Things are finally getting back to how things were. Everything is the same and expected. No surprises. Friends will always be friends, enemies will always be enemies, people will always be people.

Things are finally back to where they are. I’m here again, sitting so alone in this lonely bridge typing away into this dark lonely internet void that I’ve become so familiar with and doing the thing that I’ve grown to love. Writing. I am writing again. I am clearing my thoughts. I am writing. Writing.

So many things cloud my mind, yet nothing seems to stick. Random thoughts just go through and through my mind and I pay it no attention. Different people come and go, different ideas come and go, life comes and go. Oh, there was just an old friend that just zipped through my conscience and zipped out again. That’s where things stand.

Everything just seems to be a distant memory to me. Everything just seems so out of reach, yet so close at the same time. I have managed to keep the necessary distance from things and people where to not get hurt if things go sour.

I have hardened my soul, as one of my friends put it. I am like molten lava that has cooled on the surface, but in the inside is still a molten boiling ooze of fire. I could explode at any minute. That’s what she told me. That’s what she said. I’m lava, hardened on the outside, yet still volatile.

Do I see any truth in that? Do I? In a way, yes, but also, no. I have calmed down so much and have grown into a more comfortable skin. Albeit that skin has many flaws and much apathy in many things, it is a much better skin that helps me actually be free and liberated in many things, in many aspects of my life. I’m not afraid anymore.

What am I not afraid of? I’m not afraid of failure, I’m not afraid of getting hurt, I’m not afraid of making a fool out of myself. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. It’s old news. No harm in experiencing something that you’ve already experienced. No harm at all. Try experiencing something new, something different. Slowly I am. Slowly.

I’m a very laid back guy. I take things as they come. I never act on many things unless I absolutely am burning to act, but that rarely comes. When I act, I put everything I have into it. Everything. I’m acting more and more. I’m not that passive person that I use to be. A little more assertive I am. Just a tad.

I’m sure of my self. Very sure of my self. That’s another thing a friend of mine pointed out. I’m sure of myself. I know what I want. I know what I like, I know what I don’t like, I know what I want to do. I’m sure of many things. No more debating with myself to see how I would come out in the better light. If my thoughts are against the grain, so be it. If my actions or beliefs hurt other people, I’m sorry, but I won’t change it. I’ll stand by it. That’s me.

It’s been a long and arduous journey that I’ve been on these past few years. A growing experience, a learning experience. I’m living. It’s by no ways anywhere close to how many “normal” people live their lives, but I am living. I go out whenever I please. I act how I want, I do what I want, I live how I want.

I’m doing things that are comfortable to me, doing things that will make me joyful and smile. I’m doing things. I’m happy. I don’t write that that often, I don’t claim to be happy that often, but I think it is time for me to type it, to say it, to mean it. I am happy for me, for who I am, for what I’m doing, for me. I am happy.

My friend doesn’t see me that way. Sure I’ve grown and changed as she said. I’m not as volatile as I was, keeping my emotions skin deep until something sets me off in a joyful or angry or sad tantrum. Like she said, I’m surer of myself. Yet, she thinks I’m not happy. She thinks only “maybe” will I find happiness, only “maybe”.

Why only “maybe”? Simple. I have no love in my life. I don’t know love. I don’t love. I’m selfish. I don’t know love. I have no love in my life. God is love. GOD is LOVE. With love comes happiness. With God comes happiness. I need God in my life. I need God in my life.

She gave me some sermons to listen to. I’m listening but I’m not listening. It just doesn’t make sense. I still have the reservations in religion and religiosity. Even though she pegs her belief, her denomination, not as religiosity but faith, I still have reservations. It still seems like preaching to me.

Religion, faith, beliefs…these are all individual things. These are things that happen because of the individual. It is the individual that must find God. It is the individual that must have faith; it is the individual that must believe. It is a matter of one, not a collective.

Christianity is not a belief of the individual. It never worked that way. It never will. As long as there is a church, there will never be individuality. I’m not trying to bash Christianity and all Christians or anyone who believes in God, I’m not. Christianity will always be a group religion; it will always be a collective. Churches aren’t for the individual, but for the many patrons and believers of God.

I’m not one. Not one at all. I’m an individual. I have my own beliefs; I have my own way of thinking, and my own morals and ethics. They are mine and mine alone. Sure they do cross over and coincide with many Christian beliefs, but they are still mine to follow, my rules, my guidelines, my philosophy to follow. For me, the sense of spirituality is an individual thing, an alone process. It is up to you to find your direction in life. It is up to you, as the individual to find God. It is up to the individual. The individual must find God first before they can be fully accepted into the group.

I have not found God. I do not believe in God. Does he exist? Sure. He exists for many people, but not me.

I think this whole finding God business is the same as finding yourself. Finding your inner peace, reaching a state of Zen and enlightenment. We all do the same thing. You Christians and us individualists, Buddhists, Taoists, Muslims. We are all trying to find our inner peace; reach a state of enlightenment. The world would be a much better place if all of us find our inner peace, find our direction. Once we all do, the world will be a much better place. We all are doing the same thing, but it is our bigotry and our constantly forcing our beliefs and thoughts and our preachiness that gets in the way of everyone reaching the same thing.

We are all just trying to find peace. Once we do, we will just transcend this world and these petty problems. It will be a better place.

All I just want to say is to just let us find our own peace our own way. Whether it is in God or Allah or finding philosophies that matches with how we think or conceiving new philosophies that fit you individually. Just let things be. Let things be.

Religion, it has never been my fort

My oh my, how do my fingers itch just to be able to tap dance around these keys again. It’s been too long indeed since I’ve written anything. Too long.

How long has it been? Two months, three?

I’ve been busy for the last couple of months, just focusing on the short film and everything. Passion Fruit has been shot and edited. Now it just awaits it’s little tempo, it’s music, it’s heart. Since I’m just waiting for the music and I have nothing left to do with it, I now finallly got a chance to write; to ramble on and on like I did before.

