B. As it turns out, Stock A skyrockets, and B plummets. They go on to live very different lives. Did A make a wise investment? No. The fact is it could’ve gone either way, and it went his. Another roll of the dice and…

So what’s the point? God loves some people more than others, and those struggling should consider themselves cursed? No…I’ve been down that road and it is ugly and self abusive. No, in fact wealth to me is a useless indicator of favor or success. The point is that, whatever we have, it is given to us. Being the Catholic I am, I say that it is given to us by God. If it makes people feel better to call it luck, then so be it. But all that we have, is a blessing, and I think it’s important to remember, that we have what we have because of forces outside of ourselves, and all the things that we have are on loan for only a time.

And where am I? I’m not speaking from a place of wealth. I live at home with my mother and sister. Once a week, I have to get to the bank to deposit a check of about $100 to make sure my account gets back out of the negative. I don’t have a job (though I’m looking), and my car is about to die out any day. I have no wife, no girlfriend, no children, and I have no earth shattering accomplishments under my wing. But I have my faith, I have my family, and I have friends who love me, and whom I love. I have a roof over my head and food in my belly. I have memories.

Everyone has something. And though I do not advocate laziness or lives of comfort, I do believe that in recognizing the blessings in our live, we are humbled, and humble hearts beat easier, and people with easy hearts are happier, and happier people love more. And loving more…

Tupac Shakur

2010-06-16T18:20:00.001-07:00

On my long trip, which now seems oh so long ago, there were 5 things I saw that made a huge impression on me. The first was the temple of Abu Simbel, lit up at night, as my ferry pushed up the Nile from Sudan to Egypt. When I saw it the next day, it was just as impressive. The second were the temples at Karnak in Luxor. The third was St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. The fourth, ironically, was some tagging on the temples at Karnak. The tagging was in Arabic and was etched into a temple wall. It was dated in the 1600’s. I thought that was interesting. The last, was in the town of Port Said, where the Suez Canal allows the Red Sea to flow into the Mediterranean, and vice versa. Walking along an unlit part of the boardwalk at night, I came upon a large apartment complex. On the wall was a giant bit of tagging, probably measuring about 8 feet tall that read : “2PAC.” That stuck with me.

I remember listening to Pac for the first time.

“You know it’s funny when it rains it pours/they got money for wars but can’t feed the poor/…and if you fall stand tall come back for more/….please, you’ve got to keep your head up.”—Keep Ya Head Up

“Never surrender, it's all about the faith you've got/Don't ever stop, just push it until you hit the top/And if you drop, at least you know you gave your all/Be true to you, and that way you can never fall…”—Strictly for My Niggas

I was 12.

When I was 14, at Canyon High School, me and Black Rob became homies because of Pac. He went and told Sleepy (who wasn’t even called Sleepy back then), who was supposedly the biggest Pac fan ever, that he had found someone who loved Pac more than him. “This kid knows every single word to every single song.” Sleepy is basically my brother today, and Rob is still a really good friend.

When I was 15, at Saugus High School, I reconnected with a kid named Mahmoud, who I had been friends with a few years before. I was in Mrs. Straub’s English class rapping lyrics to a song called Bomb First by 2pac. Then all of the sudden, Mahmoud, this nerdy ethnic kid, starts rapping along, and actually corrects me on my lyrics. We became best friends instantly. We had this ridiculous game where we’d try to stump each other on lyrics. One person would rap a line, and the other would have to finish it. He always won. Mahmoud is still one of my closest friends to this day.

Pac. Here are some things you didn’t know. 2Pac was actually born into a family of Black Panthers. He was actually named Tupac Amaru Shakur, after the Incan revolutionary who fought the Spaniards in the late 1700’s. His first 2 albums, especially, were incredibly militant and political. He took theatre arts in high school. His mother got hooked up on crack when he was young, and growing up was always hard. His father was absent. Poppa’s Song, though not exact, kinda talks about how he felt about absentee fathers. He moved around a bunch. In fact, he lived in New York and Baltimore first, moving to California later on in high school. I mention that because people remember him for the East Coast West Coast rivalry, but he never really cared about that.

People love to argue, Biggie Vs. Pac. There’s no comparison, and here’s why. I’m going to do something sacrilegious first: I think, Biggie was a much smoother rapper than 2pac. His sound was better. His voice was incredible, and he worked it marvelously. Biggie was also a better story teller in my opinion. I mean, he painted pictures perfectly, his imagery was beyond impressive. But what he failed to do, in my opinion, what he could never do, was talk straight to the heart. And THIS is why 2pac’s name was on so many lips in Africa, in Europe, in the Middle East. This is why barber shops in Africa had murals of 2pac on them. This is why his name was on the side of that apartment complex in Port Said.

At 12 years old 2pac connected with me, at 28, he still does. Regardless of age, race, religion, 2pac connects, and this is because, more than any other rapper to ever touch the microphone, he bore all of himself. Yes he was angry at times, yes he was bitter, yes he was vulgar, but he was also innocent, he was also intelligent, he was also comforting, inspiring, understanding. He was flawed, but his flaws made him human, and that is what we look for. We look for stories that we can relate to, stories that resonate with us.

Today 2pac would have turned 39. Who knows what he would’ve done. I never dwell on that anyways. He lived the life he lived, and I’m grateful for the music he made. Rest In Peace Tupac Shakur.

Why I care so darn much...

2010-06-16T14:29:00.001-07:00

Game 7. Lakers/Celtics. History.

I was up on the South Fork of the American River whitewater rafting all this past week. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life, but everyone in my raft knew when it was a game day. We’d park the boat, I’d run and get changed, and find my way to the closest pub to watch the 2nd half of the Lakers’ game. Everyone laughed, and no one really understood it. And up there, in these Hicksville bars, I’d be jumping up and down, screaming at the television, until, as this old townie woman named Willa said to me during game 3, “Well, now I care ‘cause you care so darn much!” And this is why I care so darn much...

Traveling in East Africa, anytime I’d meet a local, there were four questions I was asked. The first was, “Where are you from?” The second, “Which team do you support?” referring to which soccer/football team you liked in the English Premier League. “What’s your name?” was question #4.

Sport. The multitudes filling the Roman coliseum, yelling in their robes, as men scrapped to the death, clouds of dust pluming up as bodies collapsed one last time. The Aztecs playing Tlachtli, playing for their gods, the fans in fervor stomping their feet on the surrounding grass fields.

It’s spiritual, don’t you understand? Have you ever watched a person finish a marathon? Or a boxer finish through round 12? It’s not about a game, it’s not about beating someone else, it’s about competing against yourself, it’s about pushing yourself to limits you never thought possible. And maybe you win, and maybe you lose. In the moment it always feels better to win, but when all is said and done, what matters most is that you came to play, that you gave all you had, and people respect that, I respect that. The fact is, at several points in our lives we are called to the challenge, and it’s our time to face up, and we draw inspiration from those that have gone before.

And it’s not just that, it’s not just the struggle, and the symbolism found in it, it’s about simpler things too. It’s about being from somewhere in this great big world. It’s about identifying with a team. It’s about feeling like you’re a part of something, and who doesn’t like to feel like they’re a part of something? It’s about seeing someone that you would never talk to otherwise, but they’re wearing a Lakers’ shirt, so you say hello, and for that moment, you’re connected.

It’s about getting away too. It’s about being able to pour your heart and soul into something that at the end of the day, isn’t going to cost you your life. It’s about escaping a bit from all the other painful realities that can eat away at us, and just reveling in the excitement for a brief respite. Reality is always knock knock knocking away at the door, and it’s nice to let it wait outside for 48 minutes.

In 26 hours I will be sitting with good friends and absolute strangers, in a packed bar, drinking water because I don’t have money for beer, watching the opening minutes of the greatest rivalry in basketball go right down to the wire, and I’ll never forget it. The L.A. Lakers and the Boston Celtics, game 7, NBA Finals. History, history, history, and I get to be a part of it, and I invite you to be a part of it too.

Go Lakers!

Community

2010-04-12T14:17:00.000-07:00

7 o’clock Saturday night, I was:

a) Out finishing a hike
b) Playing flip cup with friends
c) Getting showered and ironing my clothes for the night
d) In my pajamas watching Mexican soap operas with my mother and sister.

If you guessed d, I HATE YOU! Nah, but seriously, if you guessed d, do you watch Corazon Salvaje too? Because it’s the real deal! Juan del Diablo is in love with Aime (it’s actually just an obsession, but he doesn’t realize that yet), who is the most beautiful woman on television. Aime is in love with Juan, but since her father, Rodrigo, the corrupt, money hungry bastard who ruined Juan’s family, is Juan’s arch-enemy, they can’t be together. She’s scandalous anyways, because she’s engaged to poor Renato, who isn’t poor, he’s just too damn sweet and gullible, head-over-heels in lust with Aime, willing to do whatever she tells him to. And then you’ve got Regina, Aime’s “pure” twin sister, who, as we can all tell, is not so “pure” in her thoughts, ‘cause she’s actually in love with Renato, but Renato is too stupid to notice it, and so her love goes on unrequited. Oh, the drama! And I haven’t even mentioned the pirates, the land schemes, the spies, the brothels, the gypsy girl, or Juan’s plan for a complete rebellion!

So yeah…d…you know me too well.

I was ok with Corazon Salvaje being the pinnacle of my evening, eating brownies and ice cream with mom and sis, but as it all turned out, I ended up at a free T-Payne concert at USC with my crew, Max and the triple S (Sarah, Sean, and Sebastian, the Swedes), and somehow, between the concert, beers, a tequila bar, and massive rooftop chess in the middle of the downtown skyline, I didn’t get into bed until 5. Wheresoever the mighty wind blows.

This is not what I intended to write about. Damn it. Tangents, tangents, tangents. Am I the only one that thinks in tangents? Here we go. I’m focused.

I love my church. I don’t love my church because it’s massive, or because it’s breathtaking, I love my church because it’s MY church. Standing at the back window of the chapel I can see my mother’s house a quarter mile away. It’s nice to have a home, I’ve decided.

I just started going back to church religiously (that’s a really clever play on words there) about 4 months ago. It’s funny, you never know you’re known until you disappear for a little while. “Sergio, it’s so nice to have you back!” I’m lucky enough to hear almost every Sunday. When I was younger, it used to annoy me, mostly because I was self-involved. Today, I think it’s just nice to be part of a community.

2 rows in front of me Kirsty, Rushdi, and their 5 kids filled up nearly the entire row. I’ve known Kirsty for 10 years. A couple pews over to the left of me Christy, who I was baptized with 10 years ago, stood next to her husband Gabriel, and their 4 adopted boys. 3 rows up on my right, big Bob, and I mean 7 foot tall Bob with the giant hands, the long face, and the slight hunch in his back, sat next to his slightly plump wife Sandy, dressed in her soft purple Sunday dress. When Bob saw me, he broke his long face with that soft-hearted smile everyone loves.

Standing for communion I felt a hand on my shoulder, Mike and Kathleen, who I hadn’t seen in over a year, were processing next to me. It was good to see them. And after receiving communion, I walked around the back of the church to get to my seat, and I passed David and his dad Dan, my soccer coach from the ages of 11 to 14. I shook their hands and smiled. We usually go to different masses.

Friday afternoon, at the library working on my book, I glanced over and saw Doug, the mildly mentally handicapped guy Aaron and I used to tease years ago when the Edwards was actually inside the mall, and Doug worked the door. About 3 years ago I saw him working at the Shell gas station down the road, and I went up to him and apologized. He forgave me, non-chalantly. I still feel a little bad about how we were to him; maybe I always will. Maybe I’ll carry that around, stored away in my pocket for days when I need a little humility.

My life, and the people in it.

I think about all the people I saw today. A few of them had a huge role in my life at some point, most of them had none, and will never have one. Most of them will never be more than smiling faces, hands I shake, or cheeks I kiss once a week. At this moment, I find that really beautiful, and I accept it. I used to look at these types of relationships and say, “Ugh! It’s just all so fake!” I was immature. I only wanted “REAL” things. I have since found out, that a lot of “REAL” things, and “REAL” people, are full of as much shit as everyone else. I love all you fuckers.

Max, Sarah, Sean, Sebastian, Palak, Nava, Deepa, Dipen, Mandy, Mom, Jess, all the people at church, the guy at the gas station, my neighbors…these are the people I see at least once a week, without mentioning the people I talk to on the phone, chat with, skype with, write to. And what about my family, my friends, and others I hardly ever see, but who helped shape, and still shape my life, my thoughts, my beliefs? What about Juan del Diablo, Aime, Big Boy on the radio, Manny frickin’ Medrano on the morning news?! You laugh, but these people are part of my life, my every single day life.

Before I traveled, I believed that there was more out there. Out where? Out there, in the world. I believed that there were people that were going to show me what I could never have known before, that there were things that lay hidden and secret, that there were cooler people, that there were places I’d fit in better, but there aren’t. Travel is great, and the people you meet are incredible, but if you’re looking that far out of yourself for answers…you’re looking too far. For years, I was looking too far.

“'What sins you forgive, will be forgiven, and the one who is retained, will be retained.' Retain your brothers and sisters, keep them with you,” Father Blaise, one of my closest friends, said this Sunday. There are thousands of priests out there, and there are probably other good ones, great ones even, but he is my priest, and he has taught me so much.

By fate, by chance, by luck, by God, we have been given these lives, with these people, with these places, with these things, and in them lay all the secrets, all the wisdom, all the love, drama, passion, grace and redemption that has ever been born into the world.

Do you feel that? (I hope this makes you happy)

2010-04-03T17:11:00.000-07:00

"Let's make this happen, girl you gonna show the world that something good can work and it can work for you.
And you know that it will."
Two Doors Cinema Club—Something Good Can Work (Ted and Francis Mix off http://hypem.com/#/track/1078624/Two+Door+Cinema+Club+-+Something+Good+Can+Work+Ted+Francis+Remix+

Thank you Sean.

Do you feel that? Play this song. I’m writing in rhythm. :)

Rhythm, rhythm…I can’t dance for shit, but baby I’ve got more rhythm than I know what to do with.

The breeze it’s blowing. Flutter leaves, flutter!

Cool days, cool nights, cool life, with the sunshine and a bit of grace, pass it along. I hope this makes you happy, ‘cause I’m super happy, and I thought of all of you at once, sitting back here on this porch. All of you, every single one of you, in one instant. I thought of all the laughter we’ve shared, and how lucky I am. LUCKY…BLESSED…ALL OF THE ABOVE. We are so lucky, us lousy people in all this mire and waste, in all this beauty and perfection. I’m photosynthesizing, my ADPs are fluxing and turning to ATPs, my biology is getting better. Spring days will do that. Spring days, good music, and an acceptance.

