Day 6: Beauty

Every weekday, I step off the bus after work and find myself surrounded in the screeching tires, revving engines and steel-and concrete high rises. The air smells of smog and dirt and the sidewalk I stand on is hard and unforgiving. And all the while, people push by me, regarding nothing but their destination and their own well-being. It must be Los Angeles.

And I continue forward, up a set of cobbled steps into a beige marble-lined square. Suddenly, everything has changed- the high rises take no presence over my location, and the ground is suddenly smooth. I walk forward towards a large square of grass, where dogs romp and play with each other as their owners smile and chat, looking as if they had been there forever. And I tread over the soft, wet soil, past the giant purple tower rising to my right. People sit at tables underneath large green umbrellas, business suits and ragged jackets interacting without much regard to the appearance of the other. A tall wooden tower rises immediately in front of me, host to a shabby wooden birdhouse and a million colorful scribbles all over its unfurnished walls. And soon the square opens up again, falling into a circle of stones that cusp the end of a yellow waterfall off the end of a purple arch. The arch connects to a long wall adorned with giant soda can mosaics of the King of Pop and a colossal painting of Salma Hayek. People skirt the edges underneath the shade, coming in on 6-foot tall bicycles for a weekly gathering. I pass a group of students admiring the City of Angels visible from the square, chattering loudly and snapping shots of the brick high rises.

But I cannot stop but notice the activity around me still, the rhythm of the heart of Los Angeles pulsating in vibrant color and remarkable harmony. Here, in Pershing Square, L.A. is at its essence and people from all parts gather to contribute to the vibe.

And as I step out along the large inset crack and back into the busier part of LA, I always find myself smiling, still giddy from seeing this side of LA. It truly is a thing of beauty.

I strode onto the bus, Keane drifting from my earbuds and a peculiar scene caught my eye. As I strode to the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but continue to turn around to glance at a man that was sitting in the front of the bus. He was tall and lanky, a beige fedora hiding the top of his jet black hair and a pair of aviators hiding his eyes, and around his neck he had a pair of arms from the little boy sitting in his lap. And as I stood towards the back of the bus, I couldn’t help but look at the man interact with the child. Every movement the child made, every string of babbled words that came out of the child’s mouth, every shift in position the child made- the man sat captivated, listening, interacting, adapting.

Maybe it was the difference in hair color, but for some reason I could not relate the two people. To me, they were a random pairing of child and adult- a pair that was brought together to ride the bus together, hand in hand. This was part of their mystique- I wanted so badly to be the man, to be able to love a child, to be able to engage with him, to be able to love the child even though it might not be his own. I was compelled sit across from the man and introduce myself- maybe start a conversation, just to ask him how he did what he was doing.

And as the bus rolled to another one of many stops, the man and the child got up, and I suddenly hoped to see the man get off the bus and let the child go, that as soon as the child was off his lap, he would stop caring because he wasn’t weighed down. But then I saw the man walk onto the sidewalk, child dangling from his arm and I immediately regretted my hope. The bus drove away and I watched the father and his child romp playfully on the sidewalk.

I hope to be able to love like that someday. Even if the child I get in the family I start isn’t mine by blood, I want to love him or her like the man loved his child.

Today, I felt a twinge of paternity.

Untitled (wanted it to be Day6, but it sounds terrible.)

Tom waited underneath the stone arch, glancing back occasionally to check the time on the copper clock tower behind him. He clutched the purple orchids he had wrapped clumsily in magenta tissue paper. He exhaled mist and shifted side to side, waiting anxiously for the bell to chime 8 times and for Line 14 to pull up and open its doors.
The steam collected in heavy, thick masses around him, obscuring the tracks and the platform across the way. The hills, tinted with purple, rose to cover the orange-yellow sun that was settling behind them for its daily slumber.
And soon the 14 rolled around the bend as the sun threw its last golden rays into Tom's eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, the train was pulling into the station, the front car and many others sliding past him in stripes of blue and silver.
And the engine quieted and the wheels skid to a stop as the blurs cleared into a single set of double doors. The tall glass hinges folded in two and Ann stepped out of the shadows behind the doors.
Her eyes met Tom's, and for a minute they stood still, staring at each other as people blurred past them, hurrying to get on and off the train. And then Ann ran to Tom, prompting him to drop the orchids so he could cup his hands around her face and stroke her sunken cheeks, kiss her slightly crooked nose, wipe the grime from her forehead and brush her frizzy hair away from her muddy eyes.
And after four years she was still the divine creature he had fallen in love with.

Voice

I hate my voice. Of all the qualities I possess, it’s the quality I despise the most. It makes me sound stupid and childish, and I flinch every time I hear myself anywhere.

