Tommy boy, he broke out of jail last night,
These bastard guards, they didnt get him w/ their spotlight
I know hes heading south right now, gone to live the good life
He got a second chance, by GOd, i hope he gets it right

TOmmy boy,did 15 years for a crime he didn't commit
And every day he cried those tears, but he never quit
The sons of bitches in this place--gave him so much shit
But now he got away he did, he got himself out of it

Tommy boy, run along
You were so handsome, so strong
them en in this place they did ya wrong
but i remember you
so i wrote this song

Every night i sit and think of where tommy must be
Hes out there like a pirate, sailing the salt blue sea
How beautiful it must feel, how beautiful and free
I wonder if somwtimes he stops to think, does he remember me?

I like boys in girls clothes
i like when they take the pictures and they pose
I dont mind, these changin times
No i dont mind, these changing times

I can go,
down any road
I been with the men who build the bridges
been with the men who dig for coal
been with women who wear that gold
and
one thing i say
one thing i know
Everybody got their own heavy load

I aint scared
i never been prepared
i like folks that are strange
folks that are weird
i like folks whose up
i like folks whose down
i lke folks from the country
the city and the town

I like boys in girls clothes
i like when they take the pictures and they pose
I dont mind, these changin times
No i dont mind, these changing times

Marriage song 2

I ain't no lover,
that just isn't my style
When i take pictures
I make sure to never smile,
most of my life now
I feel like i been fightin a war
cause when I think of the women
Well, i think they're all a bore

I see my friends
they go all around the town
They think it makes em men
to get a woman layin down
I can't be bothered,
IN fact, the thought of it makes me sick
If all men are evil,
then all women are tricks

See i ain't cuttin my hair
and i know they want me to
I aint gonna be the soldier or the cop
THis is what women make men do,
I ain't fallin for the game
and i know well how the women play
They hug you with a smile
then they'll hang you the next day

war

Thank you Richard Nixon
Thank you Ronald Reagan
You ruined all the Cities
With your laws on Bootleggin'
Dirty old Republicans
yeah go thank George Bush
Gotta get arrested now
For smoking a little Kush
ohhh, fuck you and fuck your war on drugs
You're a bunch of bitches
Gave birth to all the thugs

dream log

I have had some cool and rather vivid dreams as of late, and I figure i ought to write them down, so someone in the future can read them.

Last night, I dreamed I was in some type of bar. It was kind of badly lit and i was sitting on a stool, with my hands on the counter. A weird looking lady with a very pale face was serving me shot after shot of whiskey, which of coure I kept taking. I feel like I was employed by the bar, and that it doubled as a restauraunt. Maybe I worked there as a waiter, or a waitress, I don't know. A part of me has always kind of wanted a job like that, but I probably couldn't get it, even if i wanted to.

I remember sitting at the counter talking w/ the lady about troubles. I don't quite know which troubles I had. All I really remember is how vivid the dream was --that is what stands out about it. I understand the details of the dream aren't so interesting, but it was the imagery of the thing that now, as I recall it, was so striking. Also, the smells. I feel they were incredibly strong. For example, at one point in the dream, the lady bartender told me she wanted me to see something, and she took my hand and led me into the back of the bar. She took me to a sort of living room that it seemed was set up back there, and I can vividly remember the smell of the leather couches we laid on. A man came stumbling back there, as we were lying down. He laughed with us and he had a bottle of liquor himself and poured some out for us. I think I was lyng on the lady bartenders breasts falling asleep, when I woke back up here, in my sad reality....

The dream from a few nights earlier was  a bit more interesting. I wouldn't have remembered it to tell you, except that, when I woke up from it, it was because the Colombian girl was calling me, and I got on the phone w/ her and told it to her, in my bad Spanish. It was a really weird dream, maybe one of the weirdest i've had in months. It started out with me walking around some type of strip mall, seeing a tattoo parlor, and then deciding I ought to get a new one. I wandered in and a very odd looking female tattoo artist was sitting ther -- she was extremely ugly. She had the tattoo gun already in her hand, connected to some very bright, red flashing wire. She grinned at me and nodded, i recall so vividly. "Need a tattoo?" said she, "you've come just in time, kid." So I sat down in the tattoo chair and explained what i wanted. I'm not sure what I said. In real life recently, I'm sort of contemplating getting the Jack Sparrow tattoo (that one of the bird), but i figure i said something different in the dream. She started to tattoo me right away, after wiping me down with the lotion, and then....what? It gets a little blurry. Something started to go wrong, i think, and i began to feel a lot of pain. A big bubble of some kind started to form on my skin, as though I had gotten an infection from her tattoo gun instantly. I think i started yelling at her and accusing her of trying to kill me. I have always, in the back of my head, kind of suspected tattoo artists of purposely injecting people with AIDs, for example. And then I remember she started to grab my face and tell me "calm down! This happens all the time! Calm down!"

She whistled or something, over to the other side of the shop, where a big guy suddenly appeared on a swivel chair. Maybe he had been there throughout the entirety of the dream; I don't really recall...this was my first time seeing the fellow. He smiled at me same as the artist did. He came stumbling over with this big tube looking thing in his hand. It almost looked a bit like an IV bag, maybe, and it was real soft looking - you could squeeze it like jello. The lady took the big tube from him and she unscrewed a cap on the end of it.

She looked at me and said she needed to inject the liquid from the tube (i think the liquid was red) directly into my bubbly sore, like a needle. I started to freak out, caue it looked like it was going to hurt, and bad. "Don't worry it doesn't hurt, promise..." she said. She had the man hold my arm down and i watched in horror as this big tube needle thing began to touch the big bubble on my skin. She started to inject it and i felt a prick. Not much pain--she wasn't lying. But then the frightening part of the sueno happened: Whatever she had injected into my arm, had only made the bubble in my skin grow all that much bigger, and now the bubble was beginning to actually move, through my skin. To be honest, it reminded me of that scene in the Mummy movies, the ones with Brendan Fraser, when the Egyptian guy gets all the scorpion bugs or whatever, biting into his flesh and crawling under the skin on his stomach. I didn't remember that movie, however, whilst I was in the dream, so to me it was all completely original, and mortifying. I started to shrieking and screaming, i think i might have thrown the tattoo artist and her weird friend into a wall, trying to escape, and then... well, then I woke up. Strange no? Who knows what it means. Dreams end fast. Sorry for the broken ending?

Now I'm sipping coffee trying to think of more dreams I might have had recently. After all the writing i've done on that hag Jenny, you'd think i would have seen her a few times in some, but i don't think I've seen her at all. I wouldn't be interested even if i did see her. In fact, what i really want in some dreams is to look in a mirror. Maybe even do my makeup! Wouldn't that be interesting? To me it would be fascinating. I want magic lipstick and magic eyeliner and eyeshadow and I'll be in the dream, staring into a mirror, doing it all perfectly on my face, totally unlike reality. I'll be a real artist in the dream, able to paint my face with the exact dazzling makeup i want. It won't basically be "unofficially illegal", like it is here, which is such a god damn drag. Yessir that would be a good dream, but i don't think i'll be having it any time soon. Instead I always get these dreams i don't wat, about people i don't want. Like that werewolf that ate my legs off dream. Oh I sort of forgot that one. I think it happened about 5-6 weeks ago, in March. I was sitting in a cafe in some wintry town, maybe in a state like Vermont, you can imagine, and suddenly a werewolf came bursting in thru the glass windows, and he was looking for me. He ate my legs off as i screamed and then someone shot him. Oddly enough, i had my legs back 10 minutes later, and then of course i woke up. Back here, in this bizarre "reality".

Say, you know another thing I'd like to have happen in a dream? I'd like to find some familiar books in a very magical looking library. I don't think i've ever seen any of the books i've read here in "reality", inside any of my dreams. It'd be cool, for example, if i could, by chance, come across a copy of one of my favorites, like Exterminator, or even something more famous, like those Edgar Allan Poe stories. It's kind of bizarre when you think of how something like that never happens, don't you think? Finding books you've read in reality, inside a dream! It should be happening all the time, but instead it never does. Something tells me the books one would find in dreams wouldn't be familiar to the books here. They're different. Why? The reason is simple: Different authors exist in the dream worlds. Different histories. Different countries. Different everyhing. Therefore, the odds of finding the same book you'd find here, are slim to none. I'm sure its happened to someone but not me. Does it mean that a good book like Exterminator is only available in this world? No. But it does mean that, if you took a sample of, say, 180,000 worlds, Exterminator is probably only in maybe 6-800 of them. For instance, this very text I'm writing now, I bet I'm writing it in, bare minimum, 4-500 other worlds, but not any more than that. I can't explain my rasoning of course--this is all wild speculation....

