Monday October 30th 2006, 5:15 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the terrible writer,

I am a walking cliché! When I think about love, suffering, pain, lust, etc. my metaphors come as if I’ve crapped them out with last night’s tomalley dinner. What the hell am I to do with myself? Metaphor is the only reason to continue living – and if I can’t think of better metaphors than the shit I’m spouting, I have no reason to live. Life is a metaphor, a system of Appropriations that give Being its essence. How can I not use this as a learning lesson to my own expression? Language is a metaphor for stimulus and describing our experience through coherent thoughts. It’s a dialectical and logistical process of supplanting reality with our perception of reality. Metaphor comes after experience and is a post-instant discourse of appropriation. But it’s not always easy to link profound ideas to describe existence. I have to admit to myself; maybe I don’t have it in me to think metaphorically. I try to conquer banal thought by developing a metaphorical stockpile, ready to be loaded into the cannon of thought, but usually my metaphors ignite prematurely, blowing off an appendage of my ego. Appendage of my ego? What the hell kind of metaphor was that? OK, let me try again. I try to enslave banal thoughts by whipping the boredom out of reality using my magical metaphorical lasso … oh god, this is getting worse each time I try to creatively explain the process of creative thinking. Isn’t this why kids go to school? Shouldn’t someone be blamed in the pedagogical institutions of my childhood for not teaching me how to develop a simple yet genius analogy? Someone must pay for my shame! Someone besides me, of course. Someone? Anyone? No? Well, moving on. The official scrabble player’s dictionary defines cliché as “a trite expression.” Though isn’t trite a socially definable and subjective word? Expression, on the other hand, is not a subjective word. Expression is the act that a being materializes through metaphorical devices. The expression of thought can be a painting, a gesture, a word, an appearance. However, expression requires a recipient of such a motion. One cannot express if there is not another being present to receive an expression; however, there can be no expression without the absence of such an expression. It’s a process of giving and concealing, like most post-modern thought would state. There must be a space in which the expression finds itself giving itself to a recipient, even if such the recipient is the giver of such the expression. To fulfill the destiny of expression, one must propel oneself into the instant of action, an act of violence, to catch up with the moment, thus expressing a metaphorical relationship with the hierarchal dynamic of forethought, appropriation and a final expression that shoots from the non-existence of expressive action to a recipient of said expression. So, we dialectically described what expression is, however to get back to our subjective term “trite,” we can only infer that as things become dull, banal, or boring, which all things subjected to the realities of technology do, things become what is arbitrarily defined “trite.” Therefore, a cliché is a conditioned response to certain expressions that continually propel themselves into the instant, and we as humans then decide when enough is enough for these monotonous, repetitive expressions. I guess this is how violence becomes funny, hysterical even, after a prolonged exposure to it. Hence we’ve developed a system of post-survival expression that can allow us to move beyond cliché, finding it sardonically funny and boring at the same time.

Monday October 23rd 2006, 2:08 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a dark and distant space,

