process and archive for later disposal

Monday, September 29, 2008

admission: take one

we were far too short
in the timing
in the feeling
in the sense
that i'm far too
senseless
to release


Thursday, September 25, 2008


sunrise. sunrise.

in the meadows,
in the wind,
in the colorless. caption. below.

bottomless sounds.

souls. souls in the ether. e p h e m e r a l
and
sweet and silent.

in the sun. in the sun. in the moon.
in the glow
and the gloom
and the white and blue.
in the
sunrise.


Tuesday, September 23, 2008


"no, i'd rather have that one..."

we hadn't the slightest idea of what to say. no one did. no one ever does.

no. no, i see. i understand completely. the fact of the matter is that it's over. plain and simple. fun while it lasted. not in the cards. pin a cliche to it. however you want. but it's over.

i met him one night, in the thickets and the shrubs near the riverbed just outside Portland, the darkness illuminated by the passing headlights. he offered his support among other things. those things being the pathways to a higher or, as he said, "transcended plane". i thought for a moment while moss grew in slow motion on the logs beneath the water. i saw in there, in the light, suppressed by crashing ferns. my secrets buried me there in the drink.

i'm not the humanoid you thought i was.

cyclical and sterile and credulous, all the same

i gutted fish in kathmandu, drinking wine and sunlight, listening to the wind make love to the ocean. higher than the stepchild of everest and k2, slipping between the past and present and future and everything between. yes, even between that. lights never more brilliant. sounds never more lucid. dreams never more real. i tell you it was something feral. that's for certain.

beggars find themselves drooling at the sight of oncoming traffic, listening for the sound of music or mouths pouring through a cracked window, staring blank, clean and empty as a new chalkboard, towards that opening which serves no further purpose beyound false hope for those who've slept where most have spewed, for those who weep while others wine, for those who dream greater than the lot of us all.

a squid. there was a squid and i remember kicking and splashing and yelling but i couldn't yell because of the water and i just remember seeing it in the back of my head. i saw it swimming fast and the tentacles reaching for me and the suckers grabbing my legs and i was scared. i was terrified. but i wasn't yelling. i couldn't yell. i don't know why i thought of it or what it really meant. i mean, people usually don't think of squid when they're about to die.

Ephemeral, but not quite so. This is the product of the incomprehensible.

Your father found you on the boulevard three nights ago, lying in a pool of your own madness. You drifted not too far from home after your sister caught you sleeping in the attic. "You can't be here," she said, her voice stern and solid like a drill instructor. "He'll find you in the middle of the night. He'll kick you to the curb and take what's left of you." So you woke up from the dream, the one where you are flying through the star lines and you make your stumbled way towards the ladder. "Don't come back," she says, turning away before even finishing the sentence, leaving you to climb back down the way you came in.

Aqua(velva)phobia and how you dream in supply and demand

i dreamed this once. i remember it now. we spent five days on the southern tip, dipping ourselves now and again into the drink. sunlight met the shore, met the air, met the pore. in and then back and then in again. managing not the time of day but the time it'd take to ruin it. either me or her. i would bet her, secretly in my head, on the outcome. because even though there were no winners in the end of it all i still wanted to feel like maybe it were me. i almost died there. in the drink. the bubbles. the glassy abyss. swimming out to meet the falling waters. only made it half way. i think now that it felt like what being apart of the mob must feel like, only when you've screwed the mob and they encase your feet in cement and tell you your "swimmin' with the fishes tonight, saul." only my name's not saul. and i know nothing about the mob. but i know something of almost dying. of drowning. of struggling to breath. air: never a more precious commodity so terrifyingly scarce. sweating under water. yeah, it's possible. but i couldn't tell you how it ended. last thing i thought about was the bet. and then the dream ended.

In Memory

My grandfather died one month ago. June 8th, 2008. He was 66 years old. His name was Esteban Raleigh Largusa. To us, me and the younger generation, the grandkids, we called him "papa". He lived in Hawaii, on the island of Kauai, for the last few years. He was born in Kilauea, near the north shore.

For the last few weeks I've wanted to write something to him. Something that would express my feelings of him. My thoughts about him. My love for him. But I've found it to be more difficult that I could have imagined.

I can't express how much I miss him, how much I wish he were still here, and how upset and angry it makes me that he's not.

I went golfing a couple weeks ago. I never golf. But I went to the driving range with a friend and we bought some balls and hit the turf.