Now I am sort of thinking that it would be fun to have some sex in a dream. Just like reality, i haven't had any in a damn long time. A lot of boys, for example, talk about "wet dreams". I myself have only ever had one. I was making love on some big waterbed with the mother of an old friend, i remember very well, and i realized it was her in the dream, but i kept going on with it anyways. She is a pretty fat lady with long black hair and a bad Spanish accent and i remember sucking on her big nipples as my --what shall we call it -- "jack knife" slid in and out of her. She was rubbing the back of my neck the way a mujere will often do during sex, when they actually like you. And then of course i started to realize that i was getting very close to cumming. I didn't want the bomb to go off inside of the lady, however, so i started trying to warn her, the same as I always used to do in real life sex. She wouldn't let me out of her tho...she wanted it inside her..i think she even asked me to impregnate her... "who cares what my son will think?" she said. The moment i started to orgasm and cum, however, was the exact moment i woke up in reality, and I'll never forget the shock i felt as i blew the entire bomb all alone, right under my just cleaned bedsheets. I blew so much cum that night it wasn't even funny; i remember very well, and of course i was competely perplexed, because as i say, up until then, i never had a single wet dream in my life. THe first and last one i ever had, i was around 23 years old. Bloody odd ain't it? I should like another one of those, even if it means cumming on my bedsheets.


--Dream log , Monday morning

Tech

So many people say they want to go to the past. Sometimes I myself say it, and certainly think it. Ultimately, however, I can't really fathom going into the past...not even so much as just a year into the past, to be honest. For me, the only real option is the future. I cannot even begin to tell you how tired I am of the present.

Why? It's no fault of my own, dear reader. None at all. It's all the fault of technology. You see, a few years back i realized something very bad about myself and my personality: I am dreadfully impatient , and this impatience of mine most definitely applies to how i feel about the future. I'm not at all eager to personally grow old; but i am desperately eager for this World to get a little older, and a little wiser.   HOw often is it, for instance, that one meets a person who drones on and on about how "incredible" all the modern technology, of the year 2018, really is? It is constant. Alas, I must tell you, i cannot stand these people. To me, the tech of 2018 is radically behind my expectations. Text messaging, YouTUbe videos, video games inside a screen, I'm sick to death of all of it. I can imagine such better technology. Infinitely superior technology. This stuff of the early 21st century just ain't cutting it. Not at all!

I don't really know quite when the boredom began to form,but i think it begin after years of aging myself, and also seeing how slow all the daily technology was to change. When I was a kid, reading about the decades made it seem like technology changed very fast --if not extremely fast--and all the idiot folks here in town did nothing but add to this idea. On and on did they drone, about how rapidly technology had evolved and altered in their lifetime. So naturally, when i was 15, I imagined that, within 10 years time,all the tech would be ...radically different. Yet the truth is that most of this stuff hasn't changed all that much since I was 15.

 Sure, video chatting didn't exist back then, and neither did Youtube (it would be about 3 years), but...still...instant messenging existed, and we downloaded videos and watched them to our lonesome, all the same. And by the time video chatting arrived, i've got to admit, it doesn't really seem all that impressive anyways. In fact, I am so beyond disappointed with video chatting that, when I try to do it, thats often when I distinctly remember how behind it feels to me. The connection feels horrible every time, and the picture all sorts of blurry. It's 2018. How have these people not figured this out yet? I want cheap glasses i can put on, and feel like I'm in the room with the random people I meet online. What in hell are these inventors waiting for? It's been over 10 years since i was a 15 year old dreamer. An entire decade and more has passed. Imagine going from 1980 to 1994 and feeling like the tech was stil the same. In retrospect, doesn't it seem like 1980 to 93 was such a huge leap? To me it does. But maybe in reality it wasn't. Maybe the truth is that the tech develops in such tiny increments that, just like a kid growing in your own house, you never see how far it's come, until years and years later.

Am I grateful for what tech i have? Yes, don't think I'm not. Believe me, when i was 15, the hope that I would be able to one day get into touch with pretty girls, thru the Net, was certainly a very real one, and it has indeed come true (pretty girls were not on the net when i was 15) but , again, I still can't help but yearn, always, for far more. Take, for example, something that seems to impress many people: the Snapchat filter. Why has this rotten thing not advanced rapidly since it was created, however many years ago? Why am I not able to put on a completely pretend and real looking outfit, with the snapchat filter? Why am I not able to apply the same filter to my Skype webcam? Why am I Not able to have a pretend background when I am using my Skype webcam? For example, every time I talk on Skype, I want it to appear as though I am wearing a magic pongee suit, with a shimmering golden bandana, and behind me I want it to seem like I'm in some coffeeshop in Rome, the Colissuem in the window. Can one of these rotten tech innovators explain to me why this is not yet happening? I'm not joking when i write that i can't believe this sort of tech isn't available yet. The moment my 18 year old sister showed me the Snapchat filter, i said "i want more".

I don't know. I feel the urge to go and use the bathroom now; I Have to drop a number 2, or as we say here in working class parlance, "drop a bomb". And I can't lie: a part of me is wondering when the technology to help me evade even doing a number 2, will be invented. Like, can't there be a pill or something?

Spanish poem 5

Es una niña pequeña,
un cabello castaño
chica española
armado con un M-16 en el bosque,
disparando balas al cielo azul,
en los árboles
a los hombres

La música está detrás de su cabeza
y alrededor de sus orejas
las serpientes se arrastran a sus pies.
Ella es amiga de las serpientes,
ella los mantiene en su cama.
Por la noche, la luna se vuelve dorada
y ella toma el arma
y dispara balas
en la Luna...

Los niños se sientan en carpas
fumar opio negro
con piernas cansadas y ojos cerrados
el olor a dinero
el olor de la ciudad
llenando las fosas nasales jóvenes--

y en algún lugar del bosque profundo
es una estrella del rock and roll
(el secreto de las chicas)
la estrella es
convertido en cadáver
muerto
en un auto

Ella le disparó,
la pequeña niña española
disparale
muerto.

Spanish poem 4

hay mil hombres reunidos
en la cima de la montaña
debajo de las cuevas
esperando el llamado de paz.

el dragón está volando de nuevo,
lo vemos por encima de nuestras cabezas.

él escupe fuego, escupe joyas
los niños atrapan piezas de oro y plata
corriendo con su amigo Locura en la calle.

¿No es una hermosa tarde de verano?
no es un hermoso día
¿en la jungla?

escribe a mi madre y cuéntale
"No volverá a Nueva York ahora,
él encontró los hongos mágicos en
las antiguas cuevas,
él encontró la fuente mágica
él nadó con la mujer india
en el rio,
él no vendrá a Nueva York de nuevo ... "

Un despertar bajo
una luna de trueno
mirando con ojos felices
  una cara sonriente
con las lágrimas rojas de un leopardo
guardado en un tarro de oro transparente
con una mujer dormida
en la cama.

Un niño sentado con un zorro
mira el dragón
y llora

Spanish poem 3

el dragón negro
voló rápido a través de las montañas
siguiendo el
gran autobús azul.
Abajo de las carreteras y a través de los ríos,
debajo de nubes pesadas,
lloviendo
trueno,
rayos que dividen el viento abierto

el dragón negro volando por encima
la gente mirando
buscando
ojos retorcidos y quemados -
como mirar al sol
como mirar al fuego
mientras el dragón negro pasaba junto a ellos.

