fireproof

it’s like getting into the water at the beach: you wade into the surf a bit apprehensive at first, even though you’ve done it many times before, and waves crash not too far in front of you, and the water is actually shockingly cold like it always is, but you suck it up and walk deeper until the water swallows your knees and creeps up your thighs, and then while you’re still trying to ease yourself in, that unexpected wave hits you out of nowhere and soaks you completely and suddenly you’re in much deeper than you originally thought, and now you have two choices: fully commit to the cold and dive in, or chicken out and run screaming back to the safety of warm sand and beach towels. what i would give to have the option of the latter one more time—because im currently adrift in open water on this poor excuse of a boat with no rudder or anchor, miles away from any beach or lifeguard or oversized towels. and my god, it is cold.

i didn’t notice the water seeping through the cracks until it was too late—i suddenly felt cold fingers wrapped firmly around my ankles. wet socks aren’t the most pleasant thing in the world but i wasn’t worried at first; it happens sometimes. ill just squish around for a bit and then my shoes and socks will dry off. but after a while the feeling in my feet begins to fade; my toes curl and prune until the numbness starts to reach upwards and now i can’t feel myself standing anymore. it’s uncomfortable but manageable for a while, but the rising water isn’t satisfied with just ankles and socks. it wants more.

so i grab a bucket and begin the uphill battle of repelling the icy invaders that have laid siege to my lower extremities. at first its not so bad; i make decent progress, scooping and tossing gallons of water over the side of the boat. but my arms begin to slow and my back starts to ache and no matter how much water i scoop out, more pours in to replace it—and somehow it never ends. scoop and toss, scoop and toss—nothing changes. not sure which is worse, the fatigue or the frustration. draining the boat is draining me too.

soon my body begins to resist the elements and the exertion. my arms fall heavy at my sides, my legs cramping and quivering in the cold, my lungs begging for rest, and everything in me screaming for relief, threatening to give in and turn me over to the raging seas—a mutiny in my muscles. visions of floundering in open water triggers my deepest fears. the water inside the boat continues to rise with my anxiety. i kicked the bucket across the floor.

panic gives way to plan b: find the leak.

i scurry around, nose to the ground in my best bloodhound impersonation, sniffing about furiously for any clue or inkling of the hole in the dam, the mole in the org, the chink in the armor that must be the source of all my troubles. what did i do wrong? how did i lose track of the shore so fast? how did i ruin this so badly? but as the water continues to rise, my search yields no results and im in deeper than i was before, expending energy i don’t have to find something i can’t see.

arms and options exhausted, i spend the last of my strength throwing overboard everything that’s not nailed down to try to satisfy the sea and somehow lighten the boat. nothing is safe: my dusty collection of 1981 baseball cards, old backpacks, worn hoodies and dirty socks, my Playstation, dusty karate trophies, used english textbooks, a bag of rocks i collected in Israel, the ugly writing desk in the corner, a busted camera and eight thousand useless photos, nineteen pair of Vans, a stack of my favorite spiral notebooks, a pair of high school/college crushes, the only three friends that i care to text back, two hours of troubled sleep, one fistful of empathy, my last sliver of sanity—all up and over the edge. and somehow, ive managed to feel hollow and still heavy at the same time. maybe the means we use to keep the water out are worse than the water itself.  whatever floats your boat, right?

but we’re past that now. now the only thing that’s still floating somehow is me, and the ship isn’t the only thing ive abandoned. everything i am consists of keeping my head above water and im already losing that battle. the parts of me that aren’t already numb wonder if it’s even worth the struggle.

my lungs fight for one more breath because that’s what lungs are supposed to do, but it doesn’t matter now. water overpowers them too, kicking down the doors and filling all of my empty spaces with dark and cold. everything begins to fade away as my favorite Mac Miller song sloshes around in the back of my head just out of reach… i swear that if i drown i don’t care…  slipping beneath the surface almost feels like being tucked into bed, like going under at the dentist’s office but without the roundtrip guarantee, falling deeper and deeper in slow motion.

just as the last bit of feeling leaves my fingertips, right before my eyes fall asleep one last time, i see it—walking, no swimming towards me? both above and below the surface, closing the distance, coming, arriving. i have water in my eyes and i can’t see straight, but last i checked lighthouses aren’t supposed to walk on water—or anywhere for that matter. but here you are, calling, reaching, flooding in and filling the room with soft light like a perfectly-timed late night text message of encouragement, gently overwhelming me with a genuine smile in a sea full of false faces, walking me back with a welcoming touch when all i feel is falling to the ocean floor. i don’t even possess the strength to kick back against the waves anymore but it doesn’t matter; now we’re surging upwards back towards the surface and the sky, out of breath, out of reasons, and suddenly out of the water.