It’s been a crazy and hectic a couple of months. Lots of money have been put into the film. Now, where it stands, how do I like it? I think it is all right. I have many gripes about it, as in the quality of the picture. Somehow, it just doesn’t look as sharp and as rich as I thought it would with the camera that I used, but what can I do. I got to use it for free and that’s all that matters.

The whole experience, from conception, to preproduction, to principal photography, to post production (still ongoing) has been a great learning experience. I never thought that there would be so much work going into a short of only seven minues. The careful planning and practicing, test footage, blocking, running through shots; they all amounted to nothing cause nothing really helps you prepare for the day of the shoot. Sure I had an idea of how each shot should be and so forth, but when it comes time to film, that goes out the window. I followed the same shots, the same plans, but yet, plans, shots, scenes change.

It’s funny how drastically different the current cut now from it’s original conception. Whole scenes has been changed. Ideas have been dropped. I wouldn’t say that it’s a different movie, but in a way it is. How it was originally written, the woman seemed to be the secondary character, whereas now, she’s the main character. It seems that she’s the focus. My how things change.

The opening sequence, which was scripted as an exterior shot in a park has been scrapped because of the rainy weather that California has been having for the past couple of months. Scott and I came up with a different idea, and in hindsight, a much better idea (for the script and the theme), then it was originally written. In a span of two days, the opening sequence changed from the aformentioned park scene to a photography studio. We planned and blocked each shot, how it should be shot, how it should look, and dressed the set in a span of two days. The funny thing was while we were doing all of this, the park sequence was still being considered. It was our backup, and we went with it. The more I thought about that new scene, the more I felt it worked better. So it came to that.

We shot everything in the span of a weekend. Sure there were problems that came up, like the lack of extras or even missed shots (unfortunatley I forgot about a good shot) and missed color and small mistakes. But I got everything that I needed to cut everything together to make it work. It works fine. The most uncomfortable scene to shoot was the sex scene. The actress couldn’t stop giggling and laughing, but the actor helped pull her together and made it more comfortable. I tried to shoot as fast as I could so I could just not shoot it and move onto the next scene. It turned out well. Rutledge, who saw an earlier cut of the sex scene said that it was steamy. For a sex scene without any nudity to be called steamy, I should be proud of that, right?

Now it is done, well visually anyway. Again, I still need the music and I need to put the end credits, but it is about 95 percent finished. I wish I could look at it objectively and with fresh eyes, but I really can’t. I’ve seen the short too many times as I cut everything together. I close my eyes and there it is fresh in my head. The flaws that I can’t shake from my eyes.

This is my first short, and it will not be my last. As much pride as I would take in this short, because it is my first, I still have my reservations on how good it is. I can’t look past the flaws. It is so near and dear to me, that I want perfection, but it just isn’t. There are just too many flaws.

Now, I got a two week break before the music will be finished. Currently I have temp music in, to help me cut and to help find the beat to the film. The music for the opening title sequence (shots of fruits) is a cover of a Spanish song entitled Unicornio sung by Cecelia Noel. The music for the next scene, the photography shoot, is Nat King Cole’s Aquellos Ojos Verdes. The song that I used to play under the dialogue in the now dinner/talk scene and then played into the sex scene is Aimee Mann’s Red Vines. There is no music/score for the last scene, the breakup scene. I wanted it to be cold and let the scene play out without any manipulation.

I think the temp music works really really well with the cut that I have now. I just turned it in to my friend, who’s band, Exhausted Prayer is doing the music. The band is a death metal band, so it would be interesting to see what kind of music they will turn out. I also just turned in the cuts to Scott, the producer. I already told him my reservations and the flaws that I can’t get out of my mind and the problems with the missing footage that didn’t save properly. But all in all, it turned out to be a great shoot, and a decent unique film.

Once it is all finished, it is time to do what I must do with it. Find festivals that wouldn’t mind taking a look at it. Put it online, submit it to people who might be interested in seeing it. Showing family, friends, maybe. I don’t know.

But it’s done, well almost, and now it is down to the next project.

Before I get started on the next project, I need to write more, just come out here and just ramble on more. More and more. More and more. I need to get back into the mode of writing again before I can rewrite my play and write a follow up play.

It looks that this whole play thing will be Scott’s and my next project. We are still gathering scripts, we are still writing scripts, and we are still early in planning. But in all honesty, I’m really excited about this. It might be my first acting experience. It should be great.

Till next time I feel the need to fill people in on what is happening, it would be back to my usual ramblings. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be months this time.

There I am, taking it in, shooting up, getting high. The sense of euphoria seeps through into my veins, mixing in with my blood. There it flows through my body, to my brain. I am high. I am high.

Oh the feeling. The feeling that you are so far off the ground, flying up in the sky, soaring like an eagle. You never want to land and be so pedestrian and lose this feeling. I didn’t want to lose the feeling. I couldn’t lose this feeling. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I enjoyed it when it was in my system.

There it was. It was just there. It just happened just like that. It was like any other night, but, unlike any other night, there it was. My drug of choice, beckoning to me. I didn’t intend to use that night; it was highly unexpected. But it was there. A person with such an addictive personality like me, it was hard to turn down. It was like dangling a piece of chocolate candy in front of a toddler and telling it no, you can’t have it. It just never worked.

So I used that night. I used. It was a while since the last time that I’ve used. A long while; a couple of months atleast. The last time was during a friend’s party. I don’t want to count the day after Thanksgiving. That was different. That shouldn’t have happened. I slipped and lost control. This time I fell into it as a willing participant. It wasn’t like the day after Thanksgiving was a forced night. No. It was just something that shouldn’t have happened at all. It shouldn’t have happened.

Things just happened. It just happened like time ticking. It was all natural. Nothing was forced, nothing was fabricated. Things just happen, and that is always the best high one can get.