Elfos con botas pesadas, marchando
enanos con hachas pesadas, gritando
Princesas en la jungla, escondidas en castillos
riendo
Y el gran autobús azul, con las niñas
balanceándose sobre la última montaña--
para llegar a Bogotá
El dragón lo ve todo,
el dragón
lo ve todo

Spanish poem 2

ella baila en una habitación
con flores en el pelo
desnudo como un niño
al día
de nacimiento.

en una ventana brilla el sol
con rosas floreciendo
y el espeso olor del amor
todo al rededor.

fuera de la casa
tristeza y dolor sentados juntos
las calles están llenas
y
ladrones con bolsillos llenos de oro
ellos bombardearon la ciudad
diez veces diferentes
En un día,
los dictadores, los presidentes,
los patrones, los líderes,
niños soldados corriendo con lágrimas
balanceándose en las carreteras

estas prisiones son oscuras
estas prisiones están llenas de sudor
y suciedad
noches negras "ves las manos
sobresaliendo de las pequeñas celdas? "
joven amigo,
Estas ciudades son extrañas
escuchas los gritos toda la noche
"¡No mires sus caras!
¡no los mires a los ojos!
todo lo que ves es muerte
y la enfermedad ... "

pero ella está en esa habitación
ella está bailando con libertad
ella tiene canciones
guitarras
flores
vestidos
maquillaje
ella tiene su cabello
empapado
bailando
a una canción antigua
de esperanza y luz

sí, la mujer
es
bailando solo en una habitación
desnudo como un bebé
el olor de las flores
el pelo largo
la feliz mañana
el último sol
el mundo sabrá

Spanish poem

cada rio en mi vida
desbordante,
con bombas explotando en el aire
sobre mi cabeza

viejos recuerdos flotando
a través del espacio profundo,
con un sol negro
y una luna negra.
lobos aullando en las ciudades
yo tengo
visto
y armas gritando en el
casas

Todos los sueños que tengo en la noche
están locos, tristes y dementes.
todas las experiencias en el
noche
son
hirviendo como agua en una olla.
los perros de guerra
están listos para una nueva pelea

los perros de guerra
están esperando

Pelas la papaya
Sacas las pepas
Picas la papaya
Lo licuas con agua y un poco de azúcar.

Angry journals

Do I still sometimes sit here and wonder how Jen feels?

I will admit, naturaly, that I do. Fairly often, I guess. Like, not as often as before..no way..but still fairly often. It has been officially 86 days now, which is quite a long time, and yet there she is .. Jen...still on my mind. How will i ever get rid of her for real?

Well I suppose i could take the advice my friend Anthony gave me, when he told me I should just find a new woman --but I'll tell you ..I actually think thats terrible advice. I mean, thats exactly what Anthony did, after his woman Theresa up and left him, and ... now Anthony is living in his apartment with 2 twin babies and a kid his new woman gave birth to, years before she met him. That sounds like it sucks cock. Especially when you think that Anthony only moved out of his parents house to live in the apartment with Theresa. And now he's got the twin babies of some other weirdo who works at Starbucks living there with him. I mean , yea, sure, they are his kids too, but he only knew Starbucks girl for 6 months.....

So theres no way in Hell that I'm taking Anthonys advice on all this. He was a good friend in my early 20s, but in the end he wound up being a little bit of a moron, same as Jen and most others. Oh you know one thing i keep thinking over and over, that i already sort of wrote about, but wnat to write of again? It has to do w/ that topic of the children again ..w/ this idea that having children leads to a fulfilling, happy life, and how I think the Internet has finally killed this falsehood, once and for all. I guess i can't stop thinking, every time I think of Anthony or Jennifer, about how all of this situation might have felt for me, in a year like 1993 or something, before the Internet was around. And basically I am convinced that I would have felt an extreme and desperate need to copy them, and have babies too, if the Internet wasn't around, and the main reason I would have felt the need, is cause i feel like I would have not had any real way of knowing that what they did absolutely sucks. Cause, as i write, the only reason I know that child raisin' definitely sucks for vast multitudes of people, is because these people all make babies, and then come cry to the internet, and type up huge anonymous confessions.

Before the age of the internet tho ,where wuld you find all this out? Your friends? Your uncle Bob? They're all fucking liars, and they'll lie straight to your face about how much having kids sucks -- most of em will, anyways. They'll sit there going on and on about how great it is, how fulfilling, yada yada ... mostly just to persuade themselves and not you, and the only time they'll ever really admit they hate it, is late at night, alone in some diary. Or of course now on the internet...

Yea i dont know but that thought just keeps running thru my head and its yet another of the million reasons that I'm so fucking grateful for the Internet, as I always have been. She has actually saved me from having children! Imagine me now hugging the Internet. Does it feel cold to you, reader? It doesn't feel cold to me. It's better than some screaming child whose just gonna grow up to resent me cause i'm not a millionaire, don't you think? Yayayaya... thats the other thing I wonder about y'know? Like what does Jen really think her kids are gonna think about her, 20 years from now, when they're around the age we are now? Does she think that they're gonna sit there talking w/ her, helping her stay sane, and being her best pal? They'll probably move away the moment they turn 18 considering what a fucking moron she is. What will she do then? Go insane, I suppose.Of course maybe the world will be different by then. Some guy who works at Google says Universal Basic Income will be around by the 2030s. Jennifer, being a moron Republican, is deeply opposed to it. But ...well.. her kids would get it, and it would save her life, as much as her shoddy life can be saved, at any rate.

Hey isn't it so delightful, reader? How  completely cold I've gone on Jennifer now? Like i literally cant stand the thought of her. She's like a drug addict clown who lives in a sewer and i just wanna throw a grenade into the sewer and..... what? I don't know. Reverse reverse. I'm imagining a robot in the year 2035 punching Jen in the face. Somehow it will be the case that she will even provoke robots to become violent w/ her. Ouch. Domestic violence! Jennifers favorite turn on. "The more charges a boy got on his crimmy record, the more me like him!" she shouts into some dark black hole. You know what Jen should have been? A porn star. She can suck a mean dick and I know she can take it deep up her ass, so she should have just done that and made some money out of it. Being a momma doesn't suit her. She's too much of a brain dead whore and has no money and her kids will be white trash and fuck whores and..... Zinggggggg! 

Ah I'm getting disgusting I know. Misogynistic. I need to stop. Look, girls, I'm uncapping my lipstick and painting my lips red. I'm a feminist! Forgive me! I'll tell my reader whats funny though. Ive been talking to all these sexi Peruvian and Colombian girls lately, and all of them agree w/ me that women like Jen should be banned from having babies. Literally, every single one of them thus far has agreed with me. Women that have no money do not deserve the right to have babies . Go fuck yourselves. Even the girls in Bogota, Colombia know it. So how the fuck is it the case that Jen doesn't? Suburban white whore that she is. Queen of the Whores. Whore of Whores.  (Dont worry she loves being called that)> 

---logging off 

Kate Del Castillo is better than everyone else on Earth

jWith Jen out of my life now, its all so different. There is all this time that I did not have before, to research and watch and do all the things that I just wasn't doing anymore, because Jen and conversations w/ her, filled up so much of my time. Take, for example, this Mexican actress, Kate Del Castillo.

 I "met" Kate while I was with Jen, I remember well, last May of 2017, but I was unable to ever find the time to really delve deeply into any of her Spanish language TV shows. Now i have the time and .. sad as it might sound to some, to replace a real human being, with a TV actress from Mexico, I have to say...i don't think it's so sad. If anything, its happy. Spending time with actresses and actors has always been better than reality, and Kate Del Castillo is no exception to this rule. I am very much enjoying passing my time w/ her and these bizarre "telenovelas" that she makes, down in Mexico. The telenovela, for those who don't know, is basically like a soap opera. Since Mexico doesn't erally produce much film, this is basically the best intro to the culture you can ask for, by way of the screen...and Kate is basically the biggest star it seems the Mexicans have...

So yes, thats what i have been doing these past few days: Watching Kate in a myriad of things, keeping up with my Spanish, which is now becoming better than ever before, and of course pretending Jen does not exist. Thats why i'm no longer really adding anything to this blog much too, by the way, cause if I did, I know that I would just keep going on about Jen, and I don't want to. It was fun to write about Jen at first but it quickly turned into a bad habit. Theres only so much to say. The story is dreadfully repetitive and not entertaining. She is a major pendeja and she doesn't deserve to be discussed. Not to mention my body is in such pain to sit and type that I should not waste the typing time I have on her. My wrists  and fingers and hands are so shot. Can't .... waste... on...her. If Im gonna spend my typing time on anything, I should spend it on trying to produce a screenplay for Kate Del Castillo. She is totally the new star of my min. Que bonita mujer.... 