Does this make you happy? I hope this makes you happy, I really do. You made me happy once, and your memory still makes me happy. Even the memories I don’t remember, the ones you still hold, the ones we have yet to reminisce about, the ones that defined us, the days that changed the direction of our lives, the conversations that stirred our souls. Do you feel that? I hope you do. I really hope you do.

Took a little time to make it a little better,
it's only going out, just one thing and another,
you know!

If this finds you well, I’m grateful to God, and all my prayers are answered, if this finds you down, in a funk, then let this fact make you happy: you make ME happy! You picked me up when I was down, and I thank you for it, I remember you for it. In your head you might think, “no one gives a shit! I don’t matter!” But you DO, you matter to me, and lots of other people, but today, right here, at 5:05pm in the afternoon, you make me Sergio Ballesteros happy, content, grateful. You give me faith and hope…and all this time you thought you didn’t matter! HA! Let me pick you up now too.

To all my friends, to all my loved ones, to the people I knew once upon a time, in better times, in worse times, at one time, I love you. To my new friends, how good this all is! How good it all is!

Peace and Love. Until we meet again, here or far beyond.

Rainbows

2010-03-31T16:58:00.000-07:00

A little over two months ago my Swedish friend Elin came to L.A. because the band her brother manages, Movitz, had a show as part of their U.S. tour. Elin invited me, and after 3 years of not seeing each other, we hung out and had one of the best nights I’d had in a long time. Some people just click.

The next morning I woke Elin early, fed her some breakfast, and walked her out to the trailer where everyone else had stayed. The guys were all asleep, except for her brother. “I’ll see you when I see you,” we both said smiling. I gave her a hug, shook her brother’s hand, told them how to get to the freeway, and watched their RV drive down my small side street headed towards San Francisco. I may never see her again.

6 months ago, holed up in my small back room in my old friend’s house in Atwater Village, I wrote about fall. I wrote about the leaves, and the changing of them, the dying of them, the dancing of them. I wrote about the cold, and about the warmth of the season to come, the meals, the holidays…I wrote about Minestrone soup, and that was comforting, nostalgic, and reflective. For those of you that read this regularly…can you believe that 6 months have come and gone? They will come and go again and again, twirling themselves round and round, to no end that I or you shall ever see. I used to spend my summers thinking about my falls, and my winters consumed with longing for my springs. Today I’m happy for the summer nights, and when they die into falling leaves I sip my soup and smile.

I think that when we are young, we have images of the eternal, hopes for the enduring, the lasting. We want to know that some things are forever—that love, that memories, that friendships, that the essence of people will remain the same, that they will always be. My 7th grade yearbook is filled with people writing, “Don’t ever change.” I remember being that age and thinking the same.

But things change, times change, we change. Things are not eternal in the sense that we as children believed they could be, in the sense that we as adults wish they could be, in the sense that we in our later years will accept that they could never have been.

There’s a scene in the movie American Beauty, when Ricky and Jane are watching a 15-minute video of a plastic bag blowing in the wind. “Sometimes,” he says as he holds her, “there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.” I felt that my first fall at UMASS, watching the leaves and all their changing colors. I kept snapping pictures, because each tree was more beautiful than the next, and I wanted to capture it, I wanted to remember it, I wanted to hold onto it. All my pictures fell short.

Have you ever chased a rainbow? Once, when I was 10, my mother, my sister, and I were driving in rural Mexico. There had just been a heavy storm. Dark clouds still hung over the lush valley through which we were driving, but a sliver of light broke through ahead, creating a giant rainbow over the valley. “Mom, mom!” we both screamed, “can we go to the rainbow? Please!” And being the good mother that she is, she entertained us. We drove down onto a dirt road, through maize fields, but the rainbow kept shifting. “That way!” “No, that way!” Jessica and I kept shouting, our faces plastered to the car windows trying to track it. After 15 minutes, we finally gave up, got out of the car, and learned a very valuable lesson: You can’t catch rainbows.

We are so scared. We’re scared that this might not last, we’re scared of loss, we’re scared of forgetting, we’re scared of being forgotten, and because we’re scared, we try our hardest to hold onto everything. But we’re greedy fools out chasing rainbows, and in worrying about catching the rainbow, touching the rainbow, holding the rainbow, we miss the majesty of the rainbow itself.

And what if you could? What if you could take a slice of that rainbow, stick it in your pocket and take it home? Where would you put it? On the mantle over the fire? In your closet? Your garage? You’d take it out on lonely nights, and look at it, but it would never be the same, because the fact is, beauty dies once it’s caged.

Times pass, people die, friendships break. But before that time passes, before that person dies, before that friendship breaks, they are special, they bring us joy, they teach us about life, about love, about understanding and compassion. That has to be enough.

Spring is here now. The days are longer, the nights are shorter, the buds are budding, the girls are laughing, the breeze is blowing, and I am good. Spring is here today, and it’ll be gone tomorrow, but while it’s here, I’ll take a book out to the park, and read under a swaying tree.

And all that comes, and all that goes…just let it be.

Petrichor

2010-03-07T22:57:00.001-08:00

Saturday at my good friend Chris’ house, I spent a lot of time with our friends Alex and Elissa, and their 10 month old baby girl, Grace. For 3 hours, we watched her smile, and dance, and throw her arms up and down. There was a 20 minute period where all she did was play with the crumbs of a hot dog bun. She picked them up, looked at them, studied them, and threw them back on the paper plate, giggling and laughing, only to start the process over again. She would have done that for the rest of the afternoon if Alex hadn’t taken the plate away. Her head was never still, and her eyes were always moving, from thing to thing, and person to person.

The world was once so full—do you remember that? Excitement and wonder, and you were captivated by it all. Do you remember looking into that big house down the street, and wondering what lived there, who lived there and what kind of crazy things went on inside? Do you remember really pondering why the sky was blue; thinking about it, asking about it, watching it? Or, simpler, do you remember the joy of rolling down a sloping grass hill? When did we stop being awed by the world, fascinated by it all? When did we stop enjoying it? Can you remember the year? The day? The hour?

People talk about the many forms of death. Not physical, but emotional and psychological death. Some say it happens when you stop loving, others when you give up, and yet others say that a person really dies when they feel they have no purpose anymore. I think that it comes at the moment that we stop being curious. Curious about what? About anything, about everything. About what that smell is before a storm, about how a car functions, about your lover, your children, your family, and the things they think, the people they are, and the people they are ever becoming.

I love traveling. When you travel, much like when you’re a kid, everything is new and fresh. Every street leads to some place you’ve never been, every person has a story that you’ve never heard, and precisely because you know nothing, you are forced to be open to the world around. There’s an excitement there that dusts every moment in a light of possibility; possibility and curiosity.

Then there’s this world, this life that we live day-to-day, full of schedules, and appointments, and little mundane things that we swore we’d never succumb to. Every day we drive the same freeways, the same streets, work the same jobs, eat at the same places, and talk to the same people. We come home to the same homes, and at night we sleep in the same bed in the same room with the same walls we’ve known for a very long time. We move in worlds we know too well, and because we know them, we don’t pay attention to them anymore.

But we only think to know them well, all these things that look the same. You sleep next to your wife of 20 years. When you met, you made love under a pepper tree, and you studied every contour of her body. The arches of her feet, the softness of her calves, the chills along her thighs as you slid your hand along them and wrapped around her waist. You listened to her stories, her secrets, her fears. Are they the same today? And your parents? You see them, you talk, but do you know their aspirations, their goals, their thoughts? I wonder.

So how do we get back to where we started from? Well, that’s really the question isn’t it? It’s harder now. We built walls to survive the storms, but while the storms came and went, the walls still stand. I don’t think we can ever completely tear them down, but we can acknowledge that there is a world beyond them, beyond us, and it is worth discovering. Jesus (I promise not to get preachy) often says that to enter into the Kingdom, one must have the heart of a child. People often take this for meaning we must have an innocent heart, but my heart will never be innocent again. No, the heart of a child is a humble heart, a curious heart, a heart that is not scared or ashamed to ask questions, a heart that does not yet know the need for pride or arrogance.

When I was a teen, my wisdom was in all the things that I knew. As I grew older, my wisdom became the awareness that I knew nothing at all. But I grew pompous, and in knowing I knew nothing, I convinced myself that I knew everything there was to know. I lost a father and a dream, and I tossed my arms to the sky and shrugged my shoulders in acceptance—that is when I lost my faith. I grew calloused. I grew disinterested. I grew bitter and bored. I read, “What has been, that will be; what has been done, that will be done…[there is nothing new under the sun],” and I thought, “if all stories have been told, all words written, all things done, then what is the point?”

On Saturday, while waiting outside of my house for my brother-in-law to go on a hike, my neighbor taught me about the formation of ozone in storm clouds. According to him, that, in fact, is what we smell as a storm approaches. That fascinated me. I learned a lot that day, from various people, but the greatest thing I learned turned out to be a word. That night, while looking up more about ozone, I came across a word I’d never seen before: Petrichor. It’s Greek in its roots, coming from the words Petros (stone) and Ichor (the fluid of the veins of the gods), and it refers to the smell of rain falling on dry earth. For 28 years petrichor has been my favorite smell, and until Saturday, I never knew it had a name.

I will never know all there is to know, and I will die, as we all must someday die, but as long as I am here, I will live, and I will learn, and when the clouds gather over the dry cracking earth, I will sit out on my porch with a smile on my face.

Let the rain fall.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #10--"Bevery Hills...!"

2010-03-05T16:52:00.000-08:00

All day yesterday, for whatever reason, I kept singing, "Beverly Hills! That's where I want to be!" (If you know the song, you are probably singing it now.) Today, I ended up in Beverly Hills...and I found it ironic.

"Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz..." Yeah right! I'll still be driving the accord tomorrow. (BUUUUUUUT, if I'm not, please send me song requests, because it'll be apparent that I've stumbled upon some kind of portal.)

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #9--A Detour

2010-03-04T21:30:00.001-08:00

I average about 150 - 200 miles a day driving for my job. Generally, I love driving, but with the current state of my car (and yes, anyone reading this, I am still driving the same car that you remember. The same car that has been across the country 6 times, the same car I delivered pizzas in at UMASS, the same car that has all the infamous bumper stickers on it, THAT same car.), driving is far less enjoyable--the window works when it wants to, the clutch often sticks, the gears need a bit of working to shift at times, random lights are on and off on the dashboard--but today, driving was all the pleasure.

"Hey, how do I get into the mountains," I asked the woman walking into her nice two story house, from out of my window. "Oh, you just take the next road. Glendora Mountain Road and go left. It'll take you right into them." L.A. is one of the few metropoli (it's not metropolises right?) in the world, where within 15 minutes you can be outside of the city and into some of the most beautiful mountains in our country. Today, I forgot to pack my lunch, so I took a 30 minute detour to get away. I didn't come close to making a sale today, but I caught a glimpse of fresh snow.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #8--Misery Loves Company

2010-03-03T19:13:00.000-08:00

I thought this ironic considering my last blog entry.

I stepped onto an elevator this morning. An Indian woman came in right behind me. (Oh, the awkardness of two people in an elevator.) "This one's really small," she said. "Excuse me, what?" I asked. "This elevator, it's really small." "Oh yeah, I guess it is." "But at least there's someone in here, that's nice," she continued. I might add, yes, this elevator was really small and also very slow. 2 floors should never take this long. "What?" I asked, wondering where she was going with her story. "Well, you see, a couple years ago I got stuck in an elevator for 15 minutes by myself. It was terrifying. 15 minutes in the dark. It would've been nice to have someone with me." I tried to be funny, "But then they would've just stolen your oxygen. You might've died." "Still, it would've been nice."

And the elevator doors opened, and we went on our separate ways.

the clinking of glasses

2010-03-01T23:56:00.001-08:00

Last Monday, sitting in a tiny office in the far reaches of Covina, I wrote the date on a note I was leaving for a prospective client—“02/22/2010.” Last Monday marked exactly two years of me being back home from my 11 month trip overseas.

The way things are.

The hardest part is accepting where you’re at. 5 people step into an elevator. Half way between floors 8 and 9 the elevator stops and the lights go out. Panic. People are not ok with being in the elevator, and they think back to 10 seconds ago when they weren’t in the elevator. That was a better time. They want to be there again. They want to be forward, in a future when they’re no longer in that elevator. Still, they are in the elevator.

The clinking of glasses, the tapping of silverware on porcelain plates, the shuffling feet of bus boys running around to clear tables for a packed lobby waiting to sit. Do you remember this? The smell of freshly made dishes, rich in cream sauces, battered in butter, served with steaming hot rolls. The soft texture of pie as it sits on your tongue. Waiters and waitresses carrying on snip-it conversations, charming you for an extra 5% on their tip, and you happily giving. Drinks on the patio, warm summer nights, a feeling of freedom, carelessness and ease.

I am not an economist (as my bank account could very well tell you), but I do some economic forecasting…I dabble let’s say. I don’t do surveys, I don’t read the news (actually I do, but this goes better with my story), I don’t do statistical analyses for past quarters; I look at the lines outside of restaurants on Friday and Saturday nights as I drive by on my way home in my increasingly unreliable automobile. There are none.

When I left the country in March 2007, the U.S. economy was still booming. There were signs (i.e. some of my friends who should not have been allowed to buy homes…were being allowed and encouraged to do so.) of a decline, of a bursting bubble, but still, the car lots emptied and the car lots filled, and they emptied again. Overseas I had read articles, some mentioning squatters, massive foreclosures, shantytowns, but no matter how shocking, it was hard to imagine that things were that bad. When I arrived back home in February 2008, it was clear…things had changed.

In February 2008, none of the banks had crashed yet, Bush and his cronies were still talking about their “sound economics,” Greenspan was still infallible, and people acted as they always had. But then February turned to June, and I packed a bag and headed out for 2 months, hitchhiking across the country, meeting everyday people, with their everyday stories. Some of those stories were hopeful, many were not. Summer turned to fall, and with fall came the crumbling of the great walls of Jericho, and a very long winter ensued.

“I used to drive that BMW s-class, but I had to give it up. It just didn’t make sense anymore.” “Everyone’s taking a 3% pay cut at the factory, just so that everyone can keep their jobs. Never mind raises.” “You know, we’re just eating out less. Trying to save where we can. Little things, you know?” “Yeah, had to move home. Try to save some money and help out the family a bit.” Every day I walk into real estate offices and hear about the cars they used to drive, the houses they used to have, the insane number of agents they used to employ, and now, “We’re just trying to survive this time.” And they’re the ones that are still doing well compared to most.

Everyone wants to be positive. We elected Obama and we waited for change. 2008 flipped on its head, and 2009 became, “the year” the year we’d get back up, the year we’d show our resilience…but 2009 came and went, and everyone has sworn that 2010 really has to be THE ONE. It’s March, and it looks like there’s a long road ahead. Everyone wants to be positive, but the fact is, economically, it sucks out there. And all the while, the commercials keep playing, the reality shows keep boasting, the pop charts keep selling dreams that indirectly mock the greater population for not having those things, for not having those lives.