My drug of choice. Oh, how I love the feeling of being doped up. No pressure, just a relaxed mind state.

There it was. Standing there, just beckoning me. I try to resist at first, but when it comes to this particular brand, you just can’t. It was calling to me. I keep my distance and play it cool. I didn’t intend to use that night. I swear. A couple of minutes later, the first interaction.

From the first interaction, the first taste of what this drug can offer, I was an addict. The first drop of it’s sweet infectious smile just made my skin crawl with desire. I needed this fix. I wanted this fix. I got my fix. From it, I was drunk all night. From it, I was flying high as I’ve ever flown. This drug is like no other I’ve experienced.

I knew it would be bad. Withdrawal would be torture. I knew it, and yet my weak soul desired it. It caved into its desires.

It started with a simple interaction and it just grew into something more. It started with talk so small that it was microscopic, then it grew into something larger than life. It started with her voice and her kind words of “asshole” and her lovely finger as I toyed with this drug.

I could tell this was going to be a shot like no other. I could tell by that moment that it would be something I’ve never experienced. I could tell that I should take it all and not share it with anyone. I could tell that I needed it. I needed it. I desired it.

Then the game started. The small talks, the little touches, the glances that means nothing but that are a part of the game that we were playing. My first taste of this illicit drug. It was sweet.

The sound of her laugh and her angelic whine as I toyed with her more. The more I toyed with her the stronger the effects of the drug. As it got stronger, the more relaxed I got. It was a feeling I never felt before. It is a feeling that I need again.

I didn’t have much to drink this night. It was like the other precious night that I got high. I didn’t get that drunk, had alcohol in me, but not enough to be stupid. No, I needed to be sober to enjoy this. I needed to be clear headed to keep my control. I was drunk off the drug itself, and that was all the buzz that I need. Alcohol will only numb my senses and ruin my experience with this drug. No, I got to keep my wits about me that night. I wanted to enjoy it.

The drug treated me well that night. The lingering glances and the sweet smiles. The little touches that lasts a little longer than it should. The small talks that lead to something bigger to adoration to remarks that kills me oh so softly. There she was killing me softly. She’s killing me, she’s killing me. The drug takes it’s effect and I am willfully under it’s control. The flirtation that gets me high. The flirtation that makes my eyes dilate. The flirtation that makes my night. The flirtation that sets me soaring.

Flirtation. My drug. Flirtation. My drug. Flirtation is my drug. It’s what gets me high.

The pusher that night was like any other that I’ve met. The pusher that night was the type of girl that I long for. The pusher that night was exactly my type. But there’s one fatal flaw. She doesn’t like penises. I have a penis, so I know it wouldn’t last. But I’m weak. I have no will power and besides, I’m a masochist. I know I will hurt miserably afterwards. I know the withdrawal will be painful, yet I took the hit.

There she was, beautiful and cute. Strong willed and independent. Smart and fun; a wild child like no other. She was willing to give me a shot, and let me take this drug with her.

Again, talks lead to jokes lead to laughing, lingering touches and glances, and closeness. I was soaring through the sky, falling upward and upward from this feeling of elation that this flirting, that she, gave me. I knew I was going to be in pain, but I didn’t care. I went with it. I just let things happen, and it just did. I didn’t force it, or ask for it, it just happened.

As the night progressed and the games got longer, the more she kills me with her soft words. Her sweet adoration of my cuteness, the declaration of my coolness, and the inquiry about my non-existent sister. She hoped I had a sister and wished that she was like me. Unfortunately I don’t have one, and if I did, I would hate my sister with the utmost intensity because she’s with this beautiful pusher.

Giving up on my sister, she wished that I were a girl, so she could take this high to another level. Oh I wished things were different. If she wasn’t a lesbian or if I wasn’t a man. But sometimes things just don’t work out that way.

I was drunk on this flirtation and I’ve gotten so deep I couldn’t just stop things. I was addicted. I let things go on knowing that I would pay for it later. The withdrawal would be painful, but I didn’t care.

I was high and she was sitting on my lap, she was sitting on top of me. She would tease me with her stares and little touches and adorations bringing me deeper into her drunken state. I didn’t care. This flirtation was like no other I’ve experienced. It is a drug that I can only take once in a lifetime cause anymore, I would definitely be in more trouble than I was.

She sits on top of me as I sit waiting for my turn to bowl. She sits on top of me as I just wait. She sits on me as I just sit. She’s there constantly giving me what I want.

Her constant dancing and wiggling and tempting just makes my skin crawl. I know I’ll regret it, but I really don’t care. She’ll come up to me after I’m done or even during my little turn at the lanes and she would just be herself. Her flirtation just makes me high. I would grab her and hold her as I make my way back to the chair and there she would follow and use me as her chair.

I’m a whore for attention and she was there to give me the attention that I needed and I was there to give her the attention that she desired. She needed the attention that night like I needed the attention. We were two kindred spirits knowing what the other needed and we offered it to each other whole heartedly.

Oh how she killed me with her words. That hurt the most. That was the thing that made me know I would be in pain later. Her soft kind words. Her adoration for my cuteness and how she wished I was a girl so she would kiss me then. Oh, how I wanted to be that girl that she wanted. Oh how I wanted to be hers, but in my sober state, I knew better. But in my sober drunkenness I gave into her games knowing what will happen afterwards.

So the evening went on. She on top of me, telling me not to get excited. I tell her I won’t unless she moves a lot and being the expert flirt and fun girl that she was, she moved a lot. She’s killing me. She’s killing me oh so softly.

The night progress and things continue the way they were going. I was high on the flirtation and she was enjoying it as much as I was. She leaned in wanting to say something, she leaned in wanting to tell me “not to get any ideas”. I wasn’t. I honestly wasn’t. I knew what the night was to be and I just let things be. I didn’t make it more than it was, but I know deep inside that it would hurt. I can’t get attached like I usually do.