I might as well explain how I discovered her and how, exactly, I fell in love w/ her as my new femme icon, huh? Well it all begins with thee TV show La Reina del Sur. This, as I wrote, is a very famous show in Mexico and it was made some years ago. It concerns the plot line that, thanks to the mean US government, many Mexicans are hopelessly trapped in right now: the War on Drugs. Kate, in the show, plays a wife to some big time drug dealer who works with one of the cartels -- I think one of the ones from Sinaloa. And though all of this is very interesting, none of it probably would have really caught my eye, until of course I came to realize where the show had originally been born: On the page of an author that I quite fancy and who i read years ago. His name is Arturo Perez-Reverte. He is from Spain and he wrote the book that one of my favorite Johnny Depp movies, the Ninth Gate, was based on. Naturally, once I heard this show was connected to Arturo, the intellectual Spanish author who seems somewhat on par w/ Umberto Eco, I knew i had to start watching. I could do so free of shame! Verguenza! For yes it might be a Mexican soap opera that old Mexican women watch, but ... hey..Arturo Perez...he's my in. Plus, like i say, Kate.

It wasn't until just last night, however, that I really and truly knew Del Castillo was my new icon. This is because last night i discovered a very interesting film she did, in English, which i can't believe she did: It is called K-11 and it takes place in a Los Angeles prison, specifically it takes place in an area of the prison where LGBT prisoners are kept, and ... can you believe it ...Kate plays a fucking transgendered mujere and she even does "Chola" make-up for the role, and she even has a cock for the role, and ... oh my fucking Lord....this was right down my alley! So of course i watched it and it was incredible and now I've woken up the next morning in pure shock that something like that even exists, and that it actually had this epic Mexican actress in it. Not to mention the guy Jay from Jay and Silent Bob. Which was sort of weird but pretty cool. In fact, he played Kate's lover in the film.

Her name in the film was "Mousey". I almost feel like starting to write fan fiction about her immediately. I have , quite frankly, never seen  a character so incredible in ages. And the fact that I was led to Mousey via studying Spanish, which led me to Kate, is not being lost on me, trust me. Just yesterday morning, for example, i was starting to work on an essay I wanted to write, about why i'm convinced Latina/Italian women are so different from English speaking ones , and so, to then discover that Kate, the first Mexican actress i've ever followed, had the courae to play this transgendered role, is not too shockin to me. Latina people, same as the Italians I studied years ago, (and of course I'm Italo-Americano) are absolutely more expressive, and open, with their femininity, than these dry protestant fuckers in the USA could ever be. And god damnt but you don't know how angry and sad and bitter it makes me. To think im trapped in this expressionless US culture, where all the most lively people are in LA jails like "K-11". Or trapped in rooms w/ broken lights and undiagnosed problems, like myself. This life is a cruel joke.

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My weird relationship with 12 years a slave

There is a particular scene in the movie 12 Years A Slave, that deeply reminds me of my most recent relationship, with what I would describe as a severely troubled middle class white woman named Jen, who had 2 babies outside of marriage , with no fathers in sight. It occurs about halfway through the film, long after the main character, Solomon Northup, has been kidnapped from New York and sold into slavery in Georgia, where his name was changed to “Plat”.

The scene contains only two characters: Plat, and then the white wife of his slavemaster, who is standing on the porch of a beautiful house -- presumably built by slaves--- in a rather elegant dress. Her face is mean and her stare very cold, and the scene concerns her handing a tiny sheet of paper to the slave, that has some groceries and items she wants, written down upon it. For a very quick second, the slave takes a brief look at the paper, as if he's actually able to read it. The audience of the film of course, by this point, knows very well that Solomon can read, and rather well at that, but the wife of the slavemaster, she just knows him as Plat the slave, and has no idea. When she sees him glance at the sheet very quickly, however, the audience is left mortified for a brief moment.

Why? It's simple: At this point in the film, we have unfortunately already witnessed Plat destroy his life once before, by enthusiastically revealing to his previous master, that he was able to read , play a violin and even plan how to navigate successfully on a river boat. En route to being sold as a slave in Georgia, Plat was warned by other slaves “never to reveal he could read, or that   he knew how to be anything except a nigger.” They said he'd probably get himself in even worse shape, if he revealed what he was able to do, how well he was able to read, etc. Solomon of course, couldn't comprehend this. With his first master, he was very eager to reveal his intelligence. He wanted to differentiate himself from the so called “field niggers”. So he leapt at the chance to show the master just how smart and intelligent he was. As I say, it was a big mistake. In fact, he almost even wound up hanged for it. Eventually the master let him off the literal hook, and just sold him to another slavemaster-- this one being one of the cruelest in the South.

Hence, when we watch this scene with him and the wife of the second master, we are all terrified, because we know ful well that, if she realizes he can read, she's either going to have him killed right away, or, more likely, she's going to subject him to an even crueler and more vicious style of enslavement. For a quick moment, though, we have no idea if Solomon is going to be able to resist telling her he knows how to read. Is he still the same man as before, the freed man from New York who is rightfully proud of his intelligence, we wonder, or does he now realize that those slaves he met en route to captivity  were correct, that he's better off just pretending he's a Georgia slave, an unlearned man, and has always been one?

Every time I have watched the scene back to myself, in recent weeks , since my seperation from that evil white suburban being named Jen, I get literal chills down my spill. In fact, the very first time I even watched the film 12 Years a Slave, which oddly enough, I only became curious to watch after escaping Jen, I identified with this scene in particular, immediately. I saw parallels right away. Yes indeed.

“Where you from Plat?” says the white woman slavemaster, when the scene begins.

“I told you.” Solomon says.

“Tell me again.”

“Washington.”

“Who were your masters?”

“Master had the name of Freeman.”

“He was a learned man?”

“I suppose.”

“He learn you to read, Plat?”

This is the moment when, as I say, we are all mortified, praying that our heroic character will not give up the truth, and that he will instead do as he must, and lie.

A quick moment passes; you almost think he hesitates; but then he answers wisely: “A word or two here or there.” The slave says, “but I've no understanding  of the written te-”

Before he's even done saying his words, the white woman slavemaster, with her cold and ugly miserable white face, so pale and milky -- and which reminds me so much of Jens--- cuts him off and replies. “Well don't you trouble yourself Plat. You're same as the rest, and Master brought you here to work. That's all. Any more,” she says, turning her demented face upwards, “and you'll earn a hundred lashes.”

Now I understand very well, how the common reader might think to themselves, that no white boy on Earth, could possibly relate to this scene, the way I'm saying I do, and yet when I tell my reader, that I not only relate to this scene more than any other in my life, period, I really mean it. And it isn't just because of Jen either , or my relationship with her, that I relate with it. Yes, she and the story I lived with her definitely made me relate much deeper with it --- but this scene, of a man having to literally hide his intelligence, in order to not start trouble, literally feels like it displays, to an extent, the entire troubled story of my life. Why? It's simple: No matter who it seems I've ever come into touch with, it usually seems as though, 9 times out of 10, my intelligence simply is not wanted. Just like Plat, I'm usually told that there just ain't no god damn use to my intelligence. Beyond that, it's also usually strongly implied that it makes me rather unattractive as a man….in just the same way it's clear to see that Plats intelligence made him significantly less attractive and likable, as the slave the Southerners wanted him to be.

My reader of course is probably curious why Jen in specific made this all stand out to me. It's because Jen was a middle class white girl, from a town that's considered “above my own”, and the two babies she has created, she had done so with two men who were-- you guessed it--- from my exact same town. Unlike myself, those two men fit , to a literal tee, the precise stereotype of my modest white working class town here: They are obsessed with the Us Flag, they've been to prison, they listen to rap music and cal thrmselves niggas, they have probably never read a book in their life, and they are always very eager to put down and insult women. Often they're very violent; in fact, both of them have domestic violence on their criminal records .

The reader might think-- if they're rational--- that no woman on earth would want a man like that, especially not to make babies with outside of wedlock, and especially not a woman like Jen who, as I explain, wasn't working class, had two college graduates for parents, and who graduated from her high school as-- believe it or not -- a claas president. And yet the truth, for some odd reason, was that those were the exact men that Jen chose to make children with, and to allow, no questions asked, to live in her house, until of course they eventually beat the living hell out of her (and even then, she still embraces them).

