on violence

The pressure from the tabloids is too intense for me to sleep right now.
Not..
The two vicodins I ate are making for bold outbursts like this.
This is what I call an outburst... Going online and writing some personal shit on some simple site about psychedelia and violence.
I am reminded often that immediacy of communication is an overpowering and often physically disabling habit that people are growing or currently are accustomed to.
I don't know how many people have seen this video that is being sent around of me getting choked out and sucker punched but it's been pretty tough getting hold of the footage. I am extremely interested in reviewing what happened and wondering how many times I said "hella stupid" during the fight.
Violence has a bunch of different forms.
I violently splattered paint all over the Flowershop one night recently and am pretty convinced that my roommates feel that I have "lost it".
I've drank a violent amount to damage my own health on a few occasions.
Drumming is violent when you're playing pissed off.
Violence as a physical hobby that includes other people and isn't consensually sexual (i.e. spanking, whipping, etc..).. that's a different game. I've never been into it but have legitimately been forced into it when getting attacked by drunk/drugged out chicks. At one end it's fairly elementary and can probably be solved by redoing kindergarten and at the other it can be extreme; it's political or occurs in huge numbers.
Violence gives you a bloody nose and some shit to talk about for a day or two. That and a killer back ache.  I guess that's what this fight I got into over the weekend accomplished. Something to talk about the next day for myself and whoever got a hold of that video and maybe for a couple days.. getting a phone call like "oh there's this video of you getting choked out and bleeding all over the place"
The thing with being psychedelic is that every possibility is well.. possible. There is no definite answer because you're all ready settled with that in your brain, that the world is infinitely undefinable, that you can't predict people, and that you as a human are capable of many colors.. purples for bruises, reds and oranges for blood, greens and yellows when healing and a constant peach and pink that never leaves. Technology is catching up to all that. It's fucking creepy. I go from a bar where there is a straight 10 minute silence amongst a decent sized group of interesting enough people (7 8 maybe 9) all hunched lopsided hurdling their attention forward leaning into their iphones staring at pretty much each other but in a tiny moving box to getting my hair pulled and watching my blood explode from my face all over some chicks apartment to a phone call about how I can hold this rectangular object in front of me and watch all of this go down.
Will there be more hunchbacks in our near future?
Biology books in the future may have some seriously disturbing figures of how technology has changed peoples postures or hands maybe. Darwin is in purgatory only currently and hell will be when people are streaming mass from the vatican to a seven year old's nintendo DS. (that's what the new thing is for kids right? or do they all just have ipads now?)
It's not like I'm some fucking relic keeping monocles around and using lanterns and candles to light my way around my room I'm just bad with technology and genuinely creeped out by how attached to phones people are these days.
but thats how it is.
I want to flash frame images of the blood splattering around. That's what I'm really interested in. Not so much the girls who did it to me since violence is probably their stronger characteristic and the rest must be pretty boring.
But the explosions of it from my face. I wonder if it takes shape like fireworks would from the smallest central point, being hurled outward maybe in webs or if the blood came out more like in strings and wires or if all the limbs flailing about and against me made the blood splash like paint being thrown around.
 If someone offered to show what you look like dead or pregnant or getting hit by a truck you'd take it right? Why not?
actors have to do that all the time.. watch themselves depicted as an agent of violence and death.
pretty neat stuff.