He slowly approached the front door, crying in his heart. “Won’t you stay for a bit longer?” were the words he desperately wanted her to say. Her silence said everything instead. As he opened the door with the heaviest of hands, she pulled him towards her … it was to be their last hug. His arms wrapped around her fragile ribs, holding her as he would hold a newborn child. Tears swelled in his eyes, though he fought their coming on with all his might. “Don’t cry in front of her,” he thought, as his grip tightened. “Take care of yourself” she sadly spoke into his chest. Her words bounced off his quivering skin, as he knew she meant them with all the care she had left in her. Their entanglement released and he took two steps away from her and into the void of a lost city. “I want you to know, I really love you. You’re a wonderful person,” he said, bewildered by his ability to say exactly how he felt for her. She half smiled, and with a moment of sadness she replied, “I love you too.” The words he had longed to hear were finally materialized. Through all his pain and suffering, “I love you too” could have healed his heart and madness. But these beautiful and docile words came too late. It was over; it was their last goodbye. His heart thumped, causing his body to half quake. The only words he could muster were trite and cliché. “Good luck,” he blurted out. With all his essence, he turned about face and walked out of the apartment, his old apartment, her new home, and into the misty grey fog of the city night. His tears followed him throughout his old neighborhood, eventually catching up to him three blocks from the apartment. His eyes burned with a sadness that no animal should ever have to endure. His stomach became so twisted from the pain it seemed as if he had digested razorblades. Every face he came across on the street looked like painting by Picasso. The details of existence blurred into a mollified void. Up became down, left pointed towards the right. Though his tears shamed him, he did not hide his contorted face from the passer-bys. If he had to endure this public suffering, then the world must as well. It was his gift to this unsympathetic city of socialites. Walking was only achieved out of pure habit. It seemed as if he had walked miles before he could clearly see where he was going; he was going home to a homeless heart. His body, numb and with senses dulled, desired nothing more than a hug from a complete stranger. However, he couldn’t even get the courage to lift his gaze from the grey flat cement which his feet firmly felt below him. Today his lover passed away, as all people do. Stepping into the streets he passed by a few junkies he had befriended on his lonely nights without her, but they could offer nothing to this broken senseless man. No drug, no prescription for the pain, could cure his defeated psychosis. Cars in the street stopped for his dazed passing, yet secretly he wished them to run right through. Nothing mattered anymore; no one could save him, as no one could kill him. He was already dead, a walking zombie. He wanted to be reunited with his deceased love, but was stuck in purgatory, or worse, Hell. As he maneuvered his way through traffic thaumaturgically, his phone rang, with her number on the caller ID, causing him to pause in the middle of Mission Street. Ironically a bus didn’t see him and he was swept away from his sadness as one sweeps dirt under a rug. The city’s immune system found a way to cleanse itself of this sick vile disease. He finally found his home, under the brilliant mechanics of the number “22” bus. “Home James,” he thought to himself in a last attempt to kill a monster with laughter. His heart thumped twice then ceased to beat at all. He was now finally home.


Sunday October 22nd 2006, 6:56 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

To the Good,

Yesterday I came over to your apartment so that I could sign over the pink slip to the car, as well as borrow the car for the evening. I had to move my things from San Francisco. We were quite pleasant with one another, which wasn’t surprising. There’s a large part of me that wants to be your friend, as you can tell by how eager I am to have a decent conversation with you. I want to hug you, hold you physically like the way I hold you in my heart. Our cat was very friendly with me, however I doubt she remembers that I was the one who cuddled and loved her as a kitten. Your Apartment looks wonderful, and I can only hope that someday I will land on my feet like you have. Your new haircut looked nice, but was cut pretty short for my tastes. However, when I first met you, your hair was three times shorter than it is now, and I still found a way to fall in love with you. We talked about the security deposit and said you would try to pay me back if I stopped shooting your friends with squirt guns. I laughed over this sardonic comment, but you didn’t think it was very funny. We shared a brief hug on my arrival to the apartment, but didn’t even wave goodbye on my departure.

To the Evil,

There’s a part of me that wants nothing to do with you. I want to cut you loose and never cross your path again. When I become nostalgic for your affection, I immediately and subsequently fill with anger, passionately wishing for your demise. I don’t want you to be so content with your life. Your new Apartment articles make me jealous of your new life. There’s no way I can cope with these raw guttural emotions that swell when I’m in your presence. I have to bite my lip and continue on with logistical (un)developments in our marriage. You said you would pay for the divorce papers because I am too poor to pay for them myself. You’re so adamant on our separation. Fucking take it easy. I’m fragile still, unlike you and your hardened outer core. And I know you’re fucking new men these days, which only makes me sad because I haven’t fucked anyone since you. The Apartment has become totally yours, which pisses me off because my name is still on the lease. I don’t think I will give you my new address in Los Angeles, just so you won’t be able to send me the divorce papers. It’d be nice to fuck with you for a while, at least until I get on my feet and find a job. Just to spite you, I won’t fail when I return to Los Angeles.

-My Ego

Friday October 20th 2006, 4:40 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Fuck you.

