Home is where the where is

I went to the Long Beach Aquarium today. As I measured the distance between people’s awe and the tropical fish, lit by a combination of white lights and fake plants, a friendly giant showed me the way around.

“You can touch the shark with your fingers.” His patience with my scaredy cat attitude reminded me of that teacher, John, who taught the welding workshop I put my ass in, just yesterday. They both read beyond the fact that my face looked like if someone was showing me an open wound, and expected me to saw it.

All the sawing that’s bound to happen, around here, is my putting the pieces of metaphor together.

Awkwardly having declined both the flamethrower (ok, maybe it has another name but that’s exactly how it looked), and the open jaws of the (footlong) shark, neither the friendly giant or the Italian art teacher insisted, which is when I did find myself somehow doing both things.

In the first instance, I did get distracted by the faces of my terrified peers, as I turned the green flame towards them. In the second, Minh was there beside me, amused by how much of a big deal I was making of it.

Touching the shark, as someone noticed, only minutes after I was coming down from the high of the very experience, is exactly like touching wet concrete.

And they were right.

My point being this: drama is a most effective tool, when in search of that particular kick one gets out of making life (look) bigger better faster stronger.

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Wo Sind die Goldenen Jahre

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While don’t expect German to have become in, it is the vibe that I get, when Hildegard Knef drags an exhale and turns it into groaning, toasting her early morning vodka to the idea of time lost.

I did not yet give into substance abuse for the purposes of survival. But I did indulge into 2 new hobbies, as I navigate Los Angeles.

My new hobby #1: Stumbling upon the streets of Havana, when I ride along the sidewalks of Los Angeles, too slow to give into the fight with cars. There’s just so much to look at. I almost get high on remembering how much I like big cities, and how none ever seem as big as Madrid, you little bitch of a small town.

Expect escapist tales of how I never met my heroes, but did spend time observing every single little thing around me.

Like today, I went to see a rehearsal of a video-installation piece at the Fisher Museum, and thankfully got lost, and discovered the monument to the 10 of Hollywood. I now know what people talk about when being moved to tears by pieces of art and history. Standing on pieces of injustice, all I thought is how important it is to do something, to fight back.

My new hobby #2: Figuring out who is crazy and how I do. The two examples being extreme enough that one gets to decide, drama or epic.

In the drama version, I am introduced to a potential landlady, under the pretense that she’s a nice old Mexican lady, only to find her doped out on anti-depressant. Finding her is an over-statement, as she does not bother opening the door to let me know that there are no free rooms.

In the non drama version, I take the chance to spend sometime with the beautiful human being who took me  there, and immediately feel at home with him and his friend, who I guess has a way with the ladies, but has found a new little sister in this queerdo. The rest of Martin Luther King Day is spent in a marvelous haze of laughter, and Realness. Pity I did not go all the way from that into the night. But the Universe took it out on all of those who felt bad for it, and I guess I was the only one.

So I am going to share notes, as it is the costume in the XXI Century.