Most people might ask why. I certainly did myself, more than a few times...until I turned this 12 Years A Slave film on, and began to understand it all. Here's what I deduced of it: Jen , who always seemed simultaneously annoyed and obsessed with me, didn't actually want to be an equal with the men she dated. Jen purposely, being the daughter of college graduates, went out literally hunting for a dumb illiterate stereotype , of a working class white boy. When she met me --- and she did meet me through the second child's father, from my same hood--- I believe she thought she was about to receive a third dumb working class stereotype. She was, it should be noted, extrmely eager to strike up texting conversations with me, very soon after we met. She was very curious about me, which didn't surprise me, because another girl from town had told me that “Jen Snyder will chase any man from over here. Literally any one of them.” Jen of course did not know anyone had ever said this to me...

When she discovered, however, that I was actually able to read and write in that same pretty way she surely remembered doing, long ago,as clas presidenr of Greenley High School, she went a little nuts. She didn't know what to do, in my opinion, or how to react. In truth, I even remember having this distinct thought years and years ago, when first I met her, and remember, I had never seen this scene then, yet I can recall the feeling distinctly: “This woman is very angry that this baby daddy of hers, actually knew somebody like me. She's enraged about it.”

In jens sick head, i wasn't supposed to be in existence, and of course, the baby's daddy, since he was a high school drop out, from my territory, simply wasn't supposed to know a single person like myself. To Jen, everyone this kid had ever met, was supposed to be just another stereotypical moron. A nigger. She had two babies from two men...all the pretty people in Greenley had stopped going to see her...any contact she had once had with “intelligent folk”, she herself often remarked, had basically ceased the year high school ended, since she had a baby just a year later . So how on earth was it that this imbecile baby daddy, who was so much lower than her, could possibly drag someone so smart out of the city of mad hell in which we live?

I was, after all,  from what she repeatedly called “the bad town”. I was supposed to be a bumbling illiterate. I was supposed to wear a baseball hat backwards and say nigga constsntly, and call 50 Cent and Eminem my favorite artists . I was supposed to be a dumb man that she could easily suck into her lunatic web and create a third illegitimate child with, at which point she could start having me arrested for random things , same as she did the others.

I was supposed to be someone Jen was going to easily exert power over, someone she was supposed to be infinitely smarter than, someone she would be able to seduce and get to break back for her kids for...someone that, as I often watched her do with her second child's father, she was supposed to be able to endlessly mock with her college graduate parents, since he never knew anything they were often “discussing” around the dinner table. Oh, how they would laugh and laugh at him, for not knowing the answers to their incessant discussions about specific pieces of information they'd go over.

I saw it often with my own eyes, as he would invite me over, perhaps because he also eventually saw, that it made Jen very very angry, to see that someone from this side of town could actually read coherently and deeply. Even though he wound up beating the hell out of Jen and now might go to prison for it, the same as her first “baby daddy”, who did a year for beating  her, in her fathers enormous house (where the father never is), I think he made sure I knew Jen, almost just because he wanted to show her “some people from this so called hell town you hate, aren't so bad as you think. In fact, maybe they're even smarter than you!” I think, too, sometimes, that this unforunate soul, also knew himself, that Jen had only ever let him in her house, to fulfill some sort of gross stereotype, and anger her mother. He knew he was being used based on his troubled background; he did not like it. He said it to me a number of times. He felt, I believe, like Jen had cornered him like a vulture, after he was released from prison, because she purposely wanted a convict. Jen Snyder was actively looking to encourage troubled boys from a poor mans town, to get in trouble, and to constantly see how far she could get them to go in their lunacy. Just like the slave masters in the movie were always trying to see how much they could provoke the slaves, because the moment you provoke that slave, you get even more of a justification, especially if you’re the wife of the slavemaster,  to shear his head off.

And of course, where does it all really leadi n the end? Well, as I’m saying, I think it lead to somewhere like this 12 Years A Slave movie. I think that Jen, being at once so annoyed and yet so fascinated with my “unstereotypical intelligence”, tried to obsessively suck me into her lair, to ensnare me, the same as she did those other two unfortunate slaves, but sadly for Jen, I was somehow able to escape her hellish plantation, before it ever truly got its hooks in me. Did I nearly get the shackles of enslavement put around my poor white boy wrists? Indeed, I nearly did, because I was almost seduced at times, but ultimately I was able to flee and successfully escape, before anything serious went down, and I think the reason for it, is similar to the reason Solomon Northup ultimately escaped the 2nd plantation he was sold to: I revealed my intelligence to Jen, as I’ve written, but I didn’t necessarily reveal it all at once. I was somewhat careful with it, and many things I purposely never mentioned to her. I also made sure to sometimes “descend” into the stereotype that I knew she wanted, to make sure she would always stay somewhat tricked, and never get too angry with me. If she got very angry, after all, i knew she would want to ruin me, which would mean she would get in a hot pursuit of me. Thankfully,iIn the end, I feel i was able to escape because I wasn’t seduced when she finally did try to seduce me. Mostly the reason I wasn’t seduced is because of the exact opposite reason Jen seems to enjoy men from my troubled town so much: I don’t like dating people who are significantly dumber than me, and I certainly have no intention on making babies with any such people….

So ya. Solomon Northup, man. Crazy.

Future of Child Raising

So now that I got that great big rant about how glad I am to have escaped Jen and her illegitimate children out of me, I figure I ought to get to writing a tiny bit about parenthood in the modern world, and just why I -- as a holy childless man--- think so many of these total suckers out there completey despite it, but are of course trapped in it.

The first thought that comes to me when I think about this topic is this: Over the course of the 20th century, and especially now the first 18 years of the 21st, I believe that humans have undergone a titanic shift not just in terms of technology, but also in terms of consciousness. To put it simply, I think that many activities we humans were rather mindlessly engaged in for centuries upon centuries, are now no longer such mindless activities. Child raising is obviously the perfect example of one such “mindless activity” that, for a long time, we humans kept doing on repeat, without really thinking about how it changed our lives.

Basically, the thesis I am presenting here is that, in pretty much every century prior to the 20th, there was, in some sense, nothing better to do with ones time on Earth, besides raise children. After all, in a year like 1780, books really weren't widely published, video games didn't exist, airplanes weren't flying everywhere, televisions weren't in every room, clothes were all pretty dreary, and ...well, 1780 just looks like it would have been a pretty boring time, for someone who was alone. Cause in 1780 there was basically no point in even being alone. You would have nothing to do. Families and children and all that, they were almost actual necessities, if you wanted to be entertained, in a year like that. What else could you have really possibly done all the time? It was a dreadfully mundane time in whixh to be living, in many ways. In a certain sense, the idea of the “individual” had not yet even been invented.

Indeed, it's this big idea of the individual and the actual creation of him or her, that has completely changed child rearing in the modern age, and made it so absolutely intolerable for so many very remorseful parents. Basically what happened is that, with the advent of TV, films, books, video games, airplanes, automobiles, birth control, grocery stores, and of course now the Internet, people became something they never had been before: Mentally self sufficient. Now being mentally self sufficient is a bit different than being physically self sufficient, but essentially what it means is that, no matter who you are now, it's pretty easy to keep yourself endlessly entertained, all the time, without the help of a spouse or a couple children running around. Again, so many avenues of entertainment we have now, just did not exist in the past. Freedom was severely limited. If you were born in Italy, you were probably trapped there in every sense of the Word...you couldn't even hope for a bloody one hour TV show to help you escape your surroundings. All of this is gloriously over now. The scientists and inventors invented things, and tons of them. Yes some of those things, like the nuclear bomb, and Wal Mart, were terrible--- but so many other things were wonderful. And all these wonderful things have made child rearing just seem like milking cows or working the assembly line at the Ford factory. It's almost like some old and obsolete pastime now. The same fun you would have had doing it in 1650, when literally the entire village Outside your door was doing it with you,  just ain't there. It just ain't there….

Again, it all goes back to this idea of the individual having been created. I don't think many people realize just how recent of an invention the individual really is. For almost the entire length of human history, he or she didn't exist. What we had instead were groups or tribes . For example, when one thinks of a caveman, one does not think of someone who had his own specific interests. The caveman is instead a lot like a dog: All of them did the exact same thing ...none were really that noticeably different than the other . And this lack of differences between people actually went on for quite a long time, believe it or not, especially when you're talking about the poorest among us. Coincidentally, who is still giving birth to the most children? The poor. Why? Because they literally still feel like they have no identity of their own to maintain or salvage; theyre eager to trade themselves in for the identity of “parent”. They are like the cavemen: They don't do enough thinking to be individuals. Therefore, they don't necessarily miss “themselves” much, when they give birth. But wealthier people definitely do miss themselves , cause they see right away what was lost. Wealthy people had interests, after all, that they pursued as individuals, that they see right away, are totally forfeited.