The night went on and on until it was another year. The night went on a little longer and so did the games.

Withdrawal. Withdrawal is a bitch, a painful castration that I knew I would suffer. Now I’m a bitch for her. The insomnia and the constant images of the night and our little games. Her constantly on my mind. The remnants of the flirtation that would last for a few days more. It was a painful couple of days. In the coldness of the night, it was the memories that kept me warm. It was hard to detach from her, from the flirtation, from the night, from the memories, from the game, from the drug. It was hard.

It wasn’t until yesterday when most of her was out of my system. The obsession is gone, but the memories still remain. My heart is free from this drug. It still desires it, but my heart has more control now. It is sober. The memories are enough to keep it beating. Soon, the memories will subside and my heart will beat coldly again. It will be a few days more, then it would be over. She will be completely out of my system.

Now I’m left feeling empty and cold. No desire for anything. It works better that way. Detox. Getting her out of my system. Mild depression is a slight side effect of the whole detox program. It comes with the game and I was prepared for it. In a few days I’ll be back to my normal self. In just a few more days then I’ll be free.

Flirtation. My drug. Flirtation. My drug of choice. The touches, the glances, the lingering feelings, the talks, the games, the laughter. The whole process of connecting with someone you hardly know. The fun night of natural progression. The drunkenness I get from flirting is a high that I sorely miss. It is my drug, my drug of choice.

New Year’s ever 2004; the countdown to ’05. I had a lot of fun last night. a lot of fun.

I went out with PJ and some people from work. Dalia and her friend Sandra (not to be mistaken with Saundra), Michelle, Mimi and some of her friends all went out to go bowling.

We started around 9pm or so. We were at some bowling alley on Pico, just before Main St. somewhere.

I had a good time. It started out slow, as in what the hell am I doing here slow, but quickly it turned into a great time.

I had a good time mostly because of one particular person. This person is Sandra, not to be mistaken for Saundra. She’s a lesbian, and a flirty one at that. I forgot how we started talking. Maybe it was when the girls, i.e. Michelle, Dalia, and Sandra, started to distribute party favors and started to pass out hats and tiaras. For some reason, they started to put one of these hats on me, and I was like no, and would take it off. Or maybe it was me messing with Sandra and started to call her Saundra. Then she would call me asshole and flip me off. So the Saundra joke went on for most of the night.

That’s how things started. Just something simple like that. We started bowling and we were off on the first frame. Sandra bowled a 6 and I bowled a 8 and she was having trouble counting, so I just made fun of her, so on and so forth. We got along grand. Talking, joking, and swearing. It was a fun night.

The joke with Mimi, went on. “How do you dare talk to my husband” and what not, but she kept her distance and let us be.

Sandra asked me to go smoking with her, I don’t smoke, but she asked me to go out anyway. I had to bowl, but I told her I’ll meet her outside when I’m finished. And I did. I went out and we just talked. Forget what we first talked about, but eventually it evolved to me asking her what she does. She works for a real estate broker. I’m not sure what a real estate broker does exactly, but she does that. Then it evolved to why she was upset at one of Mimi’s friends, Eric.

Apparently, they were talking at the bar, getting to know each other, they work in the same industry, blah blah blah, and eventually Eric said that he was going to take off her hat. She wasn’t down with that, but Eric did it anyway. So, she told me about why it bother her. If they were old buddies, that would be fine, but they are not. They just met that night. She’s no bullshit, like her 82 year old dad is.

Well, she has four sisters and three brothers or something. Her father is married three times. He got around. But anyway, I spent some time with her, just talking. Apparently she’s part Asian. Which explain why she looks so exotic, not just Mexican. Then she told me that she was depressed.

I don’t know when, but she broke up with her girlfriend of three years and New Year’s is supposed to be a time they were going to spend together. Her girlfriend didn’t show up. So she’s depressed. She told me about her. Her girlfriend worked hard and got places. Now she’s a deputy. But, the thing is that her girlfriend would always put her down, but yet, she loved her. I find that strange. Yet, she still loved her. Like she said, what they had is “complicated.” Aren’t all meaningful relationships “complicated”?

Anywho, the night progressed, and she drank more and more. She was drunk, hence the rest of the evening. I could tell she’s a wild child; a girl who just likes to have fun, and given her relationship situation, a girl who just wants the attention.

So, we would just talk about anything, and she would sit close to me and touch me, putting her leg up on my leg, and just saying stuff. She asked if I had a sister. She wanted to know because she thinks that I’m cool and would think that my sister would be cool, and she would be hitting that. Unfortunately, I don’t have a sister. Again, the night progressed and I would laugh at her skills in bowling and she would get upset at me for laughing at her. More “assholes” and birds were targeted at me, but it was great. It was fun.

She later would just sit on my lap and sometimes a little higher, right above my penis. She was drunk. Go figure. What killed me the most was after she bowled once, she told me, “too bad you aren’t a girl.” I asked why, is it because you want to kick my ass? She said, “No, because I would totally kiss you right now.” She said I was cute, always putting her tiara on my head, because it would bring her good luck or because I look cute. She’s killing me, she’s killing me.

One time, she would be sitting on my pelvis and said, “Don’t get a hard on.” I was like “Okay, just don’t move around.” And guess what she did? She moved around. She even said she felt it. There was too much alcohol in my system to get it up, but, wow.

PJ told me to hit that, but I was like, she doesn’t swing that way. He brought up Dalia, and said that she didn’t swing that way either. Did I say that Sandra is 27, an “old hag” in her words. But Sandra most definitely doesn’t swing that way.

Well, the funny thing is that I’ve met Sandra before and I know that she’s a lesbian. What is it with me and lesbians? I met her at the holiday party. Again, it was bowling. I didn’t talk to her then, but I think when we were all at the hotel, she said my name, but for some reason, another person was asking me something at that time and I didn’t pay attention to her.