On Thanksgiving Day, while filling up my gas tank to go play basketball with my friends, something dawned on me, “I keep looking to the day I can go back to teaching, but what if that never happens? What if I can’t get into a program, or what if I do, but then I get laid off? Will I never be happy?” I decided that day that I would do everything I could to be happy now, regardless of my situation. It’s an adjustment, and it’s hard.

We’re stuck in a frickin’ elevator. (By the way, it’s a really really big elevator with bathrooms and kitchens and stuff so that we can survive.) But hey, no matter what the t.v.s might tell you, you are not alone. Everyone is struggling, everyone is trying to adjust to new lifestyles and refigure themselves, their values, their goals. Married couples, new parents, old parents, the unemployed, twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings, retirees, teens, brown, black, white, yellow, red, purple, but not aqua, ‘cause…who the hell is aqua?! Everyone is feeling about the same, so rest easy in that, and never mind what Madison Ave. wants you to think.

You want out of the elevator? Who doesn’t?! But while we’re in it, let’s make the best of it. Explore the elevator, get to know the cables, the buttons, the railings. Get to know the other people in here with you. Get to know yourself better. Build something in it, make a home here, because who knows how long it’s going to take to get things running, and who knows what floor you’re going to get dropped off on if it ever does start moving again.

Stop yearning for a past that is gone and out of reach, and stop hoping for a future so full of unknowns.

I saw us (poem)

2010-02-22T00:06:00.000-08:00

I saw us in the reflection of a rippling tide,
But it passed, receded back into the deep.
A flicker of light, on a dark cold night,
I felt the candle’s warmth, and again I thought of you.
Time…the days and weeks, the seconds and years, they mesh into a jumbled mess,
They separate and drift, like shattered planks of a ruined ship, up and down the deep sea’s swells.
My mind is nothing but thoughts of you, feelings of you, memories of you…
My mind is nothing.
A fluttering leaf peels off from the branch where it grew, and it sways as it falls gently to the ground below.
And who is left? All of us.
And who is left? Not a single soul.
Are you with me? I wonder. I wonder if you wonder. Will I ever let it go?
For all the beauty I have written, and all the true things that I write,
Seem small and unimportant, unless you saw us too.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #7--A 1 Cent Piece of Paper

2010-02-16T20:12:00.001-08:00

I leave the house every morning with with a list printed off of the half-broken printer in my room at my mother's house. The list consists of offices I've never been to or heard of, who've never heard of or met me, offices which I snag off some database created by a bunch of people desperate for jobs, running around the city jotting down names and numbers. The net worth of my list is approximately the 1 cent it cost for the ink and the paper it's printed on. But then I get into my car, and out of my car, and into that office, and out of that office. I drive, I walk, I talk, I talk, and I talk.

It's 6p.m. and I'm stuck in traffic on the 5 from Southgate to Santa Clarita. I have a pocket full of business cards of people I now know, and who now know me. Altogether, the business they represent could mean over $100,000 for me this year. It's not about the money. It's about taking an idea, a 1 cent piece of paper, a whole lotta hard work, and creating something of value from all of that nothingness.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #6--"Persistence Pays Off"

2010-02-15T23:11:00.001-08:00

That's what he said to me smiling, right after he signed on the dotted line.

I made the sale.

Yellow Flowers

2010-02-14T13:31:00.000-08:00

I really want to make a rap video called living at my mama’s house! I’m not going to make it, but if you do, it’ll be a huge success, and I’d like a cut of whatever you get.

February 1, 2009 I left my mother’s house to live on my own. I had no plan at all, I just decided that I couldn’t live at home any longer. It’s hard to go from traveling the world to having to be quiet after 10pm. Pride. Impatience.

2009 turned out to be the toughest year of my life. You’d think starting it off on Capitol Hill watching Obama being sworn in, it would’ve been incredible…it would’ve been a CHANGE. And I suppose it was. I changed. Since being baptized in 2000, I have tried, though often times unsuccessfully, to focus my life ultimately on God. In 2009, I thought myself out of that, and decided to try and make my life about me and my wants alone. That failed.

“You taking these?” Quan asked. He held a couple little yellow flowers in his hand. They were dry and dead. “Yeah man, set them on that box.”

Boxes full of knick-knacks and trifles, gathered through the years. A pen my father bought for me; a tiny ceramic pendant Walid gave me in Egypt; a CD Moran and I listened to in Israel; withered yellow flowers that we picked together. Who knows the thousands of dollars we spend on the things in our lives—TVs, radios, cars, boats, furniture—but someone could steal my bed, my futon, my t.v., and I’d be far less upset than if I lost those flowers. I wonder, what are the yellow flowers in your life, in your room, in your heart? And how long will you carry them, packing them and unpacking them, finding a place for them in your new rooms, in your new houses, in your new places? At some point, will they no longer fit? At some point, will you accept that with or without them, you’ll never forget those people, that love, those moments? It’s hard to trust that to faith.

This blog has no direction. Will you stay with me anyways?

I don’t take moving home as defeat, I take it as reality. To be honest, I take it as a blessing. The nice thing about having life beat the shit out of you is that all previous notions of pride and self-importance generally fall by the wayside, and it becomes easier to see yourself, your passions, your goals, and the best path by which to realize those all fully. Clarity.

A friend of mine, upon finding out I was moving home, said, “Sergio, boys who live at home past the age of 22 are losers.” That stung for a bit, but I’m not a kid anymore, and part of that is seeing what your situation is, and making the most logical decision possible. I could’ve not left teaching 4 years ago; I could’ve not spent my savings traveling; I could’ve done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t, and those were choices I made, and from those choices came wonderful things that I’d never take back. So here I am, and there’s nowhere to go but forward. And there you are, wherever that is, and there is nowhere to go but forward. What does that mean for you? Moving home? Forgiving? Being kinder? Going back to school? Accepting that life may not be the romantic dream you had once envisioned, but it might still be really really amazing if you get your head out of the clouds, out of the past, and work with what you’ve got? ‘Cause kid, I don’t give a damn who you are, you’ve got a lot.

I don’t hate Valentine’s Day (I’m trying not to hate anything these days), but I don’t love it either. If we were together, I’d do sweet things for you, and we’d go for a walk, and we’d kiss. But we’d do those things on other days regardless. I don’t care about Valentine’s Day one way or the other—I just miss you, but so it is on other days too.

I’m sitting on the back porch at my mother’s house. There’s a slight breeze blowing through the drooping Pepper tree to my left, rustling the leaves on the Eucalyptus tree to my right. The sun is bright, but it’s neither hot nor cold, as it trickles through the tresses of the newly painted arbor above me. It’s the nicest day of 2010thus far.

There is nowhere to go but forward.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #5--Little Victories

2010-02-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

Day#5—Little Victories

4 months, 1 sale. I don’t care what kind of industry you’re in, those aren’t good numbers. If you’ve never done sales, you add that up, and that’s 119 failed days, and 1 successful one. But being a salesman, you can’t look at it like that, or you won’t last a week. I count today as the most successful day in my job so far, and I didn’t even get a new contract signed.

I started working this account 4 months ago. When I say working I mean, calling it, dropping by, leaving notes, writing emails, and doing anything else I could just to talk to someone that makes any kind of decisions. With the exception of one time when an office manager answered my call by mistake, and then hung up on me, I did not succeed in 3 months, in any way, shape or form, but then something happened.

A month ago I got invited to another office’s party (victory); at that party, I met someone from the office I really want to get into (victory); we set up a meeting (victory); he flaked on that meeting (ouch); I persisted anyways and showed up unannounced—he introduced me to someone higher than him and we set up another meeting (big victory!); I went in for our meeting and he told me he just quit and couldn’t make any decisions (FML!); I presented anyways, and he loved it and said he’d work to get me in with the owner (nice); my phone calls were ignored for two weeks, and then Wednesday night I got an email to set up an appointment with the owner because he wants to meet with me (awww yeah!!!); yesterday, after two days of failed calls and a sense that the account was lost, I spoke to the owner and set up a meeting for Monday morning. That call that lasted approximately 1 minute and 37 seconds. Let’s hope Monday tops it.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #4--Peckerhead

2010-02-11T23:10:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in an office today waiting to speak with a broker. The office was pretty empty except for the broker in the back office, cancelling an escrow for the tall redheaded gentleman sitting across from her. Neither of them looked happy.

But I’ll tell you who did look happy, his 3 year old son running up and down the aisle between all the vacant cubicles. “Looooooook!” he said, showing me a pile of magnetic toys he was dropping all over the place. “Cool,” I said, slightly amused. “Who gave them to you?” “My grammaaa.” “Well that’s nice.” “Yaaaah,” he said, throwing the toys up and down. “I not a babeee any mo. I jusssht a beeg boy now.” “Yeah, you are,” I said, loving the entertainment. Then he looked up at me, his big blue eyes set on my face, his blonde curly hair covering his brow, his rosy, cherubim-like cheeks spreading out into a smile and said, “youuuure a PECKERHEAD!” I. Love. Sales.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #3—Drinks at 3

2010-02-10T22:36:00.001-08:00

Walking into the office, I knew it was going to be huge. The company is one of the largest in Southern California. I prepped myself, got my greeting down, and opened the 10 foot beige doors into the reception area. The office was empty and dark. Sunlight streamed in through the panoramic windows running along the back of the office, illuminating the plush carpeting, the well built cubicles, the sleek conference rooms, framed in glass, and the large reception desk.

Dimly lit, was a man, in his late 20’s/early 30’s, slouched in a couch to my left. He wore a pressed white collared shirt, a bright crimson tie, and creased black slacks. He had his feet up on a marble magazine table and a cocktail in his right hand. To my right, was a young black woman, dressed professionally, sitting in another couch, sipping something out of a Styrofoam cup. The doors closed behind me.

“So, how are you guys doing today?” I asked.
“We’re depressed man, how are you?” the guy said, taking a sip off his glass.
“Yeah, I know all about that. So what are you guys depressed about?” I asked again, moving towards his couch.
“You do realize that you just walked into a real estate office right?” he said, laughing, and taking another drink.
“No shit, and I’m the asshole trying to sell to your industry. Who’s depressed now?” I grabbed a seat next to him, and threw my clipboard on the table where his feet were.
“You want a drink?”
I smirked.
“No, seriously, do you want a drink?” he persisted.
“Sure,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “why not?”
“Now there you go,” he said, getting up to get a glass. “Margarita, or a shot?”
“I’d better stick with the margarita,” I said.
“You’d better stick with a different career,” he blurted out. “You know, in 2008, I made over 100k, last year, $10,000. Fucking real estate huh?” He poured my drink and slammed down a shot.

I didn’t sell shit, but hey, I got to have a drink at 3, and I even made a friend that probably has no recollection of the last few days.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman: Day #2—Getting Out of Bed

2010-02-10T21:59:00.000-08:00

I woke up with a headache, runny nose, and a sore throat. The rain poured down in sheets, running down my bedroom windows, and I buried myself deeper beneath the covers. My bed is probably the single most comfortable place on this planet, followed closely behind by my room. But I had to get up.

3 months ago I walked into a huge office and spoke to the office manager, a short Greek guy with a heavy accent. “I’d like to speak to your broker.” “Everyone wants to speak to my broker. They don’t like this paperless service you’re selling.” “Well, I’d like to try anyways.” “Ok, present to the office, and if the agents like it, then maybe you can sit with them.” “Sure, when’s the next office meeting.” “Call me in February.” That day I went home and wrote in my notes, “3 MONTHS?!!! This guy is crazy.” But if sales teaches you anything, it’s patience. For 3 months I called him, emailed him, wrote him, went into his office, until finally last Tuesday he told me to come to the meeting this morning. Sick as I was, I sucked it up, showered, and drove an hour in the rain and traffic to present.

I showed up on time. No one was there. Miscommunication?

I’ll call him tomorrow, and start all over again.

A Day in the Life of a Salesman--Day 1: "I'm not a salesman."

2010-02-08T17:27:00.000-08:00

“I’m not a salesman, I’m an adviser at worst, a friend at best. I help businesses simplify their decision making. You’re not interested in what I’ve come to talk about? Ok…what are you interested in? Making money? Well lucky you, because I’m all about making you…”

Sales. Where would America be without those persistent sons and daughters of bitches that beat on our doors, waste our anytime minutes, fill up our junk mail with spam, and cram our mailboxes with letters making us think that we’re the lucky ones? This little army dressed up in button-up shirts, ties, and slacks, armed with satchels and clipboards drives our economy, like it or not. I used to hate them too…but now I’m one of them, and I'm bent on giving you a small glimpse into daily life in these barracks. Enjoy.

Cool Spots Found Today:

Ragazzi Room (cafe), 2316 1/2 S. Unioin Ave. 90007

Stars

2010-02-06T23:32:00.000-08:00

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

That question is a lot of fun to answer between the ages of 4 and 10; we’re all destined to be doctors, firemen, and astronauts off exploring other galaxies. But then we actually grow up, and the question is no longer, “What do you want to be?” it’s “What the fuck am I going to do?!”

200 years ago, and millennia before that, John, Juan, and Yohan didn’t wonder what they were going to do, they already knew; they would do what their fathers did before them. It’s what they knew, it was in their genes. It was obvious and I think they mostly accepted it, but here we are in our modern age, and the world is spread out before us, the possibilities are infinite, and I’m watching my generation drown in that sea. From young we’re taught to aspire for so much. “Reach for the stars!” they tell us, but who’s the idiot that decided that stars were the things to try and grab?! You know what stars are? Big burning balls of gas and fire. “You can do whatever you want to do, and be whatever you want to be! A doctor! A lawyer! The PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES!!! The world is yours!” And we get caught up on those dreams, snagged upon crescent moons, obsessed and decimated by desires and expectations, and along the way we forget to trust ourselves.

And we’re terrified, because we look at the generation beyond us, and we see a group of people who seem so dissatisfied, so unfulfilled. We listen to them as they list out their regrets—the jobs they chose, the people they married, their unattempted dreams—and we swear solemn oaths to never follow in their footsteps. “I’ll never settle! I’ll never settle!” we chant out like a mantra to keep us safe, but we try so hard to avoid having their regrets that we become unsure of ourselves, the things we love and the people we know ourselves to be. “What if I make the wrong decision and then there is no going back?!”

Jesus was a carpenter. Mohammed (peace be upon him) was a trader. Moses was a shepherd. Gandhi was a lawyer. Mother Teresa was a nun. MLK was a minister. But it wasn’t Jesus’ woodwork that changed the world, nor was it Gandhi’s law practice that brought down the British crown in India; no, it was much more. Professions are the ways by which we live, avenues for us to explore the world and ourselves, outlets for our passions. Sometimes we’re born into them, sometimes they come naturally, sometimes they’re a distraction. Regardless of what they may be, they should never define us, the legacies that we leave, or the lives that we live. The marks we leave on the world are based in who we are and how we are with others; the manner in which we live our lives.