Hindsight

Hindsight. (2013)
******
It's 20/20.
It's something that will ruin your tattoos for the rest of your life and in return might change that very concept, put it in reverse, and yell right back in your face that there's still a chance that it was worth it.
It's that scar you got when you were wasted and risking your life on top of some roof top by the woods in the middle of the night, wreaking of your own poisons, all in a very irrational but irresistible attempt to show a city that yes indeed, "I am here."
You woke up in need of stitches still drunk and fumbling questions out of numb lips and aching limbs looking for whatever you could to stop the bleeding from your leg, stole a skateboard and dipped to the drug store to buy alcohol and band aids and tend to your wounds and the whole time wondering what the fuck could have happened, it was only your birthday.
It's that immense feeling that moments are as small as the whole history of your life will be once you are gone but still larger than the 10,000 influences that are estimated to be had in an average day.
That one-thousand-dollars I'll have to give to the court system to erase my name from not only their books and mine but the 22 bus on 16th street that one night I was bored with myself, others around me, and the mountain i escaped from that broke my spirit and enlightened it at the same time.
Hindsight is that bitch you brought to your bed earlier in the year that turned into a bug when you woke up in the morning and realized she didn't have money and you had to buy her breakfast and tell her I'm sorry I'm not what you were looking for and I never will be.
It's what will get you from the lowest of low, discouragement, and will give your mind and your middle finger the power to curl back up again with that little imaginary wind up, you clever fucking dog, you, and with shouts to anyone paying any attention they if they don't like what they hear they can go fuck themselves rightly cause you're not going anywhere and you all ready knew it.

hind·sight  (hndst)

n.

1. Perception of the significance and nature of events after they have occurred.

2. The rear sight of a firearm.

I'm not going to stop
bad cities
hungry livers
stained fingers

i can't
even in the back of this car
all i look at
are the walls

i want to
put shitty cartoons
messy ailing
messages to
god maybe
or the sky
since who knows
over every one
of these passerby
 faces

Face Down When Need Be

Do you ever listen to a song that just drives you to the floor?
Actually?
It begins and slowly you feel mental weight lifting like a reverse gravitational pull,
Your mind empties itself into the sky to such an extreme that the rest of you hits the carpet
and you're face down with nothing left
but the sounds that fill you.

Sometimes, when need be, I just don't care about anything other than that up and down.

media noche

Nobody writes like it's the fifties no more. And there are still snobs. You'd think that this day and age there wouldn't be any snobs any more. Like everyday people would just know better. Some people man. Going around with noses that think they're pointing to some kind of heaven. You're not that high and we're both walking on the same street, and yeah maybe I have my hands in my pockets but that doesn't mean I ain't civilized. It doesn't mean that ain't ain't a word anymore. 

What's a nice car got to prove about class anymore these days anyway. Nice car, Nice hair, Nice make up everyday. I guess that kind of shit matters to some people. Some guy bumped into walking on 16th street while I was smiling and I said Excuse me and he got all ruffled up and gave me the up n down with a dirty look. It doesn't mean much anyway, it's just a moment. a moment passed and lost just like it doesn't mean  much.

but anyway...

The Lights and She

I was rummaging with mortality several nights out of the week downtown near 6th and nothing in order to get away from The Woman back home. We’d have fights over the kids and the kid that wasn’t mine and I’d hit her across the face with poor Astella’s eyes watching, never crying just watching. The tendency to arrive back at the palace in the mornings on such holy Sundays had been increasing as my soul grew further and further from my wife’s and the house rocked back and forth that way. I ran downtown after work almost every night. Dreading the house. I wasn’t scared of that low brow cockeyed Pa of hers anymore. Before I got The Woman knocked up he had made me a promise that if I ever did what was to come, I would get it from him and the whole family. In reality I’d get it from the cousins, even good Vicky too. They would come after me if I did anything to their little girl. 

            I thought I might go insane soon and on one night that I came home from a bar I walked in on the Woman crying and running her nails along her arms and her standing over Astella who was crouched in the corner of what was left in our bedroom next to a broken lamp. Astella had blood dripping out of her ear and swollen scratch marks on her cheeks and her fingers were busted up too, and she was only 5. I grabbed Astella and didn’t even look at the Woman and managed to kick her in the gut onto the kitchen floor when she tried to grab at me. She pounced at me like a wild cat hungry and angry. It wasn't until that moment that I realized the condition the house was in and how stained the carpet was, evidence of the Woman's habits, ash smudged in making spots a terrible grey,  everything from the walls to the floor wreaked of the dregs of The Woman's sorry past and she would often pound with her fists the anger of the weight it held upon her down onto the floor until her hands were sufficiently punished and leaving new designs of a clearer yellow blood. I took Astella to her Grandmothers and made my Ma swear to call the cops if that Woman got anywhere near the house and when I was out of the door I ran. I ran a whole 16 blocks from Hyde down to Stockton, livid still, passing red headed whores and bums that screamed shit like Where you goin, boy? Where you Hiding? What are you running from? 