There was another time when she was sitting on my pelvis and I was just letting her and just waiting for her to get off (not pun intended) of me to go bowl or if I was waiting my turn to go bowl, she turned around and looked at me and came in like she wanted to say something to me, but then she decided not to. I sat up to get closer to her ear and asked what’s up? She said I shouldn’t be getting any ideas. And I wasn’t. I really wasn’t. I’m just letting things be. Then good ol’ Michelle told her I was a virgin and I looked at Michelle and said, “Great. Thanks.” Sandra said, “I don’t know what to say about that.” I was, “Me neither.” I then put my head down on her back.

Well, again, throughout the night, she would bug me when I’m bowling. She would get in my way or run along with me down the lanes. She would bug me. When waiting for the ball, I would sit on the rail of the ball return and she would sit on my lap. It was nice. On the way back, she would try to get me to dance, and I would just put my arms around her and push her back into the seats.

She’s a flirt. What can I say? I love flirting. If someone flirts back with me, then I’ll flirt back with them. I love the game. She’s drunk, and I wasn’t going to take advantage of that. I actually grabbed her breast by accident. I tried to put my arms around her after she was bugging me on the lanes. She’s short, so I thought I got her stomach, but I was a little too high. After realizing I was cupping her, I just let my hand go. Bad. She was such a tease too, just wanting to get my attention.

One time she was like it’s getting hot and asked me if I wanted her to take off her shirt. I was like no. She just wanted me to say yes, she just wanted to know that I was checking her out. She’s a flirt, and a good one at that. But, she’s a lesbian.

PJ find her strange. On the way home, he would say that Sandra is strange. She is proud to be a lesbian. She makes it known. She didn’t like the fact at first that Dalia is seeing PJ, but she got over it. She’s a lesbian, but according to PJ, she flirts with a lot with guys. I could see.

She would go and sit on PJ’s lap sometimes and even Bruce’s lap. But she was on mine the most. Again, I was the only available person there of either gender. So, I was the fortunate one.

She would joke with me that I would be the one she would be kissing on New Year’s. It didn’t happen. When time came, it was a sweet hug and I think I kissed her on the cheek. I hope she didn’t take it wrong. It was sweet.

So that was the night. A fun night. A night I probably will not forget in a long time. It was the best New Year’s for me to date.

Things with Sandra will be just that. It was just a night out having fun. I’m not making it out more than what it really is. I’m not making it bigger than what it really is. I shouldn’t. She’s depressed about being broken up with her girlfriend, she was drunk, and she wanted the attention. I was there to give it to her.

I’m really not the type of guy that turns lesbians. I really am not. I’m just going to let it be what it was, just a simple night out together. Just a simple night of having fun.

There is a world that never was. It never existed, never breathed life, never appeared for all to see or experience. That world was for me and for me alone. That world was my life.

Looking back and thinking about it now, it was just a dream. It was just a figment of my imagination. Nothing was real. Nothing was true. All was just a facade to make me feel that I was a part of something. After lifting the curtain to expose this world as nothing, it is disheartening. I no longer belong to any place. I no longer belong.

Oh this world seemed so perfect. There I had friends, there I was somebody. I was that really really nice quiet alienated child that became good friends with people. Sure I didn’t have a large group of friends to hang out with or know many acquaintances, but I had friends. I was smart, I was simple, living a complicated simpleton life wanting nothing more than happiness and actually having it. There, people would laugh at me cause I was just that funny and I was actually interesting. People actually wanted to hear what I had to say or wanted to listen to the stories I would tell and I would capture them in my little spell. There I was somebody.

Now, I’m all alone. Everything that I wanted to be, that I was there, just withered away. Everything is just a lie. It was all made up, not in my mind, but in another’s. Oh, to be back in that world again. To be that lie again.

But I can’t go back. I can never go back, because there is nothing to go back to. That was a lie, no, not a lie, a misconception of who I was. I believed myself to be all those things because that is what I wanted to be, that is what I was told to be. So I kept that story alive in my imagination, I kept that fairy tale going the way they were supposed to go. The story played out and it was a happy one.

What happened? What happened to this world? Why was I ripped away from this fairy tale existence? I woke up. I woke up and opened my eyes. I looked around and see that nothing has changed. Nothing has changed from that world to this world. I woke up and realized that I was living a lie, a lie I can no longer keep up. The fairy tale is of the Brothers Grimm variety. It isn’t those childhood fairy tales that we are all grew up with.

I woke up and realize that I am living in the fairy tale of life. This fairy tale story is everything that it should be. This fairy tale is what is really happening. I realized that everything that happened in my life, everyone’s perception of me is a glorified good character that I can never live up to.

I am flawed and fractured, broken into schizophrenic bits and parts that it is hard to tell what I am, who I am. I am nothing and everything. I am always and never. I am the contradiction that everyone denies in themselves. I am doubt. I am certainty. I am life.

This is life that I am living. This is a life in the real world. I am every average man you would see walking down the street looking around and experiencing things as if they were old. I am a man who is so weary of life that there seems to be nothing in it that surprises me anymore. I am every cynic in the world, I am every optimist in the world, I am everyone.

Blink. Life passes me by. Blink. Life passes me by. Blink….Life goes on. Life goes on and never stops. There is life revolving everywhere around me. This bird, this plant, this little ant, this little flea, this molecule, this atom. All life. All go on as time ticks it’s meticulous rhythm.

Looking at where I am now and realizing that my old life in that world that never was was all a lie, I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back. I want to be me, this flawed creature that no one pities cause everyone is too busy pitying themselves. I enjoy my flaws, I enjoy my loneliness, I enjoy this new exuberance of knowledge, I enjoy this life.