I called you today and you told me you would call me back because you were … “doing stuff.” You sounded so guilty. What exactly were you doing? And whom were you doing it with? Why the fuck did you even answer the phone if you were busy “doing stuff.” Maybe you were on drugs with your friends? Who knows? All I know is that I wanted to borrow the car so that I could take some boxes to Sacramento today, and you’re too busy “doing” something to appreciate me trying to get my life together. Even though moving boxes isn’t really me getting my life together, considering that I just woke up, have a hangover and have to clean the mess I made in my room last night. I came home plastered. After work last night I stepped into the local bar around the corner from Robert’s house. Betty, the beautiful bar tender, who doubles as a mother, was working last night. I sat down at the bar and told Betty, “I have nine dollars. Get me as drunk as you can for that.” She looked at me and laughed, grabbing the Jamison and Bailey’s from the shelf. She mixed together two shots of her delicious concoction and poured me a Stella back. I offered to pay her the 9 dollars but she refused my monetary trade. I was surprised by her generosity—most bars and bartenders aren’t as kind as Betty. It’s too bad she was double my age (I think her daughter is my age); Otherwise I would try to date the woman. It’s a shame that kindness and alcohol can lead to sexual desire. This is why so many female bartenders get hit on. If they smile back at a drunk patron, they are immediately seen as a sex object. When Betty closed the bar, she and I walked across the street to another bar to see if it was open – if so we were going to share a drink together. But the bar was closed and so Betty and I parted ways. I didn’t need another drink anyway. I stumbled home, barely making it to the front door. In fact I slammed my head on the front door while trying to get the key to fit in the hole. The stairway seemed taller than ever as I cautiously maneuvered from step to step. When I made it down the stairs, I let out a sigh of relief into the hallway by my bedroom, I was almost there, I thought. When I stepped inside my bedroom, I put down my backpack and stumbled into the window, knocking over a drum and a cup of change I had been collecting. I crashed into the blinds, which made a loud noise, and fell over onto the floor. After this fall I crawled to my bed to pass out. And this is why I have clean my room today. Whatever. This doesn’t diminish the fact that you’re I don’t have any good thoughts about you right now. Don’t be ambiguous with me over the phone. It just makes me hurt even more.

-Fuck You.

Thursday October 19th 2006, 7:26 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To My Demons,

Goodbye Chris, Hello Monster! Saturday, 10:00 PM: I am at work, bored out of my tits. Tonight the computer lab will be open until midnight for no reason at all. There’s not a single person here working on their projects. However, our management feels it necessary to employ (enslave) three workers to secure the lab. The mismanagement of companies irks me to no end. Hopefully my next job will be with a management team that actually pays attention to the work involved. One reason I didn’t like this job in the first place was because there was no room for improvement. The system is set in stone, and therefore cannot be changed for the better of the company. The job had no prospects of a raise, of an increase in responsibilities for the employees, nothing. How can one expect to feel like one has accomplished something, if one is stuck in a mundane job? I remember at the initial job interview, I almost didn’t get the job here because I actually like responsibility and improvement. I am too ambitious for such a static work environment. And so, in response to this banality, I have decided to drink on the job. On my 1st break, I bought a can of Sapporo, and chugged that before I came back into the lab. When the effects of the Sapporo were wearing off, I went out and bought a half pint of Jack Daniels, which I am now sipping on while sitting in the lab. Since there’s no one here who gives a flying fuck whether I am drunk or not, I have decided to get hammered before I leave this vocation tonight. Although the qualms I have with my corrupt job are quite substantial, they’re not the entire reason why I’ve decided to drink tonight. All day today I have been contemplating how pointless my life is. The demons inside me are whispering in my ear— words of death and suicide. Everywhere I turn, an object of self-destruction calls to me. The subway would be a quick and easy death. Running in front of a bus would do the trick as well. Slicing my throat with a straight edge razor could work, although any sharp object would finish me off just as well. I’ve contemplated electrocution but I doubt I could manage to guarantee my finality with the means I have. I wouldn’t kill myself at Robert’s house, just out of respect for their family. Who wants to live in a house where someone committed suicide? And so, a toaster in the bathtub is out of the question. On Mission Street I could spend $100 dollars to buy enough heroin to overdose and die. I could jump off of the Golden Gate Bridge and make my death a cliché, or I could turn my suicide into an art project like Ray Thomson did when he jumped off a bridge in 1995. There are too many options for me to choose which death I could give myself tonight. I am supersaturated with demonic ideas at this point. Do you ask yourself these questions? Are you satisfied with your existence? Do you think about killing yourself? Tonight? This evening?