 Whores everywhere and crooked faced bums reaching their hands out at me like god damned vultures when i slowed down at Market to walk the streets and ease my pace. They’d say god bless your soul anyhow without even giving’em anything but god didn’t have anything to do with them here. They did it to themselves.  And the whores with rouge lips, all they’ve got are these slightly pretty eyes but you can’t tell unless they’re directly underneath the downward moping of the lamp posts anyway on account of all the costume drug store makeup. Looks like they all stepped out of some bizarre erotic horror movie, post rocky horror without the music and all they had was their ripped fishnets and sorry cunts. My woman used to always say that a married girl unfucked is like a corpse whore under the judgment of the Virgin Mary and I figure that these women understood it as well. They called out to me and I told everyone of’em that they made me sick, spat behind me towards their heels, but they went on laughing and shaking the classy off their hips, walking along with the tango of the fog and the shadows of the buildings around them. I went on with my bad breath full of my own taboos and I switched from my right hand a bottle of gin to my left hand to rub my nose to keep it from bleeding, when finally I stumbled into a bar downtown somewhere and I met Caro. 

            When I walked in I could just tell by the people in the air of their business that this was a common place for people who liked to hide in their wallets and at the bottom of beer bottles and shot glasses, people who confined themselves to these holes in the wall to escape from their own leisure. I came with a heavy head all ready and excuses running through my mind for why things ached the way they whistled. I was obviously fucked and got belligerent with the bartender demanding that he bring me 8 scotch vodkas and him screaming shit like Who are you trying to fuck with, man? Who’s job are you fucking with? And I knew he was about to punch some wiser words into my skull when she sat down. She played with her cleavage sitting towards the mirrors behind the wooden bar looking over her bare shoulders, looking for a son of a bitch precisely like me who had plenty all ready to believe in those red lips. Red lips smacked on that pale face of hers like bubblegum stuck on the pavement. She commanded intoxication from the bartender who let my collar go before she could even say “Bruno, you know what I want, two tails on the house woncha?” and Bruno worked his hands on her drinks faster than he would have punched my nose in. She sat two seats away from me. her curly blonde hair illuminated in the blue red lights behind the bar and Costello was playing, and I hate Costello and perhaps she knew and decided to walk in on this very song for me. She wore a torn up flower in her jew curly hair and soothed off the enlightenment of a fourteen year old. I could smell cigarets battled with strawberry sweet perfume from where I was sitting and her skirt was lowered to an area of her back where I later learned was embedded the image of an anchor ornamented by lotus flowers. She looked around and caught me looking at her.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Her lips were crazy.

“I’m sorry.”

 I was immediately impaired. 

“That isn’t what I asked you, ass hole. You’re stare is making my skin itch and my back hurt, tell me what the fuck you’ve been looking at.”

I thought that she must be from Brooklyn from the way she sang.

 “What are you doing here?”

Why I would ask such a thing is beyond

“Are you fucking with me?” She asked.

“Everyone seems to say that.”

And then lug ass started walking towards us. 

“Caro, you want me to finish this ass hole?” and she looked at me and gave me a half smile and I sat up a little ready to run and she said “No I want him to tell me what the fuck he’s looking at.” And then Bruno mumbles something like Jesus, this guy? Under his breath.

“So what about it?”