That old life was too stifling. That old life was too strict, too bland, too fake. That old life was all a lie conjured up by someone who was too afraid to live. That old life was bits and pieces of someone’s imagination; someone who only wanted the good and not the bad of me. It was the delusion of someone who doesn’t know or see me at all. Some one who doesn’t really see.

It’s cold. It’s colder than what I’m use to feeling. It’s so cold, I can’t even feel my hands, my fingers, my toes. They’ll all numb. It’s cold.

I cup my hands around my mouth and breathe. I breathe to bring life and heat to my poor little fingers. It’s cold.

Quickly I get into the truck, hoping that it is warmer in there. It’s not. It’s cold. Start the engine, turn on the heat. Hopefully it’ll warm up by the time I get there. Hopefully.

Ahhh, the heat is working, a tad. Only a little, as there is a hint of warm air mixing in with the extreme cold air that is blowing from the vents. Fuck it, I’ll have to deal with it for now. I’ll be warm in a bit. Only in a bit. It’s not a long drive.

I’m ready to go. I look up and out the windshield; it’s caked with ice. Shit. It’s cold. I spray the window with the cleaner fluid hoping to melt the ice. It works a little bit. How about defrost? No. Not good. Fuck it, it’s too late to go back now. I’m going.

I start the car. Slowly I make my way to the only Starbuck in a 3-mile radius. With each second in the truck, it gets warmer and the window gets clearer. Soon, everything is fine and when everything is fine, I’m there already. Hopefully, it’ll be a better drive home. Hopefully.

I pull into the lot. It’s full. I guess it being the only Starbucks in a 3-mile radius, it is a hip hangout spot for the cool crowd. I usually don’t like to hang out in the “cool” spot, but dammit, I’m cold, and I need to do my work. I need to write.

I parked at the upper parking lot in front of a teriyaki fastfood restaurant. It means I have to walk a little further in the fucking cold. Shit, I have no choice. I can’t possibly stay in the truck.

The Starbucks up there, up at home, in good ol’ Tacoma, is not like the Starbucks down here in the City of Angels. Since there is literally a coffee shop at every corner, there isn’t a particular hip coffee shop that people hang out at. That’s why it is nice to write down in Los Angeles, not too many people to deal with. The only downside, they close early down here, unlike up there where they close at near one o’clock.

I bundle up in my thin jacket and my thin five layers that I’m wearing and hop out of the truck with my computer. I force my frigid legs to move, so I can get my frozen ass inside.

I reach the drive thru. Here’s another funny thing about this Starbucks. It has a drive thru. I have to say, I’d never seen one like that. I’ve seen those little coffee shacks in large parking lots, but a corporate coffee shop drive thru, it’s a first for me.

Back to the story, the drive thru. I reach the drive thru. A large SUV just pulled in and stopped in front of me. It’s driven by a blonde, late teens to early 20’s, her passenger, a brunette, around the same age. I noticed the brunette first as I quickly acknowledge to the driver that I’m going to walk in front of the car. The brunette is out of her seat. Doing what? I don’t know, but I’m guessing to get a better look. At what, I don’t know. Me? The frozen guy who has lost his thick skin because he’s been down in Los Angeles for so long.

As I began to cross, I notice the blonde looking at me too. I think they are just making sure I get across okay; which I did. Here I am, finally, Starbucks. Judging by the parking lot, I know what to expect. It is crowded. It is much too crowded for my taste, but fuck it, I’m here and I need to do some writing. I brave the crowds and got my ass out of the cold.

While opening the door, I glance back to the SUV. They are still looking. I wonder what they are looking at? What is so interesting? It can’t possibly be me can it? Maybe they are looking at me and thinking how crazy I am to go out there in such poor clothing. It’s cold.

I step in and forget about he blonde and the brunette. My main concern, warmth, heat, feelings in my limbs. The heat hits me, then the aromatic atmosphere of the coffee shop. I look around as I wait in line. There’s a large line. Waiting in line, I scan the shop. It’s crowded, but there are tables, albeit only a few.

There are two blondes sitting at a table in the cozy comfy sofa chair drinking their coffee, chatting about whatever. They are about late teens early 20’s, maybe younger. With kids now a days, it’s hard to tell.

The line is taking too long, so I drop in the bathroom. I need a clear bladder to write. If not, then I’ll have to go to the bathroom mid writing session. Bad move, can’t focus.

Finished and the line barely moves. I scan the room again. Good, there are still one or two tables left. I notice one of the blondes looking at me. Why are all the girls giving me this sort of attention? Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the attention, but it never happens to me. It’s good to be checked out. It’s really good.

I stand there warming up with each second that I’m in the coffee shop, waiting for people to get their orders; espresso, cappuccinos, frappucinos (it’s cold; what are they thinking???), cafe mochas….I got a caramel macchiato. I need the sugar.

Now, it is time to find a table. The only table that was relatively free and clear of surrounding people is a single table next to the blondes. I went and grabbed my caramel macchiato, unloaded my computer, and started my boring routine of work and writing. I plugged in my headphones, opened up my journal client and began to test the dexterity of my fingers with my stream of conscious writing.

I wrote and wrote while listening to the oh so eclectic music that streams through my phones. I wrote and wrote. I wrote about clouds, moving on, flowing through the motions, going through life. I wrote and wrote. I wrote about the wild night I had before and the indiscretions and the trouble I caused for my friends. I just wrote and wrote, clearing my mind as I often do.

As people leave, more people come. A group of girls sit in front of me. I pay them no mind as one of them asked me with a warm smile if she could steal a chair. I put on my hat to block them from my view. I’m focusing on my writing and only my writing. I can’t focus on anything else.

Through the blaring of melodies in my head, I make out the laughs and giggles and the distractions that go on around me. I come to a stop in my entry; thinking about what else to add or what to tweak. I take off my hat, rub my hair and do as I often do, glance around the room. I slowly look around at my surroundings. The workers, the empty tables, the displays, the girls in front of me, the man beside me, my cup, my computer screen, the people waiting in line, the door opening and closing. I look around and around.