Of course, at this point, I understand that older readers might be looking over this, and thinking I'm nuts, and wondering what it all means. After all, if what I'm saying has any truth to it, doesn't that mean that we are rapidly approaching a time when literally everyone , or nearly everyone, will find child raising dreadfully annoying, and not want to do it? Well, yes, that is sort of what I foresee happening, in fact. The problem with this, of course, is that the world will still need new lives, and someone will have to raise them, so how's it gonna work? Here's where it gets to be a bit like science fiction: In the future, it's very easy for me to imagine a scenario where, instead of perhaps  being raised by angry, remorseful  and clueless parents, children will be raised by a collective unit of trained professionals. In other words, child raising will somehow become completely a matter of the State, rather than being something that's left up to the private family.

 At first, for modern ears, the idea sounds dreadful, and it almost even sounds pretty lacking in individualism. After all, isn't a private family much more individualistic than something as awful as the State? The answer is actually both yes and no. For example, the nuclear private family is more individual than the tribe, which predates it, but at the same time as that, the tribe existed in that terrible time when there was no technology, and this idea I'm coming up with -- which sounds similar to a big tribe raising children---- would have very different results than a tribe, since this idea will exist in a world of very innovative technology. The child of the cavemans tribe always wound up being just like every other child because they had no computers and didn't live in a highly advanced and skilled society. The child of the advanced State would probably face some indoctrination, yes--- but he wouldn't face it to the extreme degree the tribal child used to, or even, in my opinion, to the same degree a modern child in an Evangelical family does right now. Making the indoctrination argument is rather pointless: No matter which way you raise a child, some type of indoctrination will always be present. The only problem would be indoctrination on a massive scale, which could arise in a situation like the one I paint, but so long as the society remains democratic (which I feel would actually be more likely to happen) there would be no issues. The society of children raised by an advanced state  would be a highly educated society. As I say, the risk of indoctrination is always there. The Germans who fell for Hitlers asinine plan were the grown children of very close knit late 19th and early 20th century nuclear families . Nuclear families produce indoctrinated morons too. It's simply not a valid argument ….

The other important thing to keep in mind here, since I know many people will find the idea of children being raised by the State so mortifying, is that, in so many ways, ¾ worth of childhood has already been handed over to the state, even in our own time.

Public school from the age of 5 to 18 would have been an unthinkable horror to the family person of , say, the year 1235. It wouldn't have made any sense, mostly because it would have been making the child too much of an individual, as a result of the fact that an education inherently separates a child from whoever their family might be. See what I mean? Nowadays it's something you literally have to do. Every child must go to school, in at least some form. This idea is publicly supported by taxes, and the reason people support it -- even in America, where everyone hates helping one another ---- is because no one wants to live in a society that's half filled with children who can't read, write, or who don't even know literally the first thing about the history of the country they're living in. It'd be a terrible country to live in, that did not have public school, and my prediction is that this entire idea of being taken care of by the public  will eventually bleed over into every last aspect of 9/10 children's lives. All but the wealthiest children may very well find themselves born into the State, raised by professional caretakers. It sounds scary to the modern ears, I know -- but so does a nuclear bomb, and no one seems to be crying about the existence of that every day anymore. Society changes. It must, or else it will flounder. And right now the plain fact is that far too many children are falling into massive black holes of our society, because the nuclear family has gone bust, and it ain't coming back.

Here's the big detail in all of this, however, that most people are probably missing: In a world where the majority of children are somehow being successfully raised by a public state, there will be a ton of people milling around with a lot more money and a lot more free time, than anything we can imagine today. The reason why is obvious: In our own time, it's basically still almost nearly “everyone” who falls into the trap of having children they couldn't really afford. Believe me, I've done a lot of reading on it, and lived it firsthand, and it's clear to see that even people who have the children within marriages right now, usually can't really afford them. As a result, we have a great deal of very stressed out people living in rather bleak conditions, who never have a single waking moment to take a breather, or think much about someone else's kids. Most poor families in America literally have no extra money and not even any real time to enjoy their own kids, in fact. They spend nearly their entire lives just working to keep the kids alive, and then the kids get to age 18, have more kids, and basically do the exact same thing. In the alternate future world I'm describing, every kid would instead have a connection to something or someone who actually had loads of free time to pass with them . Every kid would eat 3 meals a day. Every kid would be raised by professionals who would be trained to identify and work with their core strengths , whatever they may be, in order to successfully prepare them for their place in society.

 In such a world, it's very easy to imagine that my skill as a writer could have been quickly identified and advanced upon at as early as 11 years old. Instead, in this world, I was left mostly at the mercy of clueless parents, who basically seemed illiterate and disinterested in everything I had to say. Which world really sounds more dystopian to you? The one where tons of kids get unfortunately born into families that collapse a month after they're born, cause daddy likes smoking crack and suddenly realized he didn't want a kid, or a world where professional caretakers have been trained to work with kids, even when it comes to passing the night time hours? Again, the idea I have is seen as so belligerently radical, but it's really nothing more than an extension of the school life to the evening hours. Monday- Friday, from 7 am to 3 pm, already sees the child under the wings of the professionally trained caretaker. The future world merely makes it all full time, Monday-Sunday, 100 percent. It doesn't really sound scary to me honestly ...not after the family life I had to deal with, and am still dealing with . It doesn't sound scary at all. If anything, it sounds downright relieving. I would have had the chance to be with all my friends. No begging for rides to their house every Friday evening. I would have been living with them and studyjng with them, all the time. Honestly it sounds more evolved.

You see, the one detail that struck me so much about Jen's story (to discuss that briefly now) was that, when you listened to her tell it, she often would make it sound as though, if only the childs father would stop smoking crack, shooting heroin, and cooperate with her, all would eventually be just dandy and perfect, without a problem in the world. After a long enough time of listening to Jen tell this tale over and over, I almost began to believe it myself, and I saw things from her eyes, which made me interpret the "standard family", where daddy is home and works a good job, and where mommy is also home and maybe works a good job too, as the greatest thing since sliced bread. The thing, however, that ultimately shattered this asinine illusion, was that, when I began to research the recent history of the nuclear family, as well as all the articles posted by scientists and actual parents online, about how much they hate married life and regret having kids, it dawned on me very quickly that, even the married couples with money, whom Jen believes to be happy, aren't really that happy anymore, in this modern age.

The real dark truth about child rearing in our time now is that, as i keep stressing, nearly everyone is growing more and more discontented and annoyed with it, with each passing generation. The woman with babies in the 1960s was more annoyed than the woman in the 1940s, and the woman in the 1980s was more annoyed than the 60s, et cetera et cetera. This is because the nuclear family has gone bust -- and the family has gone bust, again, because of the advanced technology we have created, which has resulted in this "hyper individualization" occurring. For example, if my reader is someone who finds my idea of the "individual" only recently being created preposterous, just think for a moment about a very common argument that occurs between married couples today: "What shall we watch tonight on our television set?".

This argument simply didn't exist in the past; there was no TV set and thus the only real argument a married couple from, say, 1920, could have gotten into, was about whether they wanted to take their child to the river, or down to the park. It's still an argument, yes, but its not nearly as significant as what to watch on the TV set, which now has 900 channels. The hyper individualization I'm referring to is deeply connected to the 900 channels the average commoner now has to choose from, in addition to the fact that he can also just buy a separate TV set all his own, or a computer, etc. As I repeatedly stress, people in the year 2018 have a mass array of interests that no one ever had before, for all of time. Think for a moment of a fellow who would have cleaned the deck or something, on a big boat, in the year 1690. He did his duties and then he perhaps got drunk, talked to some other people on the same boat as he was for 3 hours, cleaned his clothes, perhaps stared at the ocean for 20 minutes, and went to sleep. That was the total extent of his "self". Choice hardly existed for that, depending how you look at it, very fortunate deck swabbing soul. He did not say "I want to listen to the Rolling Stones tonight instead of the Beatles! Damn you other sailors!". He had no choice; he just listened to whatever musician may have been available upon the boat. And believe it or not, but this gigantic multitude of choices, lifestyles, activities, interests, books, and TV shows, has all radically altered the manner in which we are interpreting child rearing. As I say, it's like milking cows now. It ain't the same, and it never will be again. It's annoying now, especially if you have no idea what you're doing and you've gotten trapped doing it all alone.