I choked a little and just began to say without realizing it “You hair…” what about her hair? “Your hair in this light reminds me of this movie made back in the 70’s that this real cheap bastard made about an American girl ballerina who moves to Germany to live in this mansion that’s haunted, you see, and there’s a scene where the lights switch from red to orange to blue and her hair is all over the scene, just all over the place’ I waved my hand around my head’ changing along with the lights and the director killed her off so that she all ready looked dead before she ever died.” She just stared at me. One brow up like she was confused or disgusted and she finished her last shot, accidentally spitting a little bit from her lips and said “Are you Italian?”

“What? Me?”

“You’re one real fucking Sajak aren’t you. I’m looking right into YOUR eyes, honey, I’m a Russian Mexican. I don’t kid. Are you or aren’t you?”

“Sorry-“ 

“Quit apologizing! I hate it.”

“Sor… My Father’s Italian and my mom’s a spic. My wife though she’s full blood Italian so my kids, my daughter’s got more Italy in her than I do.”

She started laughing and she snorted a bit and I started giggling and soon we were both laughing, howling, so madly that the whole bar was telling us to shut up but to this day I can’t imagine what was so funny. And Costello, that fucking song played on repeat the whole time. 

She took me to her pad which was a residential SRO off of Howard and something called the Philips Hotel. Rats and roaches and white rooms with red carpets and fuck stains all over but I didn’t mind, Caro said she’d be here for the next couple weeks waiting for her pimp. “He’s real lousy,” she confessed after a couple nights. “Dan’s from some shit town called Felton. It’s a whiles a way south of Half Moon Bay and there are all these cute ranches there with horses and tire swings and hikes to hidden swimming holes. He stayed there for some time recently in his idiot friend Gary’s back house that they turned into a lab but it blew up in the middle of the night when his friend and Gary’s girlfriend were fucking on it and Dan was on the couch passed out. His girlfriend smoked cigarettes while she fucked and Dan swears that the girl was in the middle of her climax when she dropped her smoke into some vat of solution and the whole place went ablaze and Dan got up off the couch and jumped out of the window when the whole place blew up. Ha! The bitch deserved it. Dan’s colorblind now and always mistake’s me for one of our black girls.  But he likes me most. I know it.” 

Caro, Caro. Her name meant expensive in Spanish. Caro was my girl. I could count on her when I got lonely at night and The Woman was at home eating maggots out of her handbags and shoes and designer watches and all that other couture bullshit that women are obsessed with. Spending my bread every which way. But not Caro. It didn’t take me more than two nights to become addicted to Caro. Her lips could cause earthquakes and divorce. She had the softest skin I have ever put my body on out of any woman, which always baffled me because her body was heavily used and always medicated. And she didn’t complain much especially when I brought her food and booze and a whole mess of drugs. Besides she was a true broad, she truly loved sucking dick. Women like that are priceless, at least on this side of the city. We had an agreement that was more special than any kind of relationship that my ma taught me to have as a kid. I would come and tell her all the pretty things I could because she deserved it, that face of hers.

“Benny boy, you’ve got a way with your words you know?”

 “Yes, darling”, kissing of thigh.

“You make me feel like I did when I was back in junior high and my figure was better.” Sniffing of nose, “You know, you make me think that I can be something with you Benny boy, like we gotta get out of here.” 

“Caro,” 

“Yeah, Benny boy? Don’t stop what your doin’ keep kissin’.”

“We should get out of here.”

She raised up a little.

“How about we go to L.A.? I’ve got a friend down there who’d be mad about you. “

“Really, Benny, you really mean that!”

“Yeah sure! He’s got a golden hook from Nicaragua and a pad right near Venice. We can make some moves. We can dance and go to the movies and go downtown and drink around all over. they’ve got this smog there like no other, I swear!”

“Benny, I don’t know, Dan would go nuts trying to find me. Aw, hell Benny boy let’s go!”

“Caro, you’ve got a way that makes me feel old and new at the same time, baby.”

I hadn’t called my wife baby in several months.

“Well that’s good, good for a little girl who only like older men.”