I come to the blondes. As I turn my head to their direction, I see the one looking at me early almost breaking her neck, turning away from my line of sight. Why turn away so fast? Did you get caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing? Did you get caught checking me out? Did you get caught looking at me? With the turn, there was no more. No tell tale signs of what she’s thinking. She continues on the conversation with her friend. She acts like nothing happened. Nothing happened.

I couldn’t help but smile a little to myself. A blonde, who’s a very attractive young lady, was caught looking at me. She turned around so quickly with that guilty quickness of being caught in the act. I couldn’t help by smile.

I turned to my computer with my newfound knowledge, smiling to myself, feeling good about myself, and continued to write. I paid her no mind. I didn’t care. I wrote and wrote. About the clouds, crying skies, collection of secrets, my indiscretions, my flaws, my life. I continue writing.

If all those girls checked me out because I was a sight to see, then that night was one of the happiest nights of my life. I’ve never attracted that much attention without trying to before, especially from attractive women. It was a night like any other night, me going out just to write and clear my head, with no other motives besides that. I just want to go and do my thing, but it turns out that without any forethought or any planning on my part, girls checked me out. It never happens. It never does.

It feels good to be checked out my attractive women, or most women in general. It shows that some girls are interested in me. It goes to show that I’m attractive. I know I felt attractive that night. All right, that was cheesy. Very cheesy.

* * *

Lately, there’s been a cold spell down here in the routinely sunny and warm Los Angeles. It is not as cold as it was back at home, but there’s still a bite to the air. Sitting out here tonight, transcribing my thoughts, I can’t help but notice how cold my feet are getting, I can’t help but notice the slight cool breeze that is blowing on me as I write in this lonely, dark, and cold skybridge.

I don’t think I can continue with this if it gets any colder. I might have to find another place to do my doodling. Maybe the internet cafe down the street from this place, or maybe a Starbucks that is not so far away from my home. All I know, I can’t do this anymore until it warms up.

I need to write, whether it is journal writing, or on my new script. I need to write. Writing has become a part of my life now. Without writing, a part of me will be missing. I need to write, to leave the house and to put my thoughts into words, creating lives and characters and putting them on the page. I need to do this.

It’s fucking cold. I’m getting out of here.

Coming up to the City of Clouds, coming up to the City of Emeralds, to get away from the City of Angels. It’s my time to relax, to relax from the usual life that has haunted me all too long. The life that I have been so bored with for some time. It was time to get away. Away, far far away from the Angels of the city. I found another Angel up in the clouds.

The clouds, so fluffy and withering white, floats so listlessly up in the sky, monoliths just moving with the breeze. Just moving with the breeze; going where ever the wind blows. It just goes. So peaceful and so pure, so white and innocent. Clouds of nature, a collection of mist that was gathered from tiny particles that came from every where and goes every where, a collection of every thing and nothing at once.

It flows and flows. Going with the breeze, so listless and so full of life.

It looks so peaceful in the sky, so milky white and pure; tainted an eerie fiery glow from the setting sun. It moves on, hiding its secret from everyone. It moves on.

Day turns to night. The sun is set and billowy white turns to the nightly steel gray black that we are so familiar with. Night’s out for the secret to reveal itself.

The clouds of cumulonimbus letting us have it. It pours and pours and pours out its secret for all to see. It cries and cries, cleaning itself, killing itself and freeing itself from all of the pain and frustration that it builds up and collects from everywhere. It cries for all; everyone’s pain and everyone’s frustration. It cries, no longer able to hold all of the painful secrets it harbors. It cries, letting the water flow, crying all night, crying.

When it runs out of tears, it is no more. It no longer exists. The clouds are only here to collect all the secrets and bad deeds that everyone does. Once it has its share, once it has collected all it can, once it gets the final secret that breaks its dam, it is time for it to go. It is time for it to cry. It is time for it to die.

It is no more. All cried out goes the song. All cried out. I’m over you.

That’s what it did when I was down there, that’s what it did when I got my answer, when I got my reply. The sky cried. The clouds could no longer take the pain that was inflicted and it cried for me. I had no more tears. No more tears for you. I couldn’t cry over this, over you anymore. I just couldn’t. So the sky did.

It rained all night, the next day, the next night, and the day after. It cried and cried. It cried me a river.

Moving on, flowing like the clouds, going with the flow, where ever the wind blows me. That’s what I’m going to do. That’s what I intend to do. No longer going with a purpose, no longer making plans, no longer doing things for the sake of doing things. I’m just going to do things when I want to do things because I need to do things. I have to do things.

I will just float on, float on, cause that’s what I need to do. That’s what everyone needs to do, float on.

To be free to float on, going where ever the wind blows you. Just flowing like the mighty river Thames, following the current, riding the ride, just going along. Just going along. That’s how life should be, no purpose, just living, going with things. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, then tough bananas.

Sitting here oh so alone with nothing but an old man a few tables down from me, I gaze, gaze out in to the great beyond. Out side this little bridge, down there oh so far below, life wanders pass. It passes me by as I sit here oh so silently typing away. Cars, pedestrians, cats and dogs all zoom by. I sit here wondering do they even know that I’m up here looking down on them? Do they know that we were a part of each others’ lives there for that split second that they passed me by.

I gaze down across the corner. A mother and father push their little infant in its stroller. They wait for that familiar blue man to give them permission to cross safely. There they came out of the blue. They are gone just like how they came, silently and distant.

Looking down into the coffee shop just a floor down, students sit at tables flipping their many books and their many pages cramming for the test they so want to pass. Thinking back, I was there once. Just like them. Just like that girl in the red. Flipping through my notes, double checking the figures, relearning the rules and theorems that I so panicky think will be on the test. I sit and sit and sit and read up on everything until my mind explodes. Hours and minutes. Days and weeks pass before I would be able to come to understand what was written in those thick overpriced textbooks that I once worked hard to peddle not so long ago.