-The Saint.

Wednesday October 18th 2006, 6:57 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To Saturday,

With a thumping chest and trembling hands, I got the nerve to call you. Surprisingly you answered the phone (I hoped that you would just let the voicemail pick up). Your “hello” was pleasant, as was mine. I told you of my plans for leaving San Francisco in exactly one week and you responded with a shocking “for Good?!” “Yes, for good” I stated. I then went into the reason for calling you. I want some of my movies back as well as my coffee maker. There are a few documentaries on artists that I wish to take with me to Los Angeles, and well, you bought a new coffee maker, so you won’t need my old one. I told you that Monday would be a good day to meet up, half expecting you to schedule a chaperone for our encounter. I still sensed a bit of animosity in you, but I didn’t react towards your tone of voice. You told me that Monday afternoon would tentatively be a good time for you, and that we could meet up for coffee. I joked about meeting in the morning at 8 AM, and you responded with a “Let’s make it 6 AM.” I countered your sarcasm with “we could catch a sun-rise”, and you replied, “Fuck that!” However, by the tone in your voice, I can only assume what you really meant to say was “fuck you.” You haven’t given the car to Justin’s parents yet because you “wanted to run it through a car wash first.” I doubt you will ever get rid of that car. It reminds you of Justin’s grandfather, and thus the Love you had for Justin and his family. I think it’s safe to say you’re attached to that motor vehicle. It’s too bad my name is still on the pink slip, but I’m sure we’ll take care of that on Monday. Besides the pre-phone call emotions, our conversation was banal and mundane. You and I don’t make jokes or laugh together. It’s sad for me to analyze our conversations to the point of banality, but it’s the honest truth. You told me you went to San Jose yesterday, but didn’t explain why. Most likely you were visiting your Love, Justin. Maybe you two were made for each other? After all, you two have a lot in common. You both are content with normality and banality. And you both now have a common enemy. Justin and you were together for almost five years. You were engaged for six months before you convinced him to break up with you. Then, when you and I developed into the love we had, Justin waned in the shadows of jealousy, hoping you and I were doomed to perish. Well, it looks like things have finally worked in his favor. You and I are a dead memory while you and Justin are now rekindled lovers. I remember the first time I met Justin. I didn’t like his curt attitude towards you and me. He’s actually a prick. But, it’s your life, and your decision. It’s your decision who you love and who you don’t love. I knew he would return in your life as a lover. I just knew it. Because of this he has never been a friend to me. I really dislike that man—your best friend, your new-old lover.


Monday October 16th 2006, 2:30 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the Time Developing,

It’s been some time since we last spoke – maybe a week or so. This may be because the last words you said to me were “Call me later this week,” to which I replied, “Sure.” I haven’t fulfilled my part of the deal, with good cause. I am too frightened to inquire into what you’ve been up to lately. Anxiety swells in me when I contemplate asking you simple questions such as “How has your week been?” or “What are your plans for the weekend?” With you I am a failure at small talk. I think my fear of your response is validated, not because of the specific answers you’ll give to my questions, but by the way in which those answers will be spoken. I know you’ll have a soothing tone in the gesture of your voice when you tell me of your mundane plans. You’ll nonchalantly describe some banal existence. Like anything you plan to do, whether it’s going to San Jose, or hanging out in the Apartment, or having sex with a robot monkey is an acceptable plan. You won’t ask my opinion—you need no input from me. You don’t contemplate how your responses will affect me, and you sure as hell won’t want to include me in any of your plans. Maybe I’m jealous of your “smooth-sailing-I’m-gonna-be-OK” plans because my plans seem so turbulent. It’s likely my fear of talking to you is a fear of repression. I don’t want to have to be a “yes-man” to anyone, especially not you. I can imagine your reaction to these thoughts I’m having. You’d tell me to go fuck myself, that it’s not my responsibility to care about your plans, that I don’t have a say in anything that goes on in your life. This all may be true. But why would you ask me to call you later in the week if you don’t care to respond to me as a caring human being? It seems you want to keep a superficial connection with me, not because you honestly care about me, but rather to check up on me to see if I’ve any plans to harm you in the future. Your fear makes you say things like “Call me later in the week.” And since I’m afraid of someone who fears me, that puts us in a peculiar position, doesn’t it? Maybe if I don’t call you, you’ll realize the absurdity of you asking me to call, and we can sweep the whole “calling each other thing” under the rug like we swept up our marriage. Which reminds me, you switched your wedding ring from your wedding finger to your right hand’s 4th finger around the time you realized you were no longer in Love with me. This switch occurred three days before you found that letter on my computer (which made you take the ring off entirely). Why did you switch fingers so quickly? Everything happened so quickly for you. Our marriage and love was over in a week. Subsequently one week later, you asked me to move out of the Apartment. Everything was swept neatly under the rug for you. Hell, if you didn’t tell anyone, no one would even know we’re still married. I wonder if you use me as an excuse to push away men after you’re done fucking them? You can sweep them under the rug just as easily as you did our love. But sooner or later, you’re going to have to vacuum the broken pieces of their hearts from under that rug, and we all know how much you hate to clean that apartment.

