It Was a Sunday

When I shimmy through the memories of my life, there are some damn good ones (and this is just here now):

• Five years old, I use to play squirels with a fellow class mate at my Mom's preschool, Born Learners. We would hatch escape plans. His arms had more hair on them, probably still do, which allowed for a greater holding of sand, and hence more squirelness. I was always a bit remisced by the fact, that if caught, he definitely had the better disguise. Also, on Thursdays, I went to school with an attractive young teacher at my preschool. Her name was Nikki, and one time we listened to Paula Abdul's song, "Opposites Attract", and at 5, I was pretty sure that song was about her and I.
• 10 years old, I went to the La Brea Tar Pits; I ran to the entrance, tripped on a rock, skinned my knee through my pants, and spent the whole day bloody and excited--I still have a saber tooth from that trip.
• The middle years, my mom enrolled me in musicals and plays. It was awesome--despite having a flat voice. My mom let me dress up in all of her green clothing, because I was playing the wizard in the wizard of OZ--or maybe I was the mayor, or maybe it was a different play--either way, I was decked out in green.
  
• 14 years old, I was fucking phenomenal at flag football--catching passes was like this locked in moment of perfection.
• Most of my childhood, I would play catch with my dad in the park--I mean, like straight up Leave it to Beaver, 50's style nostalgia--catch in the park. One year, I lead the league in home runs. I wasn't that good, just fast for my age.
  
• 16 years old, I used to park on Buffalo Ave, across from school. Only teachers were allowed to park there. Gloria and I would meet in the mornings and talk there. She got in trouble, and I did not. Her car was bigger. I had my Dad's black Mazda MX-6--in its later years, the driver's side door did not open, it had a busted rear side window, and a slipping transmission--it died two days before I went to College.
• 18 years old, I moved into a dorm room and made a great friend. 7 years later, I officiated his wedding to a lovely lady named Claire.
• 22 years old, I worked at NBC with my father. I bought a 1968 bus and I had long hair--both my parents loved it!
• 23 years old, I became a teacher. My mom has taught her whole life. Teaching is a calling and a skill, and teachers, the real one's, are great people. I met some real one's in my teaching program: Annie, George, Tom, and David Hicks--genuine people, with genuine skill and heart.
• 26 years old, I drove to Mexico in a truck that I love. I went with a friend, and we covered roads and valley's and ideas. Two dogs sniffed the wind, and I realized, that, "Yes, life is about choice."

And now it is Sunday. I have started cleaning my house. I haven't done it in so long. I had told myself, that I was moving, and that I would wait until I moved out, but that pursuit has slipped away from the immediate and become more of an eventual step.

Saturday, was a day spent in smokey guitar playing, napping, eating, and napping. It was a day of absolutely nothing--though I did go for a walk and buy some produce. I had not eaten any fruit for a week--I ate 7 apple bananas and two oranges--I also ate an avocado if that works for you. It was magical. I slept hard.

I awoke at 8 and began" I started with a little stove cleaning, and then dropped the close into a soapy bucket (they are still there, and will be attacked post blog), I swept up a sweater's worth of fur, dust, trash, and stuffing--my dogs have effectively disemboweled a giant bean bag. I have lit some incense, and I have talked to my dad. I think my mom is at church. I am probably going to call Gloria and sing a song on her answering machine. Shaun comes at the end of March. I go to Santa Cruz by way of LA, in May--Andy is picking me up at SJC. I talked to Shimmy yesterday; Ah wait, that was yesterday...

I had a shimmy through my memories of Santa Cruz, and I felt tangible longing for what was. I listened to an evening of poetry which Shimmy organized. He read poetry, and I mutilated the microphone with musings and short writings. In any event, I heard laughs, and I knew who they were: I heard Jen Cohen's gasp for air; Judith's belly laugh; Annie's laugh and crack; Molly's car exhaust sputtering; Lindsay's smoker cackle; Dustin's knee stomping; Devin's repetition of absurd lines; and Shimmy's encouragement. It was a group of people and time which pushed me towards a direction, to which now, in DF, I feel like I am finding my way back to. Part of me thinks, if I say it enough, it will be the collective agreement amongst the people that I meet, that indeed ART is what I must do. So all these musings, and reminders, and conversations are the mortar of the blocks of art I am building as my home--that is a horrible analogy, but I sort of know what I mean.

Regardless, last night was nostalgic, and I laughed at myself and my memories. Note: Be where you are NOW, and share who you are NOW!

Note: Mexicans like to tinker with their cars in absurd ways: neon lights, goofy horns, rims, body kits, spoilers, lifts, lowers, and so on. They put a lot of shit on their cars, which truly serve no purpose. Here is an example: On the back of a water truck, I spotted these: Skulls with swastikas on their foreheads--these were his brake lights and rear turn signals. Now, I strongly doubt that the brownskinned Naco driving the car, has Nazi inclinations--but somewhere, at some point, he decided that his truck needed these. Here here Mexico--here here.