“What do you mean Baby?” and I kept eating her when she finally says, “Well you know it’s hard to get older men to like you when you’re 16 and- OW FUCK Benny why’d you bite me?” She lifted the covers and looked down at me. I was stunned.

“What’s the matter with you!” and she put the covers back down. I stared right into her criminal curse.

“I wanna get a white dress in LA and be in a room covered in white, Ben. I wanna get a make up pen and put a beauty mark on me and I’ll be a real Monroe.”

 I began to get up out of the bed slowly as Caro kept dreaming. “And I wanna go to the Boulevards and buy one pair of shoes, just one with my own money. I’m sure I could hassle the money out of someone and.. where you goin?” 

“I’m gunna walk out and get a pack of smokes darling, get us more booze you stay here okay?”

“Well I’ll just go with ya, I want a fruit drink anyway!”

“No, Marla. No. You stay here. Stay put. Put some make up on for when I get back or something, okay, I’ll get you your drink.”

Marla was the first woman I had an affair with.

“Well all right.”

The Girl hadn’t even caught it.

I stepped out of the hall and into the white red and I could hear porn blaring from the up stares and rats scratching at the walls and a broken muffled radio station and a man hurling painfully the bathroom share and at the end of the hall there was an open door and I looked in and I saw a wolf dog sitting straight up on a bed with floral bedding watching the T.V. and the owner was an older Hispanic woman who looked over at me just standing there with no immediate direction and as I began to walk away towards the steps that led out to 9^th street I heard her whisper “Que Dios te bendigue.” from her rocking chair at the foot of the bed. I walked out the door and right onto Howard and I thought that I may vomit right there with the lights around me flickering and on me glared the neon sign from the tranny club below the Hotel and the blue Chevron lights facross the street and the traffic lights above me, they glowed a nauseating mist from the wet streets and I could see Caro’s room light from below. I started my car and drove towards the 101 highway. 

           *********

I have a reckless time ahead of me. The late hours have reached my solitude. In my car, although I am fucked, I view 101 with a clear eye. This whole area surrounds such a sacred body of water, sacred and polluted, with windsurfing love birds constantly on its ground, animals in cars hugging the roadsides, becoming statistics, risking the danger. Tourists gawk at this land with cheap intentions from travel books and media coverage. Not many people truly understand what it is to grow up in a California land. And that is what my home truly is. California Land. Like a theme park. Compared to the rest of this world California is top notch, grade A civilians with hungry hearts for their own dreams, and enough hard ons to populate a disadvantage being that everything comes so easy to us. Everything at hand. If you want to live a night of luxury, lust, or loathing you merely need to drive a mile or so into San Francisco and you can find anything you want at any given time within a quarter mile radius. Oh the selfishness, even the bums. At least they feed from grade A. 

Caro had curves just like California. Rolling and gleaming like fresh fruit. So bodacious and intimidating, you could almost smell the hills on her skin. She had roads in her blood that needed tracing, I thought of her shoulders with I headed south on 101 from San Luis Obispo where I stocked up on supplies. I was going in through every turn and wind about with such speed so I could feel the force of nature pulling at my insides. Grazing California's hills I almost feel like I am violating the land, along with her mind. What kind of scum was I to deserve this life? Caro was fresh produce here from an exotic mother from south of this border; obviously her roots drew history somewhere in this plane's past. She told me she loved to dance; I Should’ve brought her to Los Angeles with me to visit the nightlife. I had to forget about her eventually, which also stood for the city. A foolish city, that Los Angeles, I could never fall in love in a city who can't view its own mountains. 

The view from the top Los Angeles Mountains is almost dream like, even with its popularity for pollution. There is a sheet of smog that has a giant hypocrisy. It is a fantastic view from the Eastern Mountains looking west onto the pacific. The smog creates a blanket that makes the streets and palm trees and fabulous buildings look as if they are swaying to a song that can't be ignored, eternal and eerie when looking as a foreigner. It looks heavenly with the lazy skies, the sulking July skies that are so fresh you can almost inhale it into your lungs. So that's what I do. I inhale a cigaret and breathe it back in even when I have stepped on it on Sunset Boulevard. So many damn billboards and sirens and all for the crazy dreamers alike. The only thing I can truly appreciate is the fact that no one comes to LA without a cause, even the lost and the lonely for they have come to be lost and alone.