So yea. I've actually sort of written about all of this before somewhere, but I figured it deserves some attention again, what with all my grief about Jen and how much she hates her life and all that. As I always say, ciao ciao.

Childless Single

I woke up happy today, oddly enough...I'm pretty surprised. Like I literally just rolled out of bed 10 minutes ago, and I'm absolutely starving, and there's not even any butter in this house to eat, but for some reason I popped this old Doors song on, and I suddenly feel like a million bucks. A moment ago, I was just doing a good Mick Jagger dance straight across the room, pumping my arms and legs in the dark, as the little bit of sunlight twinkles in through the dirty windows of this room.

Its the year 1018 .. err 2018..and I'm still alive. I have ditched an ugly, mean eyed single mother and found freedom. I feel like a man who just escaped some horrific fate. Honestly, its exactly how I feel .. and you wanna know a thing, chile? It feels god damn GOOD to feel this way. Like, why should I be angry or upset that I ever met Jennifer? I shouldn't be.

If I had never met her, I would have never gotten the chance to feel this sensation of deep and profound escape. I also ---this is a big deal -- never would have gotten the chance to see just how shitty having children really is. I might have wound up like my poor fool of a friend Anthony: I might have gone wandering off into the life of having kids, and then being married, without thinking twice about it...until of course, it was too late. I certainly don't think I ever would have done all that reading I've now done about pregnancy and child raisin', if it had not been for Jens horrible life, so my God, who is really luckier than I? The Gods gave me the chance to witness how god awful child rearin' is first hand. I never have to really "wonder" now, about what its like on the other side of the fence. For I have already been there! And seen it! And I know it SUCKS!

 The Gods, in their infinite beauty, spared me, as they are sometimes wont to do. The child rearin' life has been narrowly avoided, for another round of pleasure. Does this mean permanent escape? One never knows. The prison guards are always around; the hellhounds always chasing a boy, espeially a poor boy. But it does definitely mean a more heightened sense of escape, and a more profound sense of "realization". Before Jen, as i say, i didn't truly realize how much so many parents truly hate their roles and their lives. I did not even really contemplate child raisin'. It was all in one ear and out the other. I was still very much in that age of life where, as though I was a child myself, I just thought of parents as people who had...always been parents. Now I have seen the workings of the machine; I have pulled back the curtain. I know the magic trick now. Parents were not born parents. They became them. And many of them yearn, deeply, for their former selves, yet they feel as though they can't admit this to a soul! Many of them desperately wish they weren't parents, every waking minute! They hate their lives!!!!! Not only are they dead sick of their kids, of all ages, but they're also dead BORED of them too. Bored, bored, bored, bored to tears, like convicts in a prison cell.

Therefore, the feelings of freedom. I literally feel like a father who escaped his family but who doesn't have to feel any of the guilt...because I'm not the actual father! I was just some passerby testing the waters and the moods and the wind, ya digg? And being back here, on my old boat, alone, with just my music, my 3 month old Cheerios, my lack of butter, and my friends in Colombia...guess what? It don't really feel lonely, nor does it feel "too quiet". It feels perfect. Cause I know that every quiet moment that passes for me, I am living a moment that a remorseful parent only ever gets the sad chance to dream about. I am the person they wish they could be, in all their agonizing, "I knew i should have never had a child" moments. I am almost like...come to think of it... I bet I literally am the creation of an author who is a parent, and he's writing me into reality in his one free hour of spare time every morning, with tears pouring out of his eyes. Thats who I am now. I am the person all parents who hate their lives and who hate being parents secretly dream of becoming.  And as much as they want to deny that they secretly wish that thought constantly, guess what? The Internet has brought all of their truths and grief and sorrow to the light of day!

 The Internet -- the beautiful "world wide web" -- has exposed so many of these f'n parents who have been lying to everyone for the better part of, I'd say, 5-6 decades of time now. All these parents, these aunts, uncles, cousins, single mothers, deadbeat fathers who come and go, who show up every holiday with smiles, who post on Facebook and pretend they are so glad they created children and now get to clean up their shit and vomit...the Internet has exposed you! It has exposed your secret ramblings, your secret anonymous despisal of your mundane lives, your hatred of it all! The Internet has brought to light what old Charles Bukowski knew even back in the 60s...what every artist has known for a long time now: Having the typical family life FUCKING BLOWS! It robs your identity! It steals your time! It sucks the life straight out of you! It's the most maddening and monotonous life imaginable! Its a throwback to the year 1933. And I ain't living it baby! I kept away from the women. Somehow. For all these years. I kept away from them long enough to reach this age of wisdom and maturity now, an age where I had the patience to read as much as I did, and consciously realize that it really does blow. I won't be making the mistake Anthony made. I won't be making the mistake Jenny made. I'm going to pursue further FREEDOM.

I'm going to be blasting the Doors songs when I wake up in the morning, as I did this morning, instead of "The Wheels on the Bus". I don't have to worry about accidentally stepping on a gigantic lego my child tossed on the floor... I don't have to suffer sleepless nights where the child won't sleep! My bed just has a pitbull in it, and I can kick her out whenever I want and she doesn't really react too strongly! She is also very easy to feed...just pop open a can of something that looks like tar and dump it into a dirty silver bowl and .... work over! Ah, yes, do you understand the beauty of the life I live now, dear reader? Do you understand why, though I woke up this morning with no butter to spread on my toast, I don't even feel the need to give a single fucking shit about it? I am freedom. I am young. I am that ultimate word of liberation, a word that, i now believe, humanity has literally been waiting centuries to hear: I am CHILDLESS, and it is GLORIOUS. 

Yes. My mood has certainly changed. I have officially batted Jenny right out of the ballpark, in many many ways. Jajajajajajajaja.....

Back again--still Walking Earth

I haven't really been writing much at all lately. It's been about ...7 or 8 days since I last wrote any fiction. I haven't even really been living much in the English language. Mostly I have just been talking in Spanish to people from various Latin American countries, like Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, and Argentina again.

 I don't know why but it seems the Spanish bug just bites me every now and again, and I slip inside of it for a long time, and then I get tired and leap out, and forget about it for awhile, all over again. Every time I return, of course, my Spanish is always a bit improved. This time I definitely feel I can see an improvement. I understand some of the conjugations more than I did last time around.  Of course,as I always say, I don't necessarily like talking or reading in other languages, because I love the language itself. Instead I seriously believe I do it because it makes me love English more. Do you want to know why? I have written about it before, but i'll repeat myself: Learning another language helps you love your own language more, cus it's like taking a vacation from it. I cannot begin to stress just how amazing it is to read a book in English again, after, say, three weeks of only reading in Spanish. Its like diving back into the warmest, coolest pool you could ever dive into. The feeling is incredible. The language seems richer. You feel richer. And who doesn't want to feel richer?

So ya, for me, talking in another language is like denying myself a luxury of some type, and I love it. I know that certain writers would say that this is sacrilege, because so many writers think that a good storyteller must write everyday, and must read everyday (in their own language?) but .... meh... fuck them! I don't think they know what they're talking about. Lol. I love getting back to English world and breezing through an 800 page book that would have taken, like, a full month to read, in Spanish. It's so relieving... I feel so intelligent...and everything i write just looks so good! The words, baby, the words get fresher...they come alive again!

Beyond Spanish tho, what has been up? Nothing much really. I decided about 3 weeks ago now that I wouldn't write about Jen anymore, so I haven't really been keeping up with diary entries for that reason, since she is still heavy on my mind. She actually did try to message me again ( Sunday, April 8th) but I didn't respond, and i don't feel like droning on and on about it, so what can I say , right? I deleted all the diary entries I made about Jen on this blog, because I put them all in a file, and then too, I also deleted Jens poetry blog earlier this week, which was something I held off on doing for awhile. She had not visited the thing since February but I kept waiting to see if she would again...she never did...and now she never will cus its gone! I also deleted her phone number from my iPhone today, as well as our last text convo, which I had occasionally been looking at. Everything is all gone now. Lol.