My grandfather was an avid golfer. He spent the better part of his time golfing. Always going to the club, to the driving range, meeting with friends, getting in that 18 hole round of golf before it got too hot (although, let me say, the heat would never stop him). He loved to golf. He took me and my brother and my cousin one time, years ago, to the driving range with him. I remember watching him drive the ball hundreds of yards every time. He'd say to us, "Choke down on the club," and, "Eye on the ball, and keep that arm straight." The only thing I could remember thinking was, "What is the appeal?"

But then there I was, two weeks ago, standing under a wooden awning at a driving range in Riverside hoping somehow that would bring us closer. That maybe, just maybe, if I could hit the ball hard enough my grandfather would, by some mythical act, reappear and tell me how great of a drive that was and then proceed to do it a thousand times better. How many times I looked toward the entrance hoping, wishing, praying, fooling myself that he would be there.

I saw him for the last time in February. We were having a Superbowl party at the house. Food and friends and talk of hockey filled the rooms. I remember standing behind our leather sofa near the table eating chips and salsa when he walked into the room. His smile, his charm, his charisma shone and radiated throughout. I remember thinking, "What the hell are you doing here?" and then actually saying it to him as we embraced. I hadn't expected to see him that day. He made his rounds, greeted everybody, and settled into his home away from home away from the golf course: the kitchen.

My grandfather loved to cook. I couldn't help but smile when, 5 minutes after he showed up, he was already helping my mom with cleaning or cooking the salmon she had bought the day before. He was a fantastic cook. If I had to pick his specialty it would be Pork Adobo, a Filipino dish. But that day it was salmon.

Today is July 6th. One month ago my grandfather passed away. One month ago I was sitting at the table, talking with family, about how, in Hawaii at the Marine Wildlife Observatory, he would pull the Opihi shells of the sides of the walls in the tanks and eat them right there. One month ago we were watching the Food Network as chef Sam Choy would win the Luau Cookout Challenge from Hawaii. One month ago I was among friends, at our hockey game, resting on a bench in Riverside, thinking about how I should call him and catch him up on things. One month ago, when we finally found out what had happened, I remember grieving in a chair by the door, trying to rationalize all the things that had happened that day, trying to comprehend why it all happened that day, and trying to understand why things like these do happen.

Here's to you, Papa.

Nothing special ever happened

Nothing special ever happened. There was never a specific event or family trauma that occurred to me when I was younger. Nothing that affected me in any unique way to shape the way I am or how I write. I can't say that my father died rescuing fellow soldiers in the Vietnam War or that my mother drank her weight in red wine and, on occasion, found herself in the thralls of a neighborhood man or that my siblings boasted a variety of narcotics that they took and shared and made me ingest against my will. My family was the quintessential cookie cutter household. My mother served the church. My father paid the bills. My grandparents lived normal, God loving lives, surviving the Great Depression, President Nixon, and the hippie movement. They served their country, obeyed the law, and loved their children. Nothing special ever happened.

Sailors And Cavemen(Revised)

Sailors And Cavemen

A silver flask sits at the edge of a nightstand in a stylish, high-end hotel near the east side of Orlando. Gideon Nebuls slumps in a brown chair on his balcony. Lean arms drape over the leather armrests. His room is on the 4th floor. It’s late afternoon, and the sun has just begun its nighttime routine while the rain continues to fall from the mottled sky. Gideon listens to droplets beat away at the balcony overhang as he watches the people below move about like ants in a farm.
He tries to relax.
The phone rings from across the room. Gideon, legs full of anxiety, forces himself out of his chair to answer it. It rings two more times before he finally picks up the receiver.
“Good evening, Mr. Nebuls,” says the concierge at the 1st floor front-desk, his tone placid. “I hope you are enjoying your stay.”
“I am, yes. Thank you,” Gideon replies. His voice is low and coarse.
“Very good, sir. I just wanted to check in. There is a Mr. Conners on the line. Shall I put him through?”
Gideon thinks for a moment. Mr. Conners? He can’t recall the name. He’s never been one to take the call of someone whose name or number he doesn’t recognize and, yet, at the same time he always hates when people leave voice messages. But what does it matter? It is, after all, his last night on Earth.
“Go ahead. Put him through,” he tells the concierge.
“Very good, sir. Have a good night.” There is a brief pause while the lines switch between the front desk and Mr. Conners. Gideon loosens his vocal chords with a melodious series of grunts and coughs. Mr. Conners? He tries one last time to place the name in his memory before speaking into the receiver.
“Hello?”