I don’t understand the drastic changes; in my head, my voice sounds fine to me, not too young and yet not too mature. When I talk, this voice disguises my actual lispy talk and lets me get on with life without me wanting to kill myself for saying “Yeth thir,” an insult my fellow scouts would bombard me with whenever I addressed a superior. And while I tried to keep face, it always hurt so much.

I always feel like when I talk, no one takes me seriously at all. Everything I say to them is some sort of joke, every observation a childish point of view, every analysis tossed aside with a laugh and a shaking of the head.

I remember distinctly in the third grade when my teacher asked the class to write about our favorite places. So write I did- like the true blue nerd I was, I storied for 3 pages all the reasons I loved the public library in the twenty minute time slot we were allotted.

And the next day, she told us she had something special to read to us. It was one of our stories. She professed that she thought it was very well written, and began to read it to the class. And as she read, I felt myself suddenly becoming aware that the story she was reading was mine.

I never heard myself once while she was reading. All I heard was the pen on the paper, singing out eloquently what I could barely putter about the library. The words were still mine, but the voice was completely different.

And I loved it.

Since then, I have always had a passion for writing. Although it took a backseat to my drawing obsession in my early years, I still found the satisfaction of hearing a new voice every time I wrote.

Today, I still love putting a pen(cil) to piece of lined paper and/or placing my fingers to keys and staring at a blank document. Today, I still love closing my eyes and listening for the perfect voice; the voice I want to speak with today. Today, I still love crafting that story in my mind and letting it flow to the paper or onto the screen, using the voice to guide my hand, writing and erasing and writing and erasing. Today, I still love opening my eyes and reading the story in my chosen voice.

But even more, I love sharing those stories, those voices with all of you. Thank you for reading.

Vicious cycles

I’d love to blame you for all the bad that has happened in the three years I’ve known you. For leading me on and crushing my dreams, for ridding me of my future hopes and aspirations, for all the nervous breakdowns you caused me to have, for all the sleepless nights that you’ve forces me to endure, for all the loneliness, the heartache and mostly for changing my outlook on love completely; showing me that I had to be cautious not to fall too quickly or too deep. I really would, because that would help me get up and move on with my life. And so I would for awhile, getting up and striding confidently forward. But then I remember all the smiles, all the laughter, the comfort I felt in your arms, and of course, how you changed my outlook on love; the fact that you showed me what love was and what kind of person I really wanted to be and what kind of person I wanted to love. And I would see your smile and fall right back, only to realize where I had sunk and want to blame you all over again.

Day 5: Innocence

"Where are we going?" quipped the young girl clasping his ring and middle fingers as she attempted to navigate through the tall grass that obscured most of the empty landscape that was around her. She walked at a brisk pace, sometimes breaking into a quick walk to keep up with the man dragging her along. She made sure to hop over puddles and walk without dragging her feet to avoid sullying her brand new paper white dress.
"Where are we going?" she asked again, this time more loudly as she saw the bright lights of the party grow smaller and less distinct behind her.
"Almost there," the man assured softly, his breathing growing heavier and deeper as he moved forward with abandon, scanning the field around him as he tiptoed through the wide field.
"Here we are," he said, arriving at the doorstep of a rotted cabin, its formerly white painted walls now black and dark blue in the moonlight and peeling from age. The house howled as the heavy storm winds blew through, swaying the abode dangerously to either side. A single rusted windchime hung from the porch roof, tinkering endlessly.
"This place is scary," the girl spouted, moving closer to the man and clasping his fingers even more tightly. The man inhaled sharply at the girl's movements, staring through the glassless windows and imagining to himself what would soon be taking place in the room he was looking into. His pupils dilated, his forehead began dropping with sweat
"Let's go in"
and he moved suddenly towards the door, nearly taking the little girl off her feet
"No, mister, let's go home; this place is really scary!"
and he suddenly became furious, snarling at the little girl
"Oh no, you're coming with me!"
and proceeding to snatch her up as she screamed
No no no no

up the stairs and through the threshold

No no no no

biting and kicking and screaming until the man finally set her down in the room he had been staring into. The moonlight shone through the window and the stars seemed to twinkle in time with the windchime. Breezes slipped through cracks in the walls.

Please mister I just want to go home

the girl cries, her eyes searching desperately for some sort of comfort in the shadows around her; instead, hands reach out and begin stroking her softly, the man's voice crooning

There there it will all be alright now

as she continued to cry, rooted to the spot, powerless to stop the appendages now unbuttoning her dress as the wind roars more loudly than ever, moving the clouds over the moon. And with one last whoosh of air

the windchime falls and shatters