I am glad to be back in the bay area. Truth hits a little harder here without the glam of having Hollywood's glory so accessible. The air is pure and so are its people. Maybe not so much here at home, where I live in Pacific Heights, but if you look with eyes of a native and you find exactly the right nook and people, you get the feeling of a champion, like you are forever right exactly where you are, so western, so modern, it barely hits me until the morning after I arrive back from LA to get The Girl. It is very easy to get lost in its superiority, which is a symptom around here. People love themselves. Their friends, their own lives. So many scandals, so many love stories. Their nice cars and beautiful people and beautiful opportunities. and look! At all the pretty houses! And that bay, and its view. And the gates with gold, and the front row seat to one of the best god damned sunsets in the all of this beautiful world. And to think that I am a bored citizen.  Oh the day, and all its glory! Dear god, do we ever run out of luck in California?

-Bianca Gonzalez

2006 first draft, last paragraph

2007 second draft, story building

2009 first complete draft

posted 2012
back in editing currently 2013

The Fridge

If I have to be honest at any given point in my life it can be now and today and this very moment in writing. My head is rushing and my blood pressure doesn't feel normal. My alarm clock is the sound of skaters in the morning. The songs have been recording are half assed in terms of strength in vocals but take into the consideration that most of these songs have been recorded in my room inspired by lack of sleep and the 90's and nicotine and a weird long slow start to this year.

donuts revisited

the first time i listened to jdilla's donuts was in 2007. Sam and Will were staying at the capri because they wanted to be living in the city and i stayed there one night to eat burgers and get stoned. Justin, being an insomniac, was well fit and plump with inspiration for stories at that motel in the marina district. Will had gone out to sell weed and sam rolled a blunt for us in the bathroom and set up the speakers. Right before he sparked the blunt he put on donuts. 

You know that ecstasy. We all do. When every one of your senses is pierced and you are wholly consumed by not just the music but the moment. 

I remember hallucinating all sort of images with my eyes open, in my mind, lots of video game like scenarios, exploding fireworks, stars, dreams remembers, and when the album was over i couldn't tell if what i had heard was actually in the music or not, that my mind had created an episode from that noise.

the noise.

That's what I try to remind myself during days like these. 

It's about the music.

It's about what comes after the music and what was before it. 

It's a time in my life where I can't ever experience silence. Sometimes I get that feeling, the feeling of silence, like before waking up and perhaps when waking up from alcohol. But the feeling is more like an emptiness that hovers around and about, but unlike a void nothing is missing and the noise is always there, especially in the warehouse and at my mothers when the trains run by, and in the mission when the cars drive and people yell and laugh and cough outside of all those windows. not even in darkness can I find silence like I've tried in forests or in open fields. Still the noise of the all the animals around, and like the waves of the beach at night, exudes the air of a symphony. 

It's been a while since I've been to the symphony but in ways there is one happening anyway.

Henry Miller on the meal, Tropic of Cancer

Walking along the Champs-Elysees I keep thinking of my really superb health. When I say health I mean optimism, to be truthful. Incurably optimistic! Still have one foot in the nineteenth century. I'm a bit retarded, like most Americans. Carl finds it disgusting, this optimism. I have only to talk about a meal, he says, and you're radiant! It's a fact. The mere thought of a meal - another meal - rejuvenates me. A meal! That means something to go on, a few solid hours of work, an erection possibly. I don't deny it. I have health, good solid, animal health. The only thing that stands between me and a future is a meal, another meal.

Lesson number 2

If you're going to run around breaking rules you've got to have guns you can stick to.