“Gideon.”
The back yard of the Nebuls residence was busy with celebration. Picnic tables were set up in rows toward the far end of the yard. There was a barbeque, coolers full of beer, and a table with an assortment of chips and dips near the patio. Sunlight blanketed the guests as they talked and drank and took turns congratulating the new Commander of the space shuttle Discovery.
“Gideon, come here a moment. I want you to meet someone.”
Gideon sprang up from his seat at the far end of the picnic table and made his way to his father’s side at the opposite end of the bench. His father was sitting with a man roughly the same build as him, strong and sturdy and sharp in the face. Together, they were like a superhero and his sidekick.
“Hey, champ. I want you to meet John Douglas,” Walter began, “John is going to be going up in the shuttle with me.”

Gideon sat down across from the man. His eyes lit up underneath his charcoal hair. “Really?” he asked.
“Yep,” John started. “We’re going up to the space station to fix some panels. Ever seen the space station?”
“Yeah. Dad showed me some pictures from the last time he went up there.”
John swirled his drink in his hand, “Pretty neat, huh?”
“John has been a friend of your father’s since I started in the program,” Walter said. “We’re finally getting a mission in together.”
John laughed, “Yeah. After how long? Better late than never, huh?”
“That’s true,” Walter replied. His face was red in the sunlight. “Gideon,” he began, “Go get your pop another drink, will you?”
Gideon pulled his gaze away from the two men and rushed to get Walter another beer. He reached the cooler, sunk his hand into the icy waters, and pulled out a fresh brew. He moved through the little pockets of people talking and found his father sitting in the same spot as when he left.
“Thanks, champ,” Walter said, giving him a wink as he opened the beer.
Gideon stayed next to his father and listened to the two men talk about past missions. They went on about how fun it was going to be and how excited they were. Gideon’s eyes remained fixed on his father. He sat there and listened to every word until John got up and left.
“Pleasure to meet you, son,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure your pop doesn’t screw anything up over there.” John pointed toward the sky and then left.
* * *
“Hello?” Gideon asks again.
“Mr. Nebuls?” says a man, his voice deep and quick.
“Who is this?” Gideon responds, tone shifting from tired to curious.
“Mr. Nebuls, this is Captain Gregory Connors. How are you doing this evening?”
Gideon is still caught off guard. “I’m well. Yourself?”
“I’m well, Mr. Nebuls. Thank you. I understand you will be apart of the Omega mission tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, sir. That’s correct.”
“I recognized your name in the papers. The first manned mission to Mars. That’s no easy feat, son. Quite the challenge.”
Gideon tenses upon hearing this. It is no easy feat. The mission will take years. He knows that. They all do. But how can he pass up this opportunity. How can anyone? Beads of sweat begin forming on Gideon’s brow.
“Gideon, are you there, son?”
Gideon speaks. “Yes, sir. Sorry, I was a million miles away.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Connors begins, “You’ll get there soon enough. I’m calling because I worked for NASA some years ago. I knew your father.”
“You did, sir?” Gideon’s voice grows curious.
“I did. Fine man, he was. We went on a few missions together, into orbit, fixing or installing satellites. We never made it to the moon. Buzz and Neil, they beat us to the punch. Your father and me would have gotten there but well, you know. Things happen.” There is a brief pause. “Top class astronaut. One of a kind.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gideon says, trying to relax. The splattering of rain fills a brief pause across the line.
“Was there something I could help you with, sir?” Gideon says.
“No, no. Nothing too pressing. I understand you must be under a significant amount of stress. This is your first flight, is it not?”
“It is, sir.”
“I suppose I just wanted to tell you ‘Good Luck’. Like I said, your father was a class act. I knew him well and it’s good to know his son is following in his footsteps.”
“Well thank you, sir.” Gideon breathes deeply. “If you don’t mind, sir, I do have a big day tomorrow and I think it’s best I get some rest now.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for taking my call, son. Good luck tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll make your father proud.”
Gideon hesitates. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”
He hangs up the phone. The words of the Captain echo in his head. He feels tired and weak and upset all at the same time. Gideon walks over to the nightstand and picks up the silver flask. He shakes it once or twice. Walking towards the balcony, he twists the cap off the flask and takes a quick drink. His body warms as he pours himself into the chair beneath the balcony cover. Rain splashes at his feet as cars pass in dimming light below.
He tries to relax.

“Gideon. Gideon. Wake up. You’re going to be late for school.”
Gideon sat up straight in his bed on the morning after his father’s party. Sunlight had seeped in through the window on the opposite side of his room, cascading onto the posters and bookshelves that lined the walls. Gideon pushed his hair from away from his forehead, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes. He stretched, reaching for the stars.
“Hey, champ. Time to get up. Big day, huh?” His father stood at the foot of his bed. “So, do I wear my uniform or not?”
Gideon tried not to let his yawn interfere with his answer. “Yeah. Wear it,” he responded. Sunlight had finally reached his eyes.
“Alright. Well, get up then. Big day.”
Gideon smiled as his father left the bedroom, a scent of last night’s festivities following close behind. He kicked the covers to the edge of the bed and swung his feet around to rest on the floor. “Big day,” he said.