Oh how time changes. Cars zoom by. Motorcycles, pedestrians, and oh yes, cats and dogs. They all zoom by one after the other, one after the other. They sometime come in sets, fleets, armadas of life that passes me by.

Damien Rice sings that Older chests pass me by…, I’ll be fine, Just give me time; and time is all I need to feel the way that I need to feel.

A little tot drags his tot toy behind him sleepily as his father drags him across the street oh so safely to get his little boy home for his nightly rest. It will be a while when he will do the same with his own child. Years, decades.

Blondes, brunettes, redheads, black haired, all colors and all sizes, pass me by below. They walk by teasingly, hey look at me with my nice girlish figure, they pass me by with their floral scents that drives men bonkers. They are so in to the game that it intimidates novices like me. They walk by flirtatiously, even though they don’t know where I am, they still do it to tease. That is their game. That is life.

Cars follow the rules and regulations set forth by the lawmakers and the National Transportation Board to protect the safety of all. Left turns only when it is green, whether it is a arrow or if it is safe to do so. Right turns on both greens and reds. Turning to get to the destination they need to go. Home, work, significant others, parties, movies. Places to go, people to see.

Looking down the deep pathway of Westwood Blvd. It stretches far beyond these eyes can see. It comes to a shiny little red point that fades so perfectly into the black night. It goes and goes and goes. Where it stops, another path will continue. It is like time. Pathways are never ending. They continue and continue, always leading you somewhere, always leading you forward.

A man looks out a window, not focusing on the book that is in front of him. I wonder what is he studying, what is he thinking of? Is it Nietzsche or is it Kant? Does the Bolshevik revolution cloud his mind or is it simply the derivative of a simple calculus equation? What are the odds of two people in that same room thinking of the same thing at the same time? I would have to say the odds are pretty good. I would put my life fortune down and reap in all of the mula.

I sit here on this bridge oh so high, trembling as the wind slightly blows its soft breath. I sit here thinking it is the next big one to hit and I am doomed for all eternity, falling into oblivion. I wish I could scream back into that endless pit like my dream girl did in that movie after New Jersey, but I am not brave enough, and I am oh so alone to actually do it.

Speaking of dream girls, I sit here wondering when will my next one arrive? Who will be the next girl that I just feel so comfortable with; when will she come and totally take me by surprise? I guess if I think about it too much, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Who knows, it could be one of those girls crossing the street right now. But looking at how they dress, they are far too fashionable for me.

Cars line up with places to go. My car is parked in the garage, waiting to be started. It takes a rest for I am tired of going to a destination in which I am not familiar with.

Another left, another right. Turn turn turn as the Byrds sang oh so long ago. Life will go on, time will always tick away.

More girls that pass my path, more cars, more pedestrians. Cats and dogs.

Others feel lost and in despair for their way back home are blocked by the steely doors that came down oh so long ago. Where do they go? How do they get back they wonder to themselves. I think to myself, easy, take the long way around. Go down the stairs and cross the street.

The man walks endlessly around in a circle in a circle as he patiently waits for his shift to be over. Circle and circle, round and round he goes.

Lights, pairs and pairs of pale amber lights that shine so brightly below pass me by. Red orbs that gets smaller and smaller away from me and amber brightness that looms largely down the street.

Walking down the street, walking across the street. Just walking, walking to one’s heart content. One foot in front of the other, making pitter patter noises as it hits the pavement, like the beat set forth by the beat of your heart. Thump thump, Thump thump. Pitter patter. Pitter patter.

I sit here listening to Stevie talking about “reflections on the snow covered hills” gazing out the windows that are before me. They show me what life really is. It is all around me.

Left turns, right turns, straight ahead, side to side. Movement all around, but I am here all alone in this lonely dark skybridge as I type my little ditty for all to read. I chose to be here. There are open tables below inside in the warmth aromatic coffee shop, but I cannot get close. Too many people, too many distractions. I need to write, to jot down my thoughts. I cannot disturb those down there who are out for legitimate reasons of sociology, psychology, geology, Nabakov, Vonnegut, and the oh so elusive Salinger.

No I am up here like Vonnegut and Salinger would be. Away, distant, yet involved. Watching. Taking in the scenery, taking in the people, taking in life.

A passive participant I have become as people come near me only to go away because there is no exit behind. All roads lead ahead of me. That is the only way out.

A young woman comes sauntering, jaunting her little body towards my way only to turn to the exit before them. They are here not for the bookstore that is just in front of them, but for the theatre that is on the other side of the mall. They find their exit, cross in front of me down below, and are on their merry way.

Pushing the button to see the blue man, to hurry the blue man, to get the permission to be active, to go ahead, to walk ahead, to go, to leave, to go, to leave, to do what it is they need to do, to reach their destination. They push the button, they push and they push. I hold it down.

There they go, walking across the street down below, heading toward their destination. The young girl still saunters, still teases as she skips her way across, as she dances her little moves to draw one’s eye. There they go, they disappear.

They come into my life and they leave. That’s how people are, that

The lunch break, a big thing that really means nothing to me. It just takes up valuable time in which I could be sleeping. Sleeping my life away is pretty much what I do. I sleep sleep sleep. I peel my eyes oh so slowly open to see nothing but blurriness.

I’m sitting here typing away, listening to the tunes that are on my computer. I just don’t know what to do. Obessiving my life away. All I do is just obsess. I need to stop my stalker tendencies, I need to stop everything.

I need to just stop my poor heart from beating. It’s been taking too much beatings. It’s been beating away through habit, it’s been beating away cause it can.

I’ve just been asked if I was a liar my whole life. Thinking back, I think I am. I think we all are. We all lie to ourselves, we all lie to everyone that we see. We lie. We lie.

Just trash.