My father was a carpenter for much of his early life, but he left it for grander things. He traveled the world, served in the government, became a college professor and excelled in Academia. One day, on his way to class, his briefcase in his hand, he turned to my mother and said, “You know, I think I would have been happier as a carpenter.” All the things we chase.

So what the fuck am I going to do? Well, I’m done reaching for stars, I’ll tell you that. I just got tired of standing on my tippy-toes grabbing at things outside of my world. There are so many things that I love to do, but I can’t do them all, at least not all at once, so I’m going to focus on one, follow that through, and see what comes from it. I used to be so obsessed with what I wanted to be and being the best at whatever that might be. Today I just want to be happy, and as far as being the best is concerned, I’m just trying to be my best. That’s probably the only thing that no one can do better than me…and I’m not even that good at it yet. I may never be a great name in history, but maybe, if I try really hard, I’ll be a good teacher, writer, friend, son, brother, husband, father, and I’ll find contentment in that. All other things can fall away, because, to be quite frank, I won’t get to see those damn history books anyways! Ha!

It’s so easy to get caught up in every step at every fork. This way or that? Now or later? But the fact is, there are a thousand ways of getting there, wherever there may be. You may not realize it, but you’re already well on your way as is.

And all the hurrying, and all the fussing and stressing, well it ain’t gonna get you there any faster. You’re gonna get there when you get there, and you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. Take the days as they come, and the nights as they leave. Sun to moon and back again, one by one. Try your best, but accept your failings. There is no future for a person weighed down by doubt and guilt, regret and shame, and if you’ve lacked courage, stand now and face it down and all the years prior will no longer be in vain.

Lost and Found

2010-01-29T19:12:00.000-08:00

I went to bed and it was 1999. I woke up and I was 28, and I’d already lived a life, full of adventures, and stories, agony and depression, love and loneliness. I would never ask where the time went; I know damn well. It went into bottles and fights; it went in one ear and out the other; it went into one special girl; it went into family and new friends; it went into a short-lived teaching career (soon to be reborn); it went into the Middle East. It went into church, and it went right back out. Time now sits by my side on a threshold and it holds my hand.

Have you ever been lost? Not like, “I can’t find this address” lost, but like, “Where the fuck am I?! Will I ever get out of this place?!” lost. I’ve been lost like that. Sometimes being lost is fun, but that’s only when you don’t realize you’re actually lost. Alone in the darkness there is no light.

I was lost in the mountains once. With trees and hills on all sides of me, and a washed out trail ahead, the day drew dusk, and soon the dusk drew dark. The forest can be a frightening place at night, but morning came, and with it new light and direction. So it often is.

Another time, in the pink arid hills of Palestine I could not find my way. Me, my black pack, and maps turned to mush by my water jug spilling. A small boy on a small road led me to a path, charred and littered with debris and rubble. He pointed down that path, and I walked that path. Found, was at the end of that path, but it lay past angry militants and armed Israeli soldiers. I nearly lost my life on that dirt road…but alas, I survived, and I was found again.

The unknown. Have you encountered it? The world is full of it…and so are we. We come across a stranger, or maybe a dark alley. We see a bit of ugly, some violence, some evil and treachery, and we retreat back to our home, to the places we know, to our safety. But what happens when we come upon the unknown in ourselves? What happens when we find things in ourselves more terrifying and unexpected, more weak and frail, than we’d ever imagined? Lost in ourselves and lost in the world we stumble blindly, shuffling our feet slowly, feeling out for familiar things.

If you’re lost, and you might be, take faith, you’re not alone, you just can’t see all that surrounds you. Take it slow--running blind is dangerous. Doubt will fill your mind, doubt and fear, but remember this…you are still you, you are still loved. Find your touch-points, one by one; eventually they’ll carry you back to that place where the miraculous is possible, and there you’ll be--stronger, wiser, and more confident. There and then you’ll see again, and you’ll be found, and there is nothing better than being found.

2 weeks ago I got an iPhone for work. It has GPS on it. The world is mapped and plotted, and we carry it in our pocket, but pockets have holes and batteries run out. Everything is going to be fine.

On a river

2010-01-18T21:01:00.001-08:00

Patience.

For the last 6 weeks…for the last 3 months, that single word has been the end of all my sighs, the beginning of most of my deeper thoughts (not that I have all that many). I never understood the importance of it. I used to pray for it, but I didn’t grasp what I was praying for, what it meant, what it was, and what its presence, or lack thereof, said about me. Patience.

I used to think of patience as the thing that got me through listening to nagging children, or tantrums of hormonal high school students. That type of patience, though important, is much less than what I’m looking for now, what I’m trying to build now.

My father never rested. His mind never reveled in the present. Past or future, things done or things yet to be completed, were all that filled his thoughts. I never understood that about him, and then…about 3 months ago, staring at the ceiling fan in my room, I understood him better because I realized that I was the same way.

Swept down a rushing river a man grasps frantically at thousands of branches hanging low from ancient trees, but in his frenzy he exhausts himself. There’s a waterfall ahead, there generally is, and he worries that if he doesn’t get out now, he’ll never get out. His judgment is clouded, and time is shorter and shorter with each passing boulder.

Our lives are rivers. They ebb and they flow, they cascade and they mist, they dry and are born anew by rains and storms that shake the foundations of the earth. Our lives are rivers, and we’re on them. Sometimes they rush. Maybe your river is rushing right now. Mine is. Mine has been rushing for quite some time. And I’ve been that man, trying to get hold of a branch, any branch, because I know there’s a waterfall ahead, somewhere, sometime. The problem is, for every good branch, there are hundreds of weak branches, twigs, and pieces of rotted timber, and I’ve been grabbing at all of those too. In my younger days I knew that there was a branch, a big oak branch, waiting to carry me to the shore, and I enjoyed the river when it rushed, but somewhere along the way I lost faith. It’s a sad thing to watch a man lose his faith. It’s an even sadder thing to be the one who loses it.

Is there a branch? I suppose the more important question is: Does it matter if there’s a branch? I cannot, no matter how much I’d like to, instantaneously create one. If there’s a branch, there’s a branch, and I’ll make it to the shore. If not, then off I’ll go, at some point, off some cliff, into some further unknown. Maybe that drop will be the end; maybe that drop will be the beginning, and I’ll find myself in crystal blue pools of water on the planet of Pandora. The fact is, I don’t know where the river leads nor what will come along the way. Maybe I’ll never get to the shore and maybe the shore sucks and deep in the forest are terrible animals waiting to prey on me. (Maybe the shore is wonderful too, just so that you don’t think I’m overly pessimistic and dark.)

The more you live the less you know…that’s what they say. Fuck, that’s what we say (make no mistake, I’ve become part of they now too). And I think the mooooorrreeee you live, the less you know and the less you care. At 18 that sounded pessimistic, at 22 defeatist, at 28 there’s nothing I yearn for more than to just accept that I’m on a rushing river and be indifferent about the next set of rapids…I could just use an inner tube with one of those built in coolers :) Happy rafting.

Like a prayer

2009-11-29T20:03:00.000-08:00

At birth she was a miracle, a blessing, a purpose for her mother, a source of hope. “Margaret is going to be someone. She’ll go to school, she’ll go to University, she’ll make it out of Kibera,” her mother said to her father the morning after she was born. He smiled at her bed side staring out at the slum through the hole in their metal wall. At 2 years old, she was a nuisance, a bother, a mouth to feed. At 5 years old she became a worker, sweeping the mud floors and porch in the morning, making the fire, and carrying her newborn brother around while her mother cooked ugali for the family. At 7, the Kenyan government ordered she become a student; her mother ordered her to stay home and help with her brothers. She tried her best. One day, while buying maize flour at the market for her mother, she heard a song she’d never heard before by a woman she’d never heard of. “Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone…” Madonna became her favorite artist from that day forward.

“I need books mother. I can’t do the work without them, and I’ll never pass the exams,” she once pleaded.

“We can’t afford them,” her mother responded coldly.

“But mother, I need books.”

“Maize or books?” She only ever posed that question once.

Margaret went to her mattress in the corner of the room and cried facing the corrugated metal wall. She couldn’t face her mother; she couldn’t face the answer. Neither could her father. He left one day and never came back. She turned 12 two days later, with no cake nor candles to make wishes on and blow out.

At 15 years old Margaret lost her virginity. At 16 she became a mother. At 18 years old, she became a dancer. At 19 she became a single mother of two.
“I’m not making enough dancing Henry.”
“What are you saying Margaret?”
“I’m saying,” she paused as her voice quivered. She cast her eyes down, “I’m saying that I’m not making enough money dancing Henry,” and a tear dropped to the floor.
At 20 years old she turned her first trick, and her eldest son became a worker, sweeping the mud floors and porch in the dark of the morning, as the smoke rose up from the shacks in the Kibera slums.

Sometimes

2009-11-21T13:32:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. That doesn’t make me sound like much of a writer, does it? But so it is. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and stretch out a yawn, crack my back, and all I want to do is stay in bed with someone…but there’s no one there…at least not now. I usually flip open my laptop before I take even one step onto my carpeted floor, which covers the hardwood below, which covers the two by fours supporting my room, which covers the foundation, which covers the earth. Removed. Sometimes I write a line or two, and sometimes I just stare at my reflection on the screen, studying the contours of my face. I squint my eyes attentively, and watch the corners wrinkle and compress, watch my brow furrow. I relax my eyes and breathe; the wrinkles don’t all smooth like they used to. I don’t particularly care. A year ago I cared, but now my hairline has all my attention. In a year I won’t care about that either, I’ll be worried about my eyes. In 50 years I’ll be toothless, blind, with more hair in my nose and ears than on my head, and I’ll walk with a limp, but I won’t be bothered at all. I’ll have more swagger than I ever had before, and I’ll be happier and more satisfied than I can imagine now. So it is.

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. I said it doesn’t make me sound like much of a writer, but that makes sense. I mean, writers get paid to write. I’ve gotten paid for lots of things—carpentry, delivering pizza, translating, hosting parties, waiting tables—but never for writing. Yet I’d never tell you I was a server, a carpenter, or a translator…I’d tell you I’m a writer. Sometimes, after I close my laptop I want to strap my shoes on, sling my blue Kelte Coyote pack over my shoulder, stuffed with minimal clothing, and just go… Where? Sometimes I want to go anywhere, but other times I want to go to specific places: Aswan in Upper Egypt, Abadiyah in the West Bank, Dedza in Malawi, Amherst in Massachusetts. Sometimes I want to walk into my father’s apartment on Arizona St. without knocking, and crawl into his bed while he sleeps. I want him to wake up and put his arm around me and give me a kiss on the forehead and say, “Hey guy…everything’s gonna be fine. I love you.” Some. Times. Are. Gone. Forever. And his dry calloused hand through my hair.

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. Sometimes I just want to wile out! Get drunk and kick up a shitstorm with my friends, yelling out of the passenger window at all the suckers on the street. Sometimes I wanna tear the roof off this bitch, and just let chaos envelope me and it, I want to be the chaos that envelopes it, and envelopes me; the destruction and delight. Other times, all I want is to sit quietly at the round wooden table in my dining room, and watch the steam as it rises off of my coffee, spinning and swirling in the dark hours of the morning while the world still sleeps.

Sometimes all I want is the silence.

Sometimes I want to describe it.

Minestrone

2009-11-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

“I want to make soup tonight,” I wrote Kamilla at 8 this morning.
“Mmmmm. What kind of soup?” she asked.
“I don’t know, any ideas?” I asked.
“ummmmm…Minestrone.”
“Nah, French Onion, that sounds good. Come over, we’ll make soup together and hang out,” I said.
“I’d love to, that sounds super gooooood,” she wrote back.

And that would have been super good, and that would have been super cooool, and we would have had a really nice time talking about random things and laughing, and debating world issues and not debating world issues, and drinking wine…but Kamilla lives in Paris, and I live in Los Angeles. There was a time that we both lived in Cairo, and we passed every day doing nothing but walking around, smoking sheesha surrounded by toothless men, drinking beers at Horreya with the societal degenerates and foreigners, drinking coffee in high end cafes with the elite and the same foreigners. That was over 2 years ago.

I think about my friends. I think about my friends everywhere. I think about Michael Erz and I laughing hysterically in the lounge at our camp kids; I think about Astrid and I drinking beers and smoking cigarettes nightly in the frigid German winter, trembling and musing at drunkards and West African drug dealers; I think about eating pizza with Matteo, staring at the Coliseum without another Euro in my pocket; I think about my homeboys and I, going to the mall on Saturdays to pick out clothes for the night, nights full of fighting and drinking and girls and jokes…all the sheer ignorance and ecstasy of youth.

I don’t live in the past, but I visit her. I bring her cake and tea, and we sit for a minute, but not too much longer because I’ve got so much to do. She doesn’t mind, she’s glad to have me, besides, she’s got things to do too. We converse about lots of things, but this morning we talked about reinvention and evolution specifically. We never talk about history, she thinks it’s self-centered.
“Sergio, you have to keep changing, growing, developing, it’s the only way to live and be happy,” she told me.
“Oh yeah, and what about you?” I asked, feeling slightly defensive.
“What do you think?” she asked rhetorically, winking at me and sipping the Earl Grey steaming beneath her nose. She’s always different, she’s always got something new to say. That’s why I keep coming back.

It’s all so far away now, all so long ago. Kamilla in Paris, Mary on River Road, Kamis in Melbourne, Marta and Ernesto in Germany, Waleed in Aswan, where the Nile flows, and so many others. F A R A W A Y. And they’re not the only ones. Christin in South Central, Sleepy in Santa Clarita, Edwin in Northridge, Josh in Sherman Oaks, Erbin in Sun Valley. Some of my closest and oldest friends live 30 minutes away, and I’m lucky to see them once a month. We used to kick rocks, check out girls, or bump 2pac for hours on end daily, but now we’ve all just got so much to do. Kids, careers, responsibilities, wives, girlfriends…lives; those things we all strived for, fought for, chased after. Where do we go from here?

I finish my tea, pick the last crumbs of cake off my little round plate, give her a kiss on the cheek, and head back out into the world, to reinvent, recreate, learn and grow. I think I’ll make minestrone after all.

The Creation of a River

2009-10-24T08:48:00.000-07:00

There was a drop…and then there were more. One by one, until ten by ten, until the sky was full of falling droplets and God laughed and people mistook it for anger, but it was just laughter, and it was funny and He laughed even more as looks of consternation spread out over people’s faces. He chortled, the way a father does when his young boy jumps back at the sight of a spider or something else insignificant. The thunder was thunderous, and the lightening was sharp and brilliant and it was bright and jagged, and it stretched out across the clouds that hung like soft ornament pillows on God’s Christmas tree. But the trees were below on the mountains, and the rain was soon on the mountains too, and it slipped off of pine needles on some mountains, and off of broad oak trees on others, and off the leaves it slid and rushed down the branches and trunks, or sometimes it just hit the dirt and skipped the trees. And the earth came to life. Little miniscule craters appeared everywhere, and it looked like the earth disappeared, but it was just displaced one way, then another, tossed around by the rain, which soon became more than rain and single droplets, and soon became brooks, then streams, then creeks, then rivers that roared and displaced even more earth cutting up the mountains. But the rivers did not cause the mountains any pain, if anything they tickled them, and the mountains laughed too, causing the earth, this time I mean the planet, to shake. And the people got really scared, but really, it was all funny and even really beautiful.