“Okay, class,” Ms. Pumphrey said to her 2nd grade class, erasing the chalkboard. “Up next we’ve got Gideon Nebuls.” She looked towards the back of the room. Gideon was already getting out of his desk. “All right, well I guess you’re ready,” she said. Ms. Pumphrey moved to her desk at the side of the classroom and sat down. “The floor is yours, Gideon.”
Gideon made his way to the front of the class. “Hi, everyone,” he began. “Today I brought my dad to class.” He pointed to the back of the classroom where his father stood. The man smiled and waived to the students.
“Dad, come up here,” Gideon instructed.
His father carefully navigated the rows of desks – using several for support at some moments – and met his son at the front of the class.
“My dad is an astronaut. He flies the space shuttles you see on TV up into space, and works on the space station and does experiments and stuff.” Gideon took a moment to compose himself. “He gets to go into space and fix things and he even gets to float out in space. Right, Dad?”
His father chuckled. “That’s right, Gideon.”
The students were in awe.
Ms. Pumphrey added from her desk, “Gideon, maybe you could have your father talk to the class about being an astronaut.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said. Gideon looked up at his dad, giving him the floor.
“Alright, well. Hello, class. My name is Walter Nebuls. I’m the Commander of the space shuttle Discovery. I’ve been an astronaut for about 15 years. I love doing what I do and, actually, I’ll be going up into space in a couple of weeks here.” Walter paused. The students sat quietly, hanging on every word. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Gideon looked at his friends, then back to his father. His big smile caught the eye of his father, who reached out and tousled the boys’ hair. The class was silent for a moment more. One boy finally raised his hand.
“Yes,” Walter said, pointing to the child. “What can I answer for you?”
A stout, round boy lowered his arm to his desk. His face was small and his head was too tiny for his body. “Why did you become an astronaut?” he asked.
“Well,” Walter started, “since I was your age it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I dreamed about going into space, seeing other planets and stars, floating in space. I thought, ‘What a cool job to have’. I never found anything I wanted to do more.”
Ms. Pumphrey stood up in her place. “Very good, Charlie. Gideon, is there anything you want to add before we say goodbye to Mr. Nebuls?”
He looked up at his father. “Just that my dad has the best job in the world and someday I want to be just like him.” Walter smiled. He gave Gideon a subtle wink.
“Very good. Okay, class, say goodbye to Mr. Nebuls.” The students said goodbye to Walter in unison. He waved to the class and said goodbye as he walked to the door with Gideon.
“Thanks, Dad,” Gideon said.
“No problem, champ,” he responded. “Have a good rest of the day. I’ll see you at home.” Walter waved goodbye and turned to leave the room.
“Love you, dad.”