— Space-Time-Ego-Thing.

Tuesday October 03rd 2006, 5:35 pm
Filed under: Love Letters

To my mid-day thoughts,

Dolores Park is a place I go to enjoy the mid-day summer. It’s a park filled with luscious grassy hills, swing sets, beautiful people sun bathing, ugly people hiding in the shade and most importantly, space to allow thoughts to disseminate into existence. This park is somewhere that you and I have never experienced alone together. We may have come here once with your gutterpunk friends a long time ago, but as I recall we didn’t even sit next to one another that day. Dolores Park has been a space for me to birth emotions into coherent thoughts and ideas. This is a place of life and fecundity. I’ve not stigmatized the landscape of Dolores Park like I have with other parks in San Francisco. Glen Park was the first adventure you and I had in San Francisco. We drove from San Jose to San Francisco on the second weekend of our courting months. You and I climbed to the top of the Glen Park Mountains to find solitude in the urban jungle of San Francisco. It was at that point of our love that I first had difficulties with the fact that you didn’t speak much. I couldn’t tell if you were enjoying my company, or if your silence was a product of your disapproval. Before we physically met, you told me “I am very shy, so if we meet, consider me mute.” In fact, it seems this is a tired phrase you use on any new victim of your love. You posted the same message on your Myspace account. To re-appropriate these words to your new life, and by way of me seeing this on your biography, I became quite nostalgic for our beginning love. After the nostalgia wore off, I became saddened by your profile because I know of the eventual love you and I shared after you told me of your shy persona. There’s a part of me that wants you to never share the words you have shared with me with a new lover. I want a sense of singularity in your love, which would reflect a sense of individualism that I’ve always have striven towards. But I’ve realized the absurdity of this unspoken request; the futility in it lies in that those words you spoke directly to me were never meant for me to own. One cannot own another’s words. The closest one can get to singular ownership of another’s thoughts is through one’s own interpretation of the language. However, the intention behind the vernacular is what one hopes to own. But even this system of intended meaning and interpretive meaning proves futile and hopeless. It’s a difficult process to come to terms with the multiplicity of meaning regarding singular love and individualism. Language itself is a borrowed system of semantics, meaning we never own the words we use in discourse. The outcome of this library system for language produces a feeling of being disjointed in discourse, and therefore produces a lack of truth in regards to intention and meaning. For example, I can say the phrase, “I love you,” which is true, even though I have said this to four other women in my life (not including my mother). Those people no longer exist in a monogamous individual state through the language, though that’s not to say I didn’t love all of the women in my life singularly. In the moment of such a love, I honestly loved the individual, regardless of the language used to describe the love. But, to recount the difference between the “who” and the “what”, I loved things about my loves, and most likely not the “who” of my love. And so I fall prey to my own hypocrisy of desiring singularity for your intention behind our dialogues. It is here that I will discontinue my hope for singularity, and wallow in the sadness of inevitable multiplicity and the masses.

me being sad and lonely in a park.