And the rivers filled the seas. And the seas swelled. And a man with a boat and 2 of every animal floated on the seas as they crashed about like a tub full of water does if you add more water. The seas were like giant tubs, and the people were scared of them, but they were not so scary, they were just tubs of splishy splashy water that used to be single drops. God grew sad as He saw that people were scared of so much. They were missing all the laughter.
“What should I do asked God?” and He answered very quickly because He’s God and He already knew the answer when He asked it, and He said, “I’ll create irony, and I’ll give people the ability to see it, and when the people don’t know what is happening they’ll say, ‘that’s irony,’ or maybe, ‘that’s ironic,’ that sounds better, and they’ll laugh because understanding that you can’t understand something will be annoying but really funny. Then they’ll laugh, and then they’ll think of Me.” And God decided that of all the irony in the world He’d make one thing stand out above all the others as a symbol. He decided to create a desert, a vast desert, an inhospitable desert that would support no life, other than hard shelled creatures and serpents, and funny animals with two humps on their backs, and through that desert, that harsh barren desert, He would put a great river, the greatest longest river in the world and it would give life to the desert. And from the desert would come forth all the greatest prophets preaching all the good things that people should know and live by, but instead the people would not listen and instead fight over the desert, and that would be the greatest irony of all. And maybe, though the people die and come home to Him, many others would see God in all the irony. Or maybe people would just be sad and hate…He really didn’t know... “man is a funny creature,” He laughed, and the people flinched in the boat upon the seas.

ummm...

2009-10-15T07:41:00.000-07:00

I didn't forget, it's just been crazy week. Just started a new job in a new industry and I'm studying for a test. Be back this weekend.

Fall

2009-10-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

For the first time in 4 months I'm buried underneath my comforter for warmth. I love it. The back door to my room is missing a glass rail leaving a hole that lets cold air in, but I don't care, L.A. will never be Massachusetts, and I've lived through those winters. It's been almost 7 years, but I've lived through those winters.

It's fall. Autumn, when the leaves in the Northeast turn to brilliant shades of yellow, red, and pink. When you walk in the woods on clear days, they filter the sun and all that's left is an encompassing glow of said colors, alone with the trees and a creek, enveloped in a golden mist of reflected light and rising mid morning dew. Leaves dancing their way to death, drifting lazily on a breeze and settling on the mushy earth. On dry days, I used to stomp around the parking lot, or in hidden corners of my college campus and listen to them crackle and shatter under my tennis shoes. That always made me smile, even on days when I missed home.

Here in L.A., leaves don't dance, they just die, and all that changes is the time. August's 8p.m. becomes late September's 6p.m., and in a few weeks 6will be 5, and 4:30 will be dusk, time to head home and think about soup and tea. In a month thoughts of turkey and mashed potatoes will be filling my head, but only because I like to get ahead of myself...ever forward, ever forward, greener pastures and all that shit. "Slow down Sergio, slow down, enjoy your pillows and your comforter." I need to listen to myself more often.

This morning I woke up in Joe's house in the woods outside of Santa Cruz. I hadn't seen him in over a year. It was the 4th morning in a row that I woke up on a friend's floor; I like traveling without the frills, it always makes home more inviting. Outside the air bit at my ears and tightened my face. The mist in the valley was dissipating slowly out through the trees and there was a light frost on Ranjin's windshield as he started up the car. I shivered and put my hands inside my sweatshirt's pouch.

Thursday night Dominic and I went on a 20 mile bike ride across L.A. to the beach and enjoyed ourselves a night of beer and pizza, neverminding my bum knee or the fact that we had no where to stay. Friday I quit my job prematurely, because, well, it didn't seem like it mattered all that much. A spontaneous trip with a craigslist rideshare to the Bay Area sounded a lot more important--smoking spliffs, and sharing a bottle of whiskey with my cousin and friends surrounded by towering redwoods and 40,000 people listening to great blue grass last night, proved to me that indeed it was more important.

Friends that I haven't seen in a while often send me emails saying, "Where are you now man?" "Dude, what crazy adventure are you getting into these days?" Up until Friday, I hadn't left L.A. on vacation in over a year. Time indeed does change, and so I suppose do the patterns of cascading leaves, but they will always be. I like to watch them change, to watch the light turn dark and back to light, to watch the leaf do it's yearly dance with added steps and improvised slides. You gotta have some style in this world, as we drift along the autumn breeze.

It's 12a.m. I'm smiling as I think of you. I'm off to sleep.

Back from afar...

2009-09-27T13:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve been off the Richter Scale, clear off the map, gone on planet zero in the nether galaxies that you haven’t heard of or studied in textbooks. I saw googly bats and fought jumba bings with their big horns and six-inch claws. I won. I climbed Mount Kurzikssyyalw and swam across the mud sea of planet Rkyyum in order to find transport back home. So many adventures, so many stories, some of triumph, others of defeat, but they will have to wait for a later date, because I’m back on Planet Saturday for the first time in what feels like eons. It’s been a long time…I know.

10a.m. in my friend’s car, passenger side screaming pop songs out the window at people still waking up, crawling out of beds and gutters, wherever Friday night laid them to rest. They’re shrugging the guilt and stress of last night off their shoulders. Today is a new day, this is a new place.

The cigarette smoke, in all its toxicity puffs out in clouds and ringlets, swirling in repeating patterns between us. A cough, a cackle, another spark, and the sun, raining down Vitamin D and a reason to smile. I laugh out loud, the wind rushing in off Santa Monica Blvd. through my hair, and back out her window. She’s beautiful.

The bar is roaring with rowdy men and drunken women, stirred to a frenzy by the violent sport, deemed friendly competition here on planet earth, projected out of 30 plasma televisions. She swears that it’s not even close to max capacity, I should have been here last week she says. She should have been on planet Crylox under the Socca Trees staring at the receding blue waters of the sea of Kareen, is what I think, but I buy a light beer instead, washing the words back down my throat and order another. My cellular device reads 10:50. I’ve missed it here.

False Evidence About Reality

2009-07-22T00:48:00.000-07:00

8 years ago I built a patio cover for my mom’s back deck with the help of another guy I worked with at the time. Over time, however, the wood has split and cracked, beaten by the summer sun and the wickedly cold winter nights in my hometown. For a year I’ve been telling my mom that I’m gonna jump up on a ladder and make it like new…but I haven’t. I could say that laziness gets the best of me, but it’s not laziness, it’s fear. Fear of what? Fear of doing a shitty job, or ruining the cover, or not putting enough coats of paint, or whatever. The more I live, the more I see that fear gets masked as so many things; sloth, apathy, attachment, settling, addictions, and routines. Fear. I fear so many things. I think we often think that we’re the only ones that fear, that we’re the only ones that are insecure, that everyone else has got it more or less together and we stand alone in our inadequacies. We do not.

8 years ago, while volunteering across the country, in a dilapidated house in the cramped Kentucky hills, a man named Jim taught me a simple acronym. We stood knee deep in dirt and trash that lay under the old flooring that we had just ripped out the day before. Now we needed to clear out these heaps so that we could set in the new floor the following day. Physically, clearing out the trash and dirt was the easiest part, but a small problem stood in my way (actually, a bunch of small problems stood in my way)—there were spiders crawling all about in the piles I had to move. When I was 9 years old, two weeks after my parents split up, my dad decided to take me to see a new movie that was guaranteed to cure my insignificant fear of spiders; the movie was called Arachnophobia. 15 minutes in, after the mother spider crept into the scientist’s sleeping bag and injected her poison into his thighs, causing him to convulse, I ran out of the theatre hyperventilating and terrified.
“False Evidence About Reality. That’s all it is Sergio. Ya just have to remember that, and you’ll be fine. They’re just gosh darn spiders, they ain’t goin’ ta kill ya,” Jim said in his mish mash California/Kentucky accent. Jim was 79 years old, and if he could do it… I slid gardening gloves over my hands, frozen by the bitter winter morning, and started digging ravenously. “Falseevidenceaboutreality! Falseevidenceaboutreality! Falseevidenceaboutreality!” I screamed out over and over, watching hairy brown arachnids flying from my hands into a new trash pile behind me. The day ended, I finished the job, and the next day the house had a new floor. None of those spiders bit me.

Two weeks ago I walked into a yoga studio a couple blocks away from where I live. I wanted to check out prices for classes. I got a couple brochures, and on my way out, I looked up and read a sticker that was posted on the wall. It read: “Everyday do something that scares you.”

I spent nine months traveling overland through East Africa and the Middle East by myself; I spent last summer hitchhiking across the U.S.; I went to school 3,000 miles away from all things familiar. These things sound frightening to a lot of people. Some of my old homeboys who have been in and out of gangs, who’ve had guns pulled on them, who’ve been to prison, tell me, “You’re crazy homie. I can’t believe that you did any of that shit.” I laugh. Those things never scared me all that much.

You know how many parties I’ve thrown in my life? One…kinda. You know how many times I’ve had friends over for a dinner I’ve cooked? Zero. You know how many dance classes I’ve taken? One. I want to do these things. I want to throw a party, I want to cook dinner for friends, I want to learn real dances, in fact, I’ve wanted to do these things for a long time, but the fact is that I haven’t done them. “Oh, laziness…procrastination…there are just so many other things that I want to do more,” blah, blah, blah, bullshit. I haven’t done those things because of fear. Because of stupid little insecurities that I let dominate me, and keep me from doing things that I would really like to do. FUCK THAT!!!

On Sunday I stood on a 15 foot cliff overlooking roaring white rapids and boulders. Four of my best friends and I spent the weekend white water rafting in the American river outside Sacramento. We had just finished our last major rapid, and the last adventurous thing to do was to jump off the cliff and into the rapids that if done correctly would safely carry you down the river. I jumped.

On Monday, sitting in my swim trunks at my cousin’s house looking out at the pool in his backyard, I decided that I wanted to do a flip off the diving board. I’ve been going to that house for nearly 17 years, and I’ve always wanted to do a flip. I tried a couple times, but I never fully committed and ended up just getting hurt and giving up. “It’s a stupid flip,” I always said to justify it. It may have been a stupid flip, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to do it. On Monday, I walked straight out to the diving board, jumped off, and did the first flip of my life. I didn’t think about it, I just did it. I then proceeded to do five more, and figured since I was doing so dang good at that, I might as well do a back flip as well. I did a bunch. No broken bones, no major injuries.

For the first time in my life I cooked breakfast for a friend this morning. I made hash browns, an egg scramble, and pancakes. The hash browns and pancakes were a first. I burned the hash browns a little bit, and a couple of the pancakes burned slightly as well. Who cares?! I made my first breakfast for someone else, and it turned out that the food mattered very little. She just wanted to hang out with me.

A breakfast, a flip, a patio cover, roaring rapids…they’re just little things, stupid little things that don’t matter all that much, until you add them up, and you realize that you doing or not doing a flip, or you cooking breakfast or not cooking breakfast, are nothing in and of themselves, but you doing or not doing something because you are senselessly scared of it…well that is everything. The moment we let our insecurities drive us, we lose ourselves. You don’t have to do anything crazy, but I challenge you to try and do something that scares you every day. Not to prove something, but to do something that you want to do. The opportunities will arise, I promise.

Checklist for this week:

Fix mom’s patio cover
Plan my birthday party

Building

2009-07-13T17:06:00.001-07:00

Trips to ikea and home depot are becoming more frequent. Building a life takes time, it takes work, it takes strength--I never saw that before. I never understood that staying put takes as much courage, if not more, than going. I had a friend once. We met volunteering in Eastern Kentucky. I only served for a week during spring break, he dedicated 2 years to building homes for the poor. Back then 2 years, to be in one place, sounded like an eternity.

We sat on the makeshift wooden stairs he'd built leading up to his trailer's front door. Flaking white paint covered the entirety of the trailer, worn by the sun and the humid summer days that bear down on Kentucky's lush mountain communities.

He flexed his big jaw and spoke, "You know what Sergio, no one here is going to remember us. I leave next year, and if I come back in 2 years, a few people will remember me. If I come back in 5, maybe a couple. In 10 years, not a soul will know who I am, and I'll walk into the local drug store or market, they'll wish me a good day, and that'll be that." His brow furrowed as he spit his tobacco out onto the white gravel path in front of us, leading to the retreat center. His eyes stayed fixed. I felt a bug on my knee so I slapped it as hard as I could, but it was just the grass blowing in the breeze.

I looked at him, then I looked at the gravel and asked him, "so then, what's the point? Or better yet, what's the answer?"

He spit again. "You know who they're gonna remember Sergio? They're gonna remember Dotty, they're gonna remember Father Beiting [people that have spent their lives working in rural Kentucky]. Those are the people that make the difference. Those are the people that change lives and communities. We'll do our part, but it's so small. The answer? Stay."

I slapped my knee again as the grass brushed against it.

Stay. Home. Build. Love. Family. Community. Build. Build. Build.

Today at Ikea, I bought a cutting board, a salad bowl, a picture frame (a triple), a shelf, and a cheap full length mirror. I didn't pull my car up, and since I was alone, I had to do my best to carry it all in one trip. I made it to my car, but when I got to my house, the mirror slipped and shattered into a hundred pieces at my feet. I looked down at myself reflected in all these little shards of glass, stolen sand grains from some desert or some beach, a million miles away. Disjointed and fragmented, scattered on my pavement.

I went inside my house and set everything else down carefully, then went back outside, swept up the glass and put it into the recycling bin. I'm doing a lot of breaking and sweeping these days, but so it goes when you're building. Things break. Tomorrow I'll buy a new mirror and I'll hang it up in my room. And on Wednesday, I'll be building a desk for myself. There will undoubtedly be quite a bit of sweeping with that endeavor, but so it is. I'm staying.

[you hear me love? I'm staying and we're building.]