 I'll admit that deleting the text messaging convo was hard. At first i couldn't do it. Then while i was making some pizza, I flipped the phone outta my pocket and decided to do it real quick. Sort of like taking a leap off a mountain with your eyes closed type of thing. One quick swipe of the old white boy thumb and the final text convo we ever had, that ended on January 24th, 2018, was gone. Who knows if Jenny will ever write me again? I didn't really think she'd write me on April 8th, but she did, so maybe she will. Again. I'll be aggravated, I know that for sure. Cause I was on the 8th. Like, the first week of April I felt i had totally forgotten about her existence, and then...boom! She threw me in the whirl pool all over again. But now I'm forgetting it again. Gradually. The fact that I'm writing this is proof of that. The South Americans babY! Los latinos! They got me coming back out my shell....

Hopefully when i get back "in the mood" to scribble fiction I'll head back to the pirate story I was working on. I was using a lot of different characters in it, always switching viewpoints, so it probably won't be too hard to jump back into. Soon I think I'm gonna have to start trying to seriously look for a publisher, too...but i stil don't know. I'm so fucking ...ugh... i just hate the idea of talking to some professional editor or something...so who knows? One day. Hopefully one day, before I'm dead, it will actually happen. It is obviously really depressing to think i could drop dead tonight with nothing published, and all my work trapped on Google Docs! Perhaps I'd be able to publish it in the afterlife?

Well, I'm gonna duck out of this article now, but if I write another, I might have to make it about the topic of single motherhood and stuff like that, cause, now that I'm trying to keep Jen out of my life, that has become a big obsession of mine: Convincing myself that single mothers are not the sort of women I want to date. I mean, i don't even really want to date anyone... so why would I want a single mother out of them all? I wouldn't....and the only reason I almost did was cus Jen was just a "fluke" who accidentally entered into my life. But anyways i just have a lot to say on the topic of single motherhood cus I feel like she literally almost decimated my life, and i escaped  by a hair, and i just think that deserves discussion. I want to show the non-existent readers of The Old World Oracle just how many insane stories I've read of mothers and fathers who both seem to hate their lives. I want to show readers of this blog jsut how much scientists and psychologists agree that parenthood will ruin your life, instead of make it better. Personally, and maybe its the working class imbecile in me, who still wants to believe its 1945, but I find that shocking. I mean, even I, as a freak who hates society, always kinda thought that having kids would make life happier. Yet after Jen and all i've read,I no longer at all believe that, and so... well, thats what i'll write about next.

For now, I'm going. Ciao ciao!!!!

Anti marriage Song

I almost went and got married last week
Someone get over here -- I need my ass beat!

I almost thought it'd be nice to have a child ---
But baby, I still wanna be that boy so wild!

What the hell was I even thinking?
Get me some rum, its time to begin drinking---

Stories and holidays

Holidays seem to decimate the secret island i find and utilize for when I am writing all my stories. No matter which holiday it is, it is almost always the exact same story for me now: In the weeks leading up to the day, I will be steadily working on a series of stories ... oftentimes, one that is particularly long.

The few days prior to the holiday, I will be in what I call a "state of trance", existing, if I am lucky, for as many as 6-7 hours a day, in the "Netherworld" that I am creating on page. This state of trance is incredibly hard to reach...solitude is almost absolutely necessary to achieve it. 

And then, of course, what happens, but the rotten holiday arrives, where I am forced  to go out and mingle, for hours, about all sorts of real world topics, with rather judgmental and questioning family members I have not seen, since the last holiday. Every time it starts, I tell myself I'm not going to care, or let it effect me. "I'll get back home to my space here...i'll drift right back in..." It never seems to happen, however. There is literally always a major period of what you could call "decompression" after the holiday. I am never at all able to immediately get right back to my stories. In fact, I now see that I actually have to wait as much as a week, or even two, depending on the holiday and the level of stress that goes with it, before I get my energy to write back.

In some sense, the holidays really tend to remind me of being forced to make a dangerous pit stop, as I'm flying. It's like landing on some extraterrestrial planet and I never really know what to expect or what I'll get. The conversations that endure with the people , however, since they go onwards for quite awhile, and often tend to become quite heated, tend to be of the kind that aren't easy to forget. In this way, it's as though every holiday is literally acting like a "scrambler in my brain". It's bizarre because I am fully able to recognize what is happening but I am also not, at all, capable of stopping it. As I say,as much as I should like to not be effected by the holiday scrambling of my mind, it always still happens.

 No matter what attitude I land the plane with, the holiday planet always ruins me for, bare minimum, at least 4-5 days afterwards. It's as though 6 months worth of creative juices just get sucked right out of me by vampires. I will even tell you that I often feel as though I have no awareness of "Who I am" after holidays are over. I feel deeply insecure, uncertain,hopeless, angry, intensely sad, depressed, melancholy, many things. Often, at best, I am reminded solely of very "ancient" childhood memories, and tthough the reader might think this is relieving, I don't seem to find it relieving at all. Mostly because remembering childhood is like remembering a time in life when, as I say, I didn't know who I was. I don't feel like a Writer after the holidays.

It's worth noting of course that, with a family like the one I have, I wouldn't truly be permitted to talk at length about any of the writing projects I'm working on, anyways. More likely than not, discussing the ideas of a fictional world, like the one I create on paper, would just send them all into an absolute frenzy --- which is basically the effect any conversational topic seems to have on them, period. I do not believe there is a single topic, whether one is discussing a garden hose or a boat or a pirate or anothr country, that the people in my family can calmly discuss. Tranquility seems to be a foreign concept to them... indeed its very easy to see how wars begin around the holidays....

Mostly of course, its not about the family, its more just about heavy socializing of any kind and the effect that it has on that "Netherworld" an imaginary writer must enter into, if he or she wants to be a success. I don't think many people understand just how hard the imagination has to work, in order to create, sometimes, even a simple scene, and this is especially the case when one is discussing writing a story set somewhere besides our own time. It's often so engrossing to slip off into the magical world that, after I am fall out of the trance and look around, it's as though this world is the foreign one, and not the one I was writing about.

I begin to feel out of place, and maybe even ill equipped, to handle the real world, after a long session of imaginary writing. But of course, as i say, it is then often so easily lost ...this "magic trip"...and entering back into it can be so hard, once you've fallen out. In fact, this is the real reason I have so many incomplete works: Creating a world is indeed hard, but entering back into one  that you created some time ago, is even harder. The characters are like puppets in a closet you have not opened in a centurys worth of time. YOu forget their names..their roles.. everything. Hence, often, if you don't get back fast enough, you might lose the "portal" forever. I really do see it this way, as a writer....

So, yes...its been approximately 6 days now, since I have truly sat down and written anything, on my latest story, which is dealing with a multitude of interwoven storylines about pirates. 6 entire days have passed and all i really wrote were a few careless poems, mostly complaining about Jennifer, who (i'll gleefully tell you) seems to be nearly 75% forgotten, in the chambers of my mind. I suppose now I will pour myself some much needed coffee and, if i am lucky, I will be able to enter back in. As always of course, I'm not sure it'll happen, because when the writers grief sets in, often nothing can break it, no matter what.

Well, maybe I shouldn't say "no matter what", because I have often thought that more play acting "outside" the book, might be able to help me. For example, if I had a full pirate costume, a pirate sword, and a room that was completely devoted to pirate memorabilia (like some boats in bottles), I bet I could easily drift back in over and over again. Alas, I do not have such a room, so my imagination is forced to "self create" the portal from this rather dull area in which I am forced to live my life. I am forced to create the story as I sit here in a pair of pyjama pants and this old ruined sweatshirt... I have no costume to take me deeper into the trip...but believe me, I am convinced a costume would help significantly. I understand that for some people, a costume might seem ludacris, and unnecessary for a writer--but you would be surprised. Essentially, if i was able to wear the pirate costume as I wrote, I feel as though I could think like an actual pirate of the 1700s time period who was simply "jotting down diary notes". And then too, imagine if I had another person with me, who was willing to completely play along with the fiction, for a weeks worth of time? Some girl who was also dressed like a pirate, and who would agree to call me by my fictional name, and who would come and tell me fabricated tales of what she saw going on "outside the house". My entire life would be as a dream then....

Oh well. I have gone deeply off topic. Enough for now. Hopefully I can make the trip, even in pajamas!!!

-- Ciao.