There is no rain. There is no sound. There is no light and for a brief moment Gideon loses himself in the surrealism of it all. He lies on the bed facing the ceiling in the high-end hotel and thinks about tomorrow, sliver flask at his right side. Is this the way to spend your last night, he wonders. The red planet waits for his answer.
On a clear day in Florida Gideon drives with the top down. The southern wind rips through his jet-black hair as he speeds down the 405 towards the space center. The sun shines bright and greets awakening wildlife. Banana Creek glistens as it catches rays. Gideon thinks to himself as he races towards the space center, this is the day. This is the big day.
* * *
“So, are you pretty excited?” asked Officer Hillman, looking onto the shuttle.
“Yeah,” Gideon responded, eyes fixed on the massive rocket boosters.
Mission control was making final preparations for the launch of space shuttle Discovery. Walter had arranged for Gideon to watch the launch from inside, under the supervision of Officer Hillman. He had never gotten to see one of his father’s launches. He had been too young before, but this time Gideon couldn’t stop talking about it so Walter surprised him with a spot inside mission control.
“Now, don’t get in the way,” he had said. “Okay? And make sure you listen to Officer Hillman. Otherwise I’m going to shoot you into space myself. Without the suit!” He grabbed Gideon under his arm and messed his hair. Gideon gave him a big hug.
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too. I’ll see you soon.”
Walter was now on the space shuttle. Men buzzed about, flipping switches, talking into headsets to unknown people in unknown places. Gideon gazed over the giant electronic screen that served as an all-seeing eye for the control crew. Everything from shuttle status to up-to-the minute weather reports was displayed on the big screen. Gideon was amazed.
“Gideon,” Officer Hillman said, “Stand here. We don’t want anyone tripping over you.” He moved the both of them against the back wall. Gideon made himself flat. “I think they’re about to begin the countdown.”
A man’s voice came across the intercom in mission control. “Alright we are clear for ‘go’ by weather, booster, eagle. ACO, GCO, and station flight tells me we are still at a ‘go,’ so that puts us in a good config. Let’s roll then with auto sequence start.”
Lights flash on the big screen. Gideon watched at the countdown begins.
“25,” said the man at the desk.
“Pretty exciting, huh?” said Officer Hillman.
“Yeah,” Gideon exclaimed.
“20.”
Sharp static comes over the intercom. Gideon’s eyes flash about the big screen.
“15.”
Gideon put his hands in his pockets to try and combat his growing restlessness.
“10. We are ‘go’ for main engine start.”
“This is it,” said Hillman.
Gideon remained fix on the big screen.
“5.” Men of various sizes and sweat marks glared at their respective screens.
“4.” Gideon’s hands picked at the lint in his jean pockets.
“3. 2. 1. We have liftoff,” the man on the intercom said. Light applauses followed the success. Gideon watched the screen as Discover shot into the azure; it’s thick, red tail scarring the sky.
“There it is, Gideon. What do you think?” asked Hillman.
“That was awesome. Can they hear my dad on their headsets?” he asked.
“Yeah. They’re connected the entire time the shuttle is in space.”
“Do you think they would let me say hi to him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe once he gets into space. I’m sure they would.”
Gideon beamed with excitement. “Cool.”
The shuttle rose higher and higher into the sky. He turned briefly to look for Officer Hillman. Then he heard someone say, “Dear God, no.”
Gideon spun back around and faced the big screen once more. His eyes grew big and began to glisten beneath a raining inferno. “Dad. Dad!” he cried. Gideon rushed toward the big screen. His legs were heavy and strained and his chest heaved as if someone just pulled him from the deep end of the swimming pool. Officer Hillman snatched the boy before he could make it to the front of the room. Gideon looked up through glossy eyes and watched as pieces of fuselage and paneling fell down to Earth. He heard people repeating the words ‘God’ and ‘no’ in various configurations, sprinkled occasionally with curse words. Part of the main rocket broke up under the pressure and split into smaller pieces that plummeted like meteors under the intense sun. Officer Hillman carried Gideon from the room. He wept and screamed while fire plunged to the ground.

“25.”
“Gideon, this is it, brother,” says Jamison, and English man strapped into the seat next to Gideon. “Blast off. Up to the stars we go, aye mate?”
“Up to the stars we go,” Gideon says, vocal chords seizing under the nervousness.
“20.” The countdown clocks ticks downs to liftoff.
Gideon begins to sweat. “My father died on a spaceship, you know. Exploded in liftoff when I was seven,” Gideon says, working loose the sound from his throat.
“Dear God, brother. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“15.” The rocket engines roar to power.
Gideon adjusts the volume of his voice. “It’s okay,” he says. “I think it’s finally okay.”
“10.”
“Oi,” the man begins, “You ever wondered if there’s life on Mars?”
“Only when I listen to Bowie,” Gideon shoots back.
The man snickers. “Aye, saw that one coming a mile away.”
Gideon thinks for a moment as the rockets roar to deafening volumes. The countdown clock ticks away.
“Here we go, brother,” the English man screams.
“Here we go.” The clock hits “1”. Gideon relaxes.

“Gideon, would you like to share what you wrote?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Okay,” Gideon said. He stood up at the board in his 4th grade class and began.
"I want to be an astronaut. I want to go into space for a year and live on the space station up there with the other astronauts. We would do experiments like seeing if fungus can grow in outer space or if plants could survive or things like that. I don't really know yet. I would sleep right side up in a beanbag like you see them do in the movies. And after a year was over, I would come back down to earth and tell all of my friends about what it was like living in outer space and they would all be amazed by it. And maybe after I got settled back in I could go and give speeches to school children about being an astronaut and how fun it is. Maybe I would marry an astronaut woman and maybe we could get married in space. But that would probably be impossible to get married in space. And then when I got even older I could go back into space one more time. Not for a year like before but maybe just to see the earth again from above. It could be like my, my swan something."
"You mean 'swan song'?" Ms. Wilson asked.
"Yeah. My swan song. That’s what it could be like," Gideon said.
"Where did you hear that?"
"I don't know. I think my dad said it once when I was younger. Back when he was still around. Does it make sense, the way I used it?"
"Yes,” Ms. Wilson sighed. “I suppose it does."