Unemployed

2009-07-05T22:35:00.000-07:00

The fan spins. Above me. The grammar there—is fractured. I am writing in fragments. Who taught me about fragments? Was it Mr. Downs in the 11th grade, the same man who taught me literature and that All Was Not Quiet on the Western Front…especially when it was quietest? Mr. Downs is dead now. Does he know that? He died of lung cancer…fuck, I can’t be smoking anymore…I’m gonna quit next week. For real this time. For real. 6th grade…do I still have that year book? Me and Daniel, smoking the cigarettes we stole from Kmart, behind our house in the alleyway. What’s he doing these days? Is he out of prison? Wait, yeah, he preaches now, doesn’t he? I bet he’s on Facebook.
Status Update reads: “Daniel is living for Him, always for Him.”
Yep…he’s still a born-again.
Honestly, fuck this writing thing. I just need a break, this is what we call a block. A writer’s block. Block, block, block, block, block…eggs. That’s what I want, eggs. Breakfast, that’s why I’m blocked—I haven’t eaten breakfast. And a shower, I need to take a shower. What time is it? 10:30. The Price is Right is on, but I can’t watch it…not again. Besides, Drew Carey is an awkward host. I have to write…and I have to find a job. No one’s hiring. NO ONE IS HIRING! But I should go out there and try…I guess. But not before breakfast and a shower…and well, I need to get out of bed too. That doesn’t really count as an activity, though...but it is harder on certain days, some days it’s harder than making breakfast or even typing three pages. Why is that?
I wonder what Sully’s doing (Does that require a question mark? You know, when you wonder something…let me know) (?) or (.) Where’s my phone? Dial.
“Sully! Ey boy!, What’s going on man?” I scream in my wannabe-Massachusetts accent.
“Hey Serge!!! What’s up?” He yells back in his real Massachusetts accent. He’s working, I can hear the construction site in the background.
“Oh you know man, just living the life out here in sunny California. You and Sabrina have to come out here soon. Florida’s too damn humid and you know it,” I say, full of sarcasm and false swagger.
“Hot as balls, but at least it’s not as cold as UMASS. Man, you remember those wintas?”
“How could I forget?!”
We talk some more, convincing each other that life is better now. I hang up.
What time is it? 11:00…I really have to get up.
Flip on the television. Bryman College commercial. Jump in the shower. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Jump out of the shower. I’m gaining weight. I need to join a gym, I wonder how much one costs (?) (.) Damn I need a job.
Walk through the living room…the t.v. says that Larry H. Parker can win me $4.2 million…I’d still be happy with the $2.1 million he got that guy back in the 90’s. You know, come to think of it, that guy was full of shit. He never got $2.1 million from Larry, ‘cause if he did he wouldn’t have done those commercials. Liars...they’re everywhere.
Do I still want breakfast? 11:30, that’s lunch right? I wonder if anyone wants to do lunch (?) (.)
Call Mahmoud. Voicemail.
Call Brian. Voicemail.
Call Sleepy. Voicemail.
Call Josh. Voicemail.
I guess not. They all have jobs. Where do I want to take resumes? The mall? Los Feliz? Hollywood? Is this what I went to college for?
Make eggs, my number one specialty. My only specialty. Eat eggs.
Get dressed. Slacks. Shirt. (tie?). Tie. Shoes.
Open the door…the sun burns. Above me. It’s too hot to be outside…go to the mall.
“Hey, can I speak with your manager?” I ask the 18 year old hostess with her tight shirt and pants.
“Umm,” she laughs “, let me check if they’re even here,” she says flashing me her clueless smile. She knows if they’re here, she just doesn’t know what I’m supposed to know. She walks towards the back, and comes back two minutes later accompanied by the manager, with the corporate hair, and the corporate belly.
He says, “Hey,” in his business school voice, “how can I help you?” I guess he can’t see the resume I’m holding in plain view.
But I smile anyways, “Hello, my name is Sergio,” I say, giving him my hand. “I am looking for a job. Are you hiring by any chance?” I shouldn’t have said ‘by any chance,’ but I did.
He lifts his eyebrows and grins the same stupid grin he gives every other person that comes in here day-by-day, “Well, you know we’re always accepting applications…”
I want to scream, “SAVE YOURSELF SIX WORDS AND JUST SAY ‘NO!’” but I smile anyways, fill out the application, and go to three more restaurants to repeat the process. I would apply at one more, but the fact is, I know that they know that I know that they aren’t hiring, and so even if I’m wrong…they are not hiring me on this fine day.
Back into my car, back to my house, back in my room, back on Facebook.
Homepage lists what all of my ‘friends’ are doing.
Richard is going to VEGAS!!!
Ashley is going to the beach…anyone want to come?!
Derek is recovering from a wild night…yet again.
Derek posted pics…let’s check them out. They look fun. They all look fun.
Exciting lives. Above me. The fan is still spinning. What time is it? 3:00…friends will be off work in two hours.
Check email.
Ooooo…monster.com has sent me 100 job postings…too bad they’re all sales or scams.
Fuck writing. I close the computer and lay on my bed, watching the fan.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. I need a girlfriend. I need a job. I need a drink. I need a bright side.
Bright side: I don’t live in Somalia. That must really suck. Oh, that’s funny, post Status Update. Sergio is glad that he doesn’t live in Somalia.
Everyone but Somalians and sensitive hippies read and laugh.
Close the computer again, and lay down.
Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts.

It is what it is, and we are what we are

2009-06-29T11:43:00.000-07:00

I used to worry about my father all the time. I worried about his health especially, because he was always sick. At the time of his death he had diabetes, Parkinson’s, and some heart problems, not to mention the fact that his medical coverage was due to run out at the age of 65; he only had two years left before that would become a huge problem. He always said, “Don’t worry guy. I’ll be fine. It’ll work out.” I worried anyways, sure that his nonchalant attitude was just going to leave him and us in a really difficult situation. As it turned out, he was right, and I was wrong, though I doubt he ever expected the solution would be his death—I know I never did.

People talk about regrets. Young people are always firm in the belief that they will never have them; I used to be firm in the same belief. Everyone has regrets. I don’t have many, in fact, I might only have one. Once, while on a camping trip in Yosemite, my father and I got into one of our worst arguments. To end the argument, I turned to him, looked him in the eyes and said, “I feel sorry for you. Do you understand that?! Your son feels sorry for you.” His stance shifted, and he looked weak. I had taken something from him, and I knew it, but full of anger I stormed out of the camping area alone. I was 18.

That is not my regret. As ridiculous as it is for an 18 year old to think he knows his father’s life, I meant what I said. No, my regret is that I never told my father that I was proud of him. That’s the one thing that still haunts me, and no matter how many times I shout it into my pillow on those nights when I can’t get him out of my head, it stays with me.

Our lives are not perfect. We fuck up. We fail others, and we fail ourselves. We fall short of the goals that we set for ourselves, and that is hard. With that said, I don’t believe much in excuses, because they’re worthless. As I used to tell my students, “It’s not like you can cash in all your excuses when you’re old and get a car or a house. No one is going to care.” Still, as hard and unforgiving as I might be, I accept that no matter how hard I try, my life, like me, is going to have its flaws…lots of them.

In June 2006, my dad had just entered his fourth marriage, and it was already on the rocks; he had no job, and was living on the futon in my cramped Burbank apartment; his health was failing, and he had no real prospects of how he was going to change his life. I loved the man more than you will ever know, but during that time I looked at him and thought, “My poor father, what a sad life he leads. What is he going to do? He needs to better himself. I still think he needs to find God.” His present, his shaky future, and all the failures of his past bounced around in my head, but then he died, and all of the sudden, all my fretting was proven for naught.

Nothing frames a life like a death. The moment my father died, I hung that frame, his life, and I looked at it, and something happened for the first time in my life—I started accepting my father for what he was, for who he was. Did you know my father had a PhD and two master’s degrees? Or how about that he attended UCSB, UCLA, Middlebury University, and Stanford (he was one of the first Latinos to be accepted there)? Did you know that my dad had been in the Amazon with the Peace Corps in the early 60s, and then worked as a diplomat to both Argentina and Brazil for the U.S. in the late 60s and 70s? You didn’t know those things. You also weren’t aware that my father is the one that taught me the most about service to others and helping the poor. No matter how bad things were, no matter how little money we had, my dad was always willing to help people down on their luck. There was nothing, and I mean literally nothing, that he would not do for his children, and in the end, it is that great love, that great compassion, and that great fervor for life that I remember most about him. Yes, my father had great imperfections but who doesn’t? In some ways, all his mistakes now seem somehow comical; expressions of the quirks that made him him.

On Thursday, my girlfriend and I were at a museum when we found out about Michael Jackson’s death. She is the biggest MJ fan I’ve ever known, and it cut me to see her hurting so much. I don’t think the loss really hit me until after I’d dropped her off at the house; the world had just lost the greatest entertainer of our time. I watched the news, partly to be up on it, partly, in some weird way, to support my girlfriend. Some of the comments made by people shocked me.

“Well, at least he’s not touching any more boys.” That was the worst one.
“Who fucking cares? Like seriously? Who wants to go to the beach?” posted on facebook
“Why was he trying to be white? Gross, and his face! What a tragic life.”

We are pompous and arrogant. We think we know so much, but we know nothing. Who are we to pity others, to judge others? Is our existence so grand and unblemished? He was a human living in this world, and I think that anyone is worthy of compassion, respect, and love. One of my favorite quotes of all time, comes from a Jacobean Poet named John Donne. It says:

“Any man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind…”

And the thing with Michael is, he wasn’t just another person, he was someone that touched us, billions of us. How many people have danced to his music? How many people have made love to his songs? How many people have been inspired by his lyrics? Yes he was a tormented soul, yes he had become almost monstrous in appearance in his last years, yes he did some things that people didn’t understand, but he created some of the greatest beauty this world has known. Was he a good man? Was my father a good man? I don’t know. The discourses of good and evil fill up the annuls for the ages, and men will debate it until that last meteor crashes and destroys us all. Perhaps, however, it doesn’t matter if we’re good or bad. Perhaps all that mattered is that we were, and that is valid, and that is of worth. We shared in this thing called life, in this human experience, and each of us deserves respect for that.

R.I.P. Michael.

If this doesn't make you laugh...

2009-06-20T20:47:00.001-07:00

Just to spite my father and myself, the two most long-winded people you’ve ever met, I’m going to make this as short as possible.

A year ago today I was in Salt Lake City, with my uncle, my father’s youngest brother, in the middle of a hitchhiking trip.
Two years ago today, I was sitting on a rooftop on an island in Northeastern Kenya, watching palms sway and storms gather.
Three years ago today, I was driving home with four friends without a worry or thought, the day after finishing my school year. On that drive we came upon a terrible scene. It involved a car accident between an automobile and a pedestrian. The pedestrian died. The pedestrian was my father.

Sporadic, that’s how my dad would like it. “It’s all poetry GUY,” that’s what he would say, full emphasis on the guy.

Today, I’m lying on my bed with no prospects of going out. My head’s too dizzy, and even though the temperature is gone, my cough is still pretty bad. It turned out to just be bronchitis. Bronchitis? I know, I thought the same thing—so unexotic. I was shooting for swine flu…kind of. I mean, what’s so bad about the swine flu? You become an instant star (it would have done wonders for my career), everyone’s surviving it, and if I got it now I’d definitely live through its return in the fall when it’s due to wipe out millions. Besides, if you’re going to be lied up for an entire week with a fever, chills, and a horrendous cough, shouldn’t it be cooler than bronchitis?

I guess it was, if not cooler, at least worse…in some ways. I mean, I also had traces of blood in my urine, which was the original reason I went to the doctor. (No VD people, no VD! Phew! Just kidding. Sergio don’t play dat!) Yep, a young man with a bladder infection. How masculine! Almost as masculine as not being able to go to the damn Lakers Parade you’d been talking about all season. That’s right, I watched it from my house as I drank soup and shivered on my couch, watching the room spin around the fan. That sucked, undoubtedly, but I think the moment that really just put it all in perspective for me was a couple hours after the parade when I stumbled out of my house to take my trash out and saw a piece of paper on my windshield parked across the street. A ticket? Too easy. A love note? I wish. Nope ladies and gentlemen, a note from the fine servants of my city, that’s right, the L.A.P.D. It read:

Call LAPD
Officer blank blank #blank blank
Officer blank blank2 #blank blank 2 [They are so unoriginal…seriously]
Happened at about 12:30 a.m.

What happened? Someone took a frickin’ baseball bat to my side view mirror and then proceeded to smash my windshield with said baseball bat...separate swing though, I’m pretty sure. You know what I did when I saw that, standing outside in my pajama pants sliding down my ass and my snot covered shirt? I laughed out loud (you know, LOLed, or LedOL—past tense). This might surprise you, but it shouldn’t, in fact, you should’ve laughed when you read it. If you didn’t, I’m going to think myself a poor writer, and that would not be very funny at all.

Yes, I laughed, because getting angry would have had absolutely no positive effect on anyone or anything; not on me, not on my windshield, not on my possible swine flu, not on my bloody urine, and definitely not on God or the devil. When I shuffled my way back into my room, I called a few friends, laughing. They all thought I was better. “You’ve gotta hear this,” I said, and then related the story. They all thought I was much worse. None of them laughed. “That’s terrible.” “That’s horrible.” “That’s fucked up.” True enough, true enough, but come on, just for a minute, how f-in hilarious is it all. When your friend falls on the ground, what do you do the moment you realize he’s alright? YOU LAUGH!!! You keel over and clutch your gut, because your friend is a klutz and he just gave you a Hollywood comedic moment without charging you $12. And why? BECAUSE HE’S ALRIGHT! Things over here are alright. Things over here always are. I just don’t always see it, I’m just not always willing to accept that I’m an actor in a larger ongoing comedy, and it was my turn to eat shit so that the audience could bust a gut. I’m just not always able to laugh.

“God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.” –Voltaire

On June 20th, 2006 I did not laugh. There was nothing funny about my father’s death. Maybe there will never be anything particularly funny about it; only irony and the cruel, simple, comically tragic truth that we all die. Maybe our existence is the long joke leading to the final serious moment, or maybe it’s all just a play, and when all is said and done and the curtains draw, we should just be glad that we got a chance to see that person perform, because they were damn good. And if it’s our turn, well hell, hopefully we put on a good show.

My dad was beautiful. He had so many qualities that made him magnetic, that made him a joy to be around. He was incredibly knowledgable, extremely gifted at story telling, and generally charming (depending on his blood sugar). He was a gracious man with an interesting life, and I count myself grateful for having been able to learn so much from him in the 24 years we got together. With that said, my father was angry for much of his life. At what? I don't know, problems, situations, all the things he couldn't control...himself? Perhaps. There were many beautiful things about my father, but his anger was not one of them.

I think when I was small I must have made myself a solemn oath that I would never be that angry, because for all my flaws I am not an angry man. Life is full of shit, and pain, and smashed windshields, and dad’s dying, but that is what life is, that's just how it goes. Do I worry? Yes, that I could not seem to avoid picking up from my father (genetics are clingy bastards aren't they?!). Worry as I may, however, I do not let my worries or my frustrations dictate my life; I cannot. If I were to allow all my past injuries and all my future worries run my life, where would I be? Alone in a white room with no windows, no doors, and padded walls--and people say I live a crazy life. Ha!

Things will be alright, scratch that, things are alright. You know who taught me that? My father, as he worried himself sick about everything. "Live free mijo, chase your dreams." I will...I am, and when I fail and things fall apart, I hope I'm able to step back and laugh at the humor of it all. Peace dad, I love you.

P.S. This is the longest entry I've written, SUCKERS!!! ha. In honor of my father, the man who could talk forever. He still whispers.

Me and My Sporadic Ways

2009-06-09T08:09:00.001-07:00

“I really like this girl.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah man, like, I can’t get her out of my head. I’m stuck on her!”
“You’re always stuck on a girl…that’s who you are. Get back to me in a couple weeks.”

That six sentence conversation has become the central point of my struggles with my friends and with myself. I’m really into a girl at the moment, but she’s known me for a while, and her worry is that even though I’m sprung on her now, in two weeks I’m going to be bored and want to move on. I’ll tell you what I told her, “BUT THIS IS DIFFERENT!!!” When isn’t it different? If it isn’t different, you should’ve stayed with that other girl that was the same, then you could’ve saved all that time and heartache.

So…this girl. She and I were texting back and forth the other night, talking about me and what she called my “sporadic ways.” “Unstable” “nomadic” “free spirited” “wandering” “gypsy” “lost” “confused” “evolving” “artistic” “searching” “restless”—the list of names and phrases that have been given to me by friends and family goes on and on. In Islam they say that God has 99 names. I probably have 24. (That was intended to be funny, not blasphemous. My apologies to God.) In the last 9 years I have earned those names, because in the last nine years I have:

Traveled to 18 countries and 48 states;
Worked as a pizza delivery boy, a high school teacher, a substitute, a waiter, a camp counselor, a carpenter’s apprentice, and an English teacher for German corporations…not to mention the odd jobs in between;
Converted to Catholicism, considered the priesthood, nearly converted to Islam, and am now studying the teachings of the Baha’i Faith…far from the halls of the Roman Catholic Church;
Spent 3 summers in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, 2 on Cape Cod, and only 3 in Los Angeles;
Lived in about 11 places for at least 2 months, and only lived in one of those for over a year;
Served as a Peace Corps volunteer;
Tried out for the Real World;
Fallen in and out of love a few dozen times;
Hitchhiked across America;
And of course, etcetera, etcetera

Do you know what it’s like to have your feelings, the feelings that are borne out of your own heart and mind, called into question by your most loved ones? Do you? I do. It happens all the time and with everything I do. “Sure you like her Sergio,” said in a condescending voice. I DO like her…a lot. Why would I say it if I didn’t? Maybe in two weeks I won’t be into her anymore, but does that mean that I was lying that whole time? No, it just means that my feelings changed. Is this scary if you’re her? Sure. But hey, I am who I am, and isn’t it better than I tell the girl 2 weeks later, rather than wait 3 years, on the verge of getting engaged? I think it is.

One thing that I left out of that long list is that I have only had one romantic relationship in all that time, and that was nearly 7 years ago. It only lasted 5 months. You know who that’s a big deal for? Everyone but me. Society makes me feel like I’m some kind of freak, and maybe I am, but what if I was in a new long-term relationship every year? If I was 27 and had had three relationships, one of 3 years, one of 4 years, and one of a year, would I be more put together? When I get involved with someone I look down the line, and if I don’t see it happening, then I save us a couple years and bow out. People criticize me for it, but that’s what makes the most sense to me. Then again, maybe it’s just a convenient cop out. Who knows?

A couple of months ago one of my best friends asked me, “Sergio, can’t you just take it easy bro? Like, get to know a girl, move slowly and let it develop. Why do you have to be so in so quickly?” For the last 10 years I’ve wondered the same, and for the last 10 years I’ve wanted to be that easy guy, but I came to a conclusion that night: I AM NEVER GOING TO BE THAT GUY, and you know why? Because this is who I am. And it’s not just with women, it’s with everything. 2 months ago I started biking. Last week I spent $1,200 on a new bike that I’m planning on riding across the country at some point. I go big! My email address is DREAMBIG! and I believe in doing just that. This is who I am—can I change that? Maybe, but the question is, “Do I really want to change that?” Nah…not really. You see, I like this crazy fucker, and if you’re reading this, you like this fucker too.

So how did I put her at ease? I texted her the following, “Let this comfort you: 10 years ago I was absolutely sure that I was going to be a business man making six figures by the age of 26. No one could tell me any different. 6 months ago I was on the verge of dropping on my knees and committing my life to Islam. But then again, 10 years ago I said, ‘I want to travel the world. I want to go all over,’ and 8 years ago I said, ‘I think I want to be a writer…I absolutely love writing.” She knows me, you may not, so I’ll tell you, I am not a Muslim business man making six figures, but I am an aspiring writer who has traveled a little more than a bit. I continued, “I’m passionate about EVERYTHING from the outset, but there is no way that I am going to do EVERYTHING that I’m passionate about. If you like something, you look into it further and learn more about it. If you still like it, you pursue it. If not, you let it go. I’m pursuing you.” I’m pursuing her, I’m pursuing it, I’m pursuing life. Hey, if nothing else, at least it’s exciting right?

For the first time in my life, I’ve given up feeling guilty or hating myself for doing things or seeing things in ways that are so different from everyone else. Put even more accurately, for the first time in my life I have begun to trust myself and my feelings, and see them as valid and of worth. I may never be “stable” and I may never have the life that my friends may want for me, but maybe I’ll have the life I want for myself. I may never achieve a constant contentment, but if the coming years are anything like the past 27, I will soar to heights untouched by most, balanced out by fumbling in the mire of abysses unexplored.

I haven’t felt this good with myself in years.

“Don’t talk about it, be about it. Be all about it!”

Peace

Graduation

2009-06-06T23:43:00.001-07:00

‘Tis the season—no, not the holidays; graduations. ‘Tis the season. Caps and gowns, smiles, and tears, accomplishments and failures—not everyone makes it. For this entire school year I’ve worked at a school of kids who weren’t supposed to make it. Failures, misfits, oddballs, gangsters, thieves, pregnant teens, addicts, but in the end, as I’ve learned in my years of working with the youth, they’re just kids, like people are just people, all of us simply expressing our joys and frustrations in different ways.

Over the course of the last three days I’ve been to two graduation ceremonies. I do not particularly enjoy graduation ceremonies, or commencements if that’s what you’d wish to call them. Commencement? Into what, life? Oh dear, if you’re 18 and you haven’t been living, then what exactly have you been doing? Adulthood? I met 8 year olds in Malawi that were young men, and I’ve met 40 year olds here that have yet to leave the third grade. A new beginning? I suppose, but isn’t it strangely paradoxical that this new beginning is celebrated by such an overdone ceremony?

My graduation, now ten years ago, was awesome, stellar, rowdy, off-tha-chain, insane. Paper planes flew, only to get knocked out of flight by the 40 or so beach balls that grads had taped under chairs the day before, or that parents had brought to have some fun. Fun, fun, fun, that’s what my graduation was! The big bad principal got up on her big loud microphone, and yelled out big bad orders…but we all laughed, hooted and hollered, until she cowered and got off the stage. Assholes? Yes, we were. We were high school kids on graduation day, and we were assholes. But we were happy, and as we walked off the stage with our diplomas in hand, we descended into a massive sea of 500 assholes unwilling to follow the rules and stay seated, opting instead to give us hugs and high-fives, compliments and congratulations. That was a great night, and even my passing out on a friend’s front lawn can’t take away from that. Perhaps it only adds to it.

My graduation, however, was the great exception and so when I found out that the school I’ve been teaching at this year was having its ceremony at the same time as game 1 of the NBA finals, I was less than pleased. I know, it’s shallow and wrong, but hey, what can I say, it’s me. And it’s graduations too. Let’s face it; they’re boring, trite, and cliché… “We did it! We made it! Change the world!!!” “Welcome, welcome, welcome…welcome each and everyone.” I’ve been to dozens of commencements, and they’re all the same, but God likes laughing at me, and so as it turned out, this one was different.

“Robert Talisman,” announced the head counselor, and everyone clapped. “Maria Jimenez,” and Maria’s crazy brothers got up and shouted out with joy. This wasn’t different, in fact, this is the most uniform part of all graduations. The principal or head counselor reads out the names of students, they go up, shake hands, take a diploma, people clap, they throw up both arms, and then go back and sit down. But THESE names were different, these names were special. Most people out of California look puzzled when I say “continuation high school.” “What’s that? Like for adults? Oh, like an honors program?” “No. For like kids who get kicked out or drop out of their other high schools.” “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Like Dangerous Minds or Freedom Writers.” “Yeah, kind of.”

One-by-one these names, accompanied by heads and bodies, which I’d taught for a year, came strutting off the stage facing the faculty; we, the faculty, went nuts. “Oh my gosh, KEITH!!! HEATHER!!! WAY TO GO ROBERT! SO PROUD OF YOU MARIA! And JACKIE, LOOK AT YOU, YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL!” They broke the line and gave us hugs, they beamed, they cried, they posed, they danced, they jumped. You don’t get it because you don’t know Keith, Heather, Robert, Maria, or Jackie, but if you did, you’d cry. Because Jackie’s got two kids and she made it through; Keith is the first in his family to graduate high school; Robert was homeless for a year and somehow he’s starting college in the fall; Maria was hooked on Meth until she came to our school; and Heather? Well she was just lost, without direction or guidance or anyone who cared in her life.

By the time the 300th student was grabbing his diploma, the quad had reached a fever pitch, with Pomp and Circumstance blaring out of the speakers, horns blowing, mothers shouting, and siblings clapping up a storm, but even with all the ruckus, everyone was contained, calm and respectful. There was a genuine joy in the air, of people truly proud of loved ones, of people watching loved ones accomplish seemingly impossible tasks, and that was something I’d never really seen before at a graduation ceremony. Two days later I found myself in the monstrously large Los Angeles Cathedral watching the senior class, whom I’d taught as freshman at a Catholic high school four years prior, walk solemnly in front of the altar to grab their diplomas. There was no music, there was no applause permitted (though some brave souls, destined for hell no doubt, did break this rule), and there was certainly no dancing or horn blowing; there was only order and form. It was not fun.

“There is the known, and there is the unknown, and in between are the doors.”—Jim Morrison

Tassels fly high up in the sky, and magically drift down weightlessly, wrapping around the contours of rear view mirrors of cars on the move. Life goes on. I remember graduating high school and thinking, “I just made it through all of that shit, what else could life possibly throw at me? I made it!” The real question is, “Where did I make it to?” “Another door,” is the only suitable answer. Somehow I had it in my mind that after high school came a break, a long break, pretty much for the rest of my life. Having conquered sex, drugs, gangs, depression, manic-depressive parents, and anything else that life could come up with, I felt like nothing else could touch me…but life isn’t a race, it’s a marathon, and we really don’t have a choice but to run it and hope that the training paid off, that our pacing is good, and that there are going to be people with water and Gatorade waiting for us around every turn.

Commencement? It’s just a continuation, and it doesn’t matter where you came from, what money your family had or didn’t have, how great your struggle was to get through high school—the fact is that my “troubled” kids are walking out into the same world that my “private school” kids are walking out into, and the questions that they are going to face are going to be the same, because they’re the same questions that have been facing man for eternity. Who am I? What do I want? What is love? What is God? What is the meaning of it all? Doors, doors, doors, a lifetime spent on the threshold. Pass bravely and with all of God's grace.

Moral Ambiguity

2009-05-30T23:51:00.001-07:00

Teacher asks: “You’re walking along the street and come upon a wallet filled with money and an ID, what do you do?”
Good student responds: “I’d take the wallet and turn it into the local police station, asking them to contact the person.”
Bad student responds: “I’d take the money and ditch the wallet in a trash can.”
Teacher asks: “Why?”
Good student says: “Because it belongs to someone else, and I’d love if someone did that for me.”
Bad students says: “They shouldn’t have lost it. They obviously didn’t care that much.”

Teacher asks: “You’re walking through a parking lot and you come upon a million dollars in unmarked bills in a paper bag, what do you do?”
Good student responds: “I’d take the money, very carefully, to the nearest police department and trust them to find out whose it is.”
Bad student responds: “I’d take the money, hide it, and use it for myself, my family and my friends.”
Teacher asks: “Why?”
Good student says: “Because it’s not mine, it is someone else’s, and so I have no right to it.”
Bad students says: “Because it’s no one’s. It is open, in the world, like anything else. Besides, the cops are going to take it anyways, you know that. If someone is going to get that money, it might as well be me.”
(I know you’re wondering, “where the hell do these kids live that they’re stumbling upon free money all the time?” I’m guessing I’ve got a lot of bad students reading this.)

I’m a man that struggles with moral ambiguity more than most people.

The scent of hops and barley, malts and ales, was thick. My mouth was washed with beer, my throat and belly were drowned in it. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the crowd was riotous with cheers and jeers—it had every right to be. The Lakers, my city’s beloved basketball team, was battling for survival in the playoffs. Blue, Red and Green television rays bounced around off the glass and mirrors, serving as the only lights in the place. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the giants running up and down the court, jumping, shooting, pushing, wrestling, blocking, and dunking like massive beasts. I couldn’t tell you if there was one beautiful girl in the place; we were enthralled. When the final seconds ticked off the clock, everyone gave high-fives, roared loudly, and then rushed the streets where the people who’d been watching the game live in the arena were pouring out. It was spectacular.

“What the hell does the first part of this blog have to do with the last paragraph?” you’re wondering, well, I’ll tell you. Amidst the drinking and the cheering, the hooting and the hollering, I ordered a round of beers for me and my buddy. We finished them off, he bought a round, and then I bought another. With two minutes left in the fourth, I fought through the hundred people crowding the bar, and flagged down the bartender to close out my tab. A couple minutes later, she dropped it on the counter, said, “thanks hun,” and walked off to cater to another one of her yelling guests. I flipped open the book, and the total read, “$13.76.” She hadn’t charged me for my second round. I looked at it for a second, realized what had happened, tried to find “true north” on my moral compass, failed, and so filled in a good, not great, tip, and joined the gathering in the street.

You might be asking, “So what’s the big deal?” as one of my close friends asked this morning, or you might be saying, “what a dick!” I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing. It seems inconsequential, it seems small, it seems somehow even vindicating. I mean, they charge $6 for beer that I can buy for less than $1 at the liquor store. Is that fair? Isn’t that theft? You see, they’re robbing me, and fate just had my back for once. But that’s a slippery slope, and I find myself sliding down it far too often. I’m too smart for my own good; loopholes seem far too easy to find. The fact is, I agreed to pay a certain price for something and I only paid half and then ran away. Does it matter that it was $13? Would it matter more if it was $50? Or what about $10,000 from a fraudulent insurance claim? Don’t insurance companies charge too much? I can’t keep living like this.

I’d take the mil in the parking lot, I took the $13 at the bar, but I’d return the wallet. Is it all the same? I don’t know. Do you? This world is limitless, yet limits are necessary, hence the holy books and legal codes passed down through the ages. I’m like Icarus. I have these wings, and there’s the sky, open and inviting. I want to take the sky, I see no reason why I cannot, but then I go after it, and I get too close to the sun; my plunges are tragic, drastic, and far too frequent. I’m tired of crashing, but for some reason, I cannot seem to muster the strength to quell my passions or quiet my demons. Is it the flying or the falling that’s making me weak?

I want to be a better man. I want to be the man that comes home to his wife and kids with truth and goodness in his heart; I want to be the man that knows he’d take the million to the police without a second thought; I want to be the man that calls back the bartender to tell her he was undercharged. I want to be that man, but it seems so unachievable, so far away. I’m not always bad, I have moments of great character, but moments are momentary, and I want permanence. In theory, I’m one of the most moral and ethical people you’ll ever meet, but then practice comes along, difficult situations, gray matters, and I get tangled in it all, ‘cause after all, “Who knows what’s right and wrong anyways?” I allow myself to flail in oceans of incertitude, blaming the swirl of the sea, all the while ignoring the rescue chopper and the ladder dangling above.

A bad pass, a stupid shot, a lack of hustle on any given play; when you add these little things up over the course of a basketball game, you lose. The Lakers are the greatest team in basketball when they’re at their best, but as any fan has seen, they often let the little things slip, and you know what happens when you slip, over and over and over again? People stop calling you great, and rightfully so. The little things are eating me alive, bit by bit, and if I don’t start confronting them, if I don’t start being the better man that I want to be, I’m going to lose. The Lakers pulled out two dominant back-to-back wins this week, and look poised to take the Title. Hope remains.

When the livin's easy

2009-05-23T17:10:00.000-07:00

I've heard the Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff more in the last 24 hours than in the entire year. "Summer, Summer, Summer time/let's just kick back and unwind," on the radio...all day. And that's nice. It's all nice. Anyone who has a window, a door, or any one of the five senses in functioning order here in southern Cali, knows that summer is here in a big way. The barbeques are grilling carne asada and tortillas in the Mexican neighborhoods, steaks and shrimp in the burbs; the beers and the wines and the margaritas are filling up and drowning down thirsty throats; the girls are out in their summer best: damn near nothing; the guys are strutting, and everyone's in shorts. The nights are filled with lots of laughs, and lots of fists thrown in drunken passion and confusion, but that's ok somehow, because it's summer.

You probably don't care that it's summer. You probably work a 9 - 5, or a 7 - 3 and you work 51 weeks out of the year. It's been at least 10 years since you've thought twice about summer. I invite you then to live vicariously through me, because summer still matters to me, this summer more than most before and, I'm guessing, after as well. I have no job, extra money to last me through September, I'm single, and I live closer to the city than I've ever lived before. Things could get incredibly interesting.

And to you, loosen up. I know you've got work, but IT'S SUMMERTIME!, you know, when the livin's easy. Enjoy, relax, do something you've never done before. Take your kids on a cool camping trip...they're cheap. Go to a kick ass concert or have a barbeque or three. Look, I don't care what you do, but do something. If you're broke, the park is free, the beach is free, air, it's fucking free! BREATHE. And SING! I want to hear you shout out lyrics to summer tunes into the night, because that's all free too. What's your excuse? Huh? Huh? Drink and be merry, and love the hell out of everything, like christmas except with lots of sun (in all fairness, out here in L.A. it's always Christmas with sun).

My lifestyle is not conducive for the long run, I realize that. You're more responsible than I am, and in 10 years, I'm gonna be kicking myself for not having saved more, or invested or something, but the long run seems long off, and I can't help but live today, because it's here and so am I. It's here and so am I. You hear? I hope so. See you around.

I'm outta here. Have fun. Peace.

The Naming Ceremony

2009-05-16T19:50:00.001-07:00

It wasn't the human-sized balloons floating around the rafters, nor was it the little glass jars with small exotic fish placed on each of the 30 tables being occupied. It wasn't the fact that the bill was in the thousands, and it wasn't even that all of this was for a one year old child that will never remember the party that was thrown in his honor. What really took me aback was the father's comment as he presented his son to the party gathered around food and drink: "We know he will be wealthy and successful, so we're not really worried about that. We're only interested in which sports he will excel." It was said plainly, as if these were facts and not assumptions.

In Korean culture, one year olds are thrown massive parties. The reason for this, as was explained to me by my friend, is that a long time ago when infant mortality rates were really high a child would not be named until his first birthday. Back in those days, in fact, it was a naming ceremony, and it was largely reserved for the nobility. A young prince would be dressed in the finest garments and paraded around through the festivities, and his family would be showered with gifts and money. The high point of the ceremony was when the prince would be placed in front of a table with different vocational symbols splayed out. A bow and arrow, a sword, a sickle (I doubt this would have ever been put out in a noble's party), and other such items would sit in front of the child, and whichever he chose was thought to be the path he would follow. The little boy being celebrated at my restaurant on Saturday was choosing between a golf ball, a soccer ball, a football (ball?), a baseball, and a basketball, no swords or nun chucks or bows and arrows. Those would have made for an interesting future. (As a side note, there were fruits and vegetables all around, and he kept grabbing those, tomatoes in particular. I mentioned to someone in the party that perhaps he was destined to be a farmer—my aside was not well received.)

It was at this point in the ceremony that the father made his statement. Initially I was surprised by the apparent pompousness of his words. Who knows what your child will have? God forbid, a terrible tragedy befalls him, or you. Ghengis Khan's father was a strong leader, yet he was killed, and Ghengis lived in dire poverty and servitude for years after that. If he hadn't been as strong and driven, that would have been his lot for the rest of his life. Such things can't be predicted, and perhaps this is just the superstitious Mexican in me, but tempting fate never seems a wise move. Never.

But I moved past this, and in between thoughts of diet cokes, iced teas and coffees, it dawned on me that this man lives in a world that I will never know. It’s not just the money, I might have that someday (yeah right), it’s the sense of security, and that isn’t created in one lifetime, that is fostered and built up over generations. This man must come from a family that has had money and success for generations. At what cost I wonder? Is this the life that he wanted? Perhaps. Is this the life that his child is going to want? Perhaps. But what if it isn’t? What if his son, wants to be a rock star, or a fireman, or a social worker? Are these young, well-t0-do parents going to be ok with that? Or will he be expected to sacrifice his individuality, his own personal dreams to fit into the family mould and model? That is the thing with security. It’s safe and it’s stable, but it’s rigid, hard and ultimately, very boring.

Since the time I was young, my future and my life have always been up in the air, uncertain, and unclear, but I’ve always known that whatever my life becomes, it is mine, and mine alone, created by my own decisions and my own actions (and oh yeah, the hand of God). My parents were too poor to give me anything more than that sense of self-reliance, but I am grateful for it, because in that lies freedom, and I prefer that to security any day.

In the real world, that boy is going to be the next golf legend, wealthy, successful, happily married, and content with the lot laid before him, while I will be stressed and underpaid, trying to sell my kids on the idea that money doesn’t matter. Ha! See you next week.

A Trip to the Cemetery

2009-05-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

One of the downsides to working in a restaurant is that you are expected to work all those major family holidays; the other 500 downsides will be documented at a later time in a more comical fashion. Easter, New Years, Thanksgiving, and of course, Mother’s Day, while families are getting together and trying their best to act as families are supposed to act, I get to spend the day saying, “Welcome to blah blah restaurant, my name is Sergio, can I get you started off with something to drink?” It’s a great existence, let me tell you. Luckily for me, my mom is pretty understanding when it comes to things like this, partly because she’s really flexible, and partly because she’s grown used to me not being around. Regardless, knowing that I wasn’t going to be able to spend Mother’s Day with the family, we spent the early part of yesterday together.

I don’t get cemeteries. For that matter, I don’t get funerals, and I especially don’t get wakes. Standing over someone’s painted corpse has a discomfort I find particularly unappealing. The purpose of a wake is to say one final farewell to the person that you loved so dearly, but that person is long gone, and the body lying in the casket generally looks absolutely nothing like the deceased. The skin is always tighter and harder to the touch. The perfume that the undertaker decided to use is pungent, and smells nothing like the cigarettes and coffee your dad once smelled of. The expression stretched across the face—it’s supposed to be peaceful, but he always looked most at peace when he was smiling. I suppose that would have been inappropriate because this is death we’re talking about, this is serious business. Only, I hate business, and I really really hate traditions that stand upon the base of being necessary only because they’ve been practiced for centuries. You know why they buried the first man? Because his corpse couldn’t be carried around, because it smelled, because his body could not be left in the hut with the others, and because the family didn’t want to watch animals pick at him…so they put him down into the ground. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is to think that if he hadn’t been buried, his soul could never have united with God…but hey that’s just what I think.

So why am I talking about cemeteries and funerals and wakes? For mother’s day, my mom decided that she wanted to visit my grandparents’ grave in East L.A. My grandma Jo died when I was 12 years old, nearly 40 years after my grandfather died—a man I only knew through my mother’s stories. I remember as a kid, we’d go down for her birthday, mother’s day, or the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe. We’d all cry, we’d all say our piece, and then we’d leave. Personally, I didn’t like going. I liked the cemetery, I liked the quietness of it, I liked the breeze that would blow, and the grass that we sat on, and I really liked the sweetbread and burritos we’d get after, but it never felt natural talking to a marble stone with names etched in it. I cried ‘cause I was supposed to cry, I prayed because I was supposed to pray, I said things I was expected to say. It reminds me of what I felt like walking around Jerusalem’s cobblestone streets and millennia old churches and temples; I tried my best to feel prayerful, to feel in the moment, but no matter how much I tried to cry and be in the presence of God, I never felt holy in that city. I feel holy on the road, I feel at peace on a lonely hilltop, and when I want to communicate with my grandmother or my father, or any of my beloved deceased, I just do it—I speak words and think thoughts that travel through the thin veil sewn intricately between this world and theirs.

After clumsily interrupting a funeral gathering behind us with a shout of joy for having found the flower pot, overgrown with grass, we said our prayers, got up and headed for the exit. My mom and sis drove, but I strolled slowly, passing in between hundreds of graves. I read their names, and in my mind I created their pictures, their stories.

Joseph Williams (1916 – 1943) and Meredith Williams (1923 – 1995)
Noble Father and Loving Mother
Forever Loved, Forever in Our Hearts

But there’s so much more there. Joseph died in the War. He died in the War after having to put up with protests from his family for marrying a woman seven years younger than him. And they had children, and those children never really knew their father. Do they feel sorrow over that? Do they feel guilt because they feel no sorrow for a man they never knew? And what about Meredith? She was a 20 year old widow and mother. Did she lose all interest in men? Did she never marry again? Joseph might have been her great love, might have been the man that she would always long for, but we have needs and passions and desires, and our hearts have a greater capacity to love again than we will ever truly comprehend. What was her story? I wondered.

I spent most of the day wondering, pondering thoughts of life and death, adventure and culture, and my place in all of it as I rode my bike up and down the hills of East L.A., through the old neighborhoods, where the cops refuse to go, the homeless and criminals find refuge, the roosters still caw in the front yards, and the stories of thousands and hundreds of thousands unfold without a scribe to write them down. And no matter what their stories are, no matter what my story is, our headstone, if we even have the money to have one, will read two lonely lines attempting to capture the emotion we evoked in our loved ones. No thanks. Cremate me, scatter me to the wind, and set me free; breathe me in, and whisper me silly puns and soft prayers, while I mingle with those that went before and those that have yet to come.

Peace

Culture and Exploration

2009-04-19T23:37:00.001-07:00

“KUSC servicing the creative capital of the world.” I love L.A. Most people from L.A. laugh at me and point out the fact that I didn’t even grow up in L.A. I grew up in Santa Clarita, the same place they filmed Pleasantville. It’s true, my formative years were spent in suburbia, but just the same, the massive cultural influence of Los Angeles always had a way of creeping over the hills that surrounded my valley. I might not have lived in Hollywood, Los Feliz, South L.A., or Westwood, but I listened to the same radio stations, and when Snoop and Dre were rolling down the street, I was 12 years old smokin’ blunts and drinkin’ 40s trying to be like them. Back in those days, the rap culture is what drew my attention to the city, and in all truthfullness, it is what helped shape my identity. But I’ve changed, and today I love L.A. for different reasons, none more than the fact that, as the DJ said as I set out to start my day yesterday, L.A. is, “the creative capital of the world.”

By the good grace of God, I moved out of my mother’s house for the last time about 2 months ago. Since then, I have been living in a standard beige apartment complex in what my friend Michael refers to as the place “where everyone moves when they first come to L.A.”—North Hollywood. Artists, poets, actors, and writers from all over the world come crashing into this city every day to see if they’ve got it. Above and below me, they dream their little dreams praying for a break, making their breaks, and putting their necks on the chopping blocks daily, in the hopes that the world will love them, see them and identify with their struggle. In the end most of us just want to know that we are not the only ones that think our crazy thoughts, and feel our crazy feelings. None of us wants to be in this thing alone.

My quest for unity has led me all over the world, but in my new sedentary life it has started to take me all over my city. About a month ago, as I woke up to a sunny Saturday with absolutely no plans whatsoever for the day, I decided that I’d take a little bike ride. My little bike ride, turned into a 30 mile endeavor, which I topped the following Saturday with a 35 mile ride all throughout the city, seeing and exploring. And thus…a tradition of sorts was born. I’m poor, I live in a small room, and I work two jobs…long distance travel is largely out of the question, but this city, this city has got a whole world to explore. The lives, the stories, the people, this is my new quest, my new adventure—to discover a bit about the place that has had such a huge impact on my formation, and in the process, perhaps learn some more about myself.

These are my thoughts on a Sunday, about the words a dj spoke on a Saturday on FM 91.5. I’m glad to have you reading if you’re reading. I’ll see you next week with a story or two. I’ve got to go to bed, I’ve got to teach in the morning.

Peace,

Sergio

Day one, hour one, minute one...snatched out of eternity

2009-04-18T23:16:00.000-07:00

Saturdays with Sergio…but somedays they’re going to be Tuesdays with Sergio written on Saturday, and sometimes they’re going to be Saturdays with Sergio written on Thursdays. To be honest and fair, sometimes they might even be Mondays with Sergio written partially on Wednesdays and finished in between beers on Friday. I can’t promise too much in continuity, I can only say that I will do my best to give you a bit of me—the random things I do, and the often mad thoughts that consume my mind. I hope you get something from all of this…and if you don’t…FUCK YOU!!! Hahaha. Welcome to my blog. Welcome to the wildly sarcastic side of the pensive thinker that might just make you think twice about thinking twice and forget about all the sadness that envelopes you today. I hope, if nothing else, you will smile a lot when you read my words. Enjoy.