next i know, im belly up on a beach coughing up half a lung as those same waves that once held me under now play sheepishly at my feet. i can’t tell if the sun or your smile is warming my bones now. dramatic? maybe a little. but until a few moments ago, i was six feet underwater—and now because of you, my most immediate problem is the sand in my shorts.

maybe it was the lack of oxygen to my brain, or the seaweed boa-constricting my neck as dark waters closed over me; maybe it was the months of sailing in circles on a mangled boat while already waist-deep in water—maybe you really were just in the right place at the right time? maybe it was pure luck? divine intervention? maybe you, out of the kindness of your heart, really did reach into a hurricane and bring me back to shore, daring to dive into deep waters to fetch a floundering sailor who wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the surface again.

i don’t know how to properly thank you. i don’t know where to begin. all i have on hand is driftwood from my sorry little shipwreck, some seaweed still wrapped around my ankles, and a fistful of rocks that were supposed to take me to my resting place.

im no craftsman or artist but i tried my best to fashion you garments fit for a guardian angel, straining to shape soggy shards of wood into a frame for the wings; the kelp i twisted into a seaweed halo to crown your head, and the rest braided into rope to tie the wings between the shoulders that carried me to safety. i stacked the rocks from sand to sky, rebuilding the lighthouse for you to shine brightly in once again. a bit much perhaps—but maybe i just need someone to look up to. the whole thing probably looks really ridiculous: this smelly kelp-covered contraption that i haphazardly strapped to your back without bothering to ask if that was okay—or if you were okay.

it lasts for a short while, seaweed wings watching over me in case the waves come for me again while we try to figure out how to get off this empty beach. until one day the wings accidentally catches on fire, the rock tower crumbles beneath your feet, and my makeshift monument burns to the ground before my eyes. as i watch all my hard work (and part of your clothes) go up in smoke, i realize for the first time that i was wrong.

in a moment a courage, i assumed you were always fearless. in a moment of strength, i assumed you had no weaknesses. in a moment of selflessness, i assumed you were invincible. when you reached down and pulled me out of my darkness, i thought you fell from the sky. i was too busy trying to keep my own mess afloat to see you treading water beside me, swimming up from your own depths that i knew nothing about to rescue me from mine. i was too busy drowning in my own ocean to notice. i just assumed you were fireproof.

so now we both sit empty-handed in the sand: you, singed; me, still soggy and very sorry. guilt sticks to me like my wet clothes, the shame lingers like the stench of the seaweed. it’s not your fault, it’s nobody’s fault, it happens. but i should’ve known better. everybody falls sometimes—but when you took that spill off the stupid pile of rocks that i put you on and out of the neat little box that i put you in, i took the harder fall back to reality. and it stings more than the salt in my eyes.

i was halfway into burying myself in the sand headfirst when i noticed you collecting the charred pieces of wood, the torn rope and the scattered rocks, and you quietly went straight back to work, gently guiding the broken pieces back into place and mending the holes like you’ve done this before. my temporary shelter isn’t even finished yet you’ve somehow summoned one more round of strength and courage to press on, to set sail and get back out on the water. i can only watch in awe. i know you have places to go—i mean i do too, no one wants to be stranded forever—but im not ready to take that plunge anytime soon. but you won’t let that stop you, i know better than that now. maybe ill understand it all on the other side of my storm too. im still new to this sailing thing but you—you’re something else.

so as you board another boat to cross another ocean, my heart sinks for a different reason. but i get it. i understand. it’s calling you too. if the waves can’t hold you back, how could i? i know this isn’t your final resting place and maybe it won’t be mine either.

you’re probably a bit wary of me trying to thank you, and rightfully so, but before you go i want to try one more time—no strings or wings attached.

thank you for swimming with me.

i squint into the burning sunset as your little vessel descends below the horizon out of sight. waves still crash and crackle longingly at my feet.
there’s salt on my cheeks.
my socks are still wet.

“all because of you
i believe in angels
not the kind with wings,
no not the kind with halos;
the kind the bring you home
when home becomes a strange place”

- ‘the good left undone’ by Rise Against

benchpress

its clawing at my face again
but i can barely tell anymore
not sure if thats good or bad
the fact that you can see every rough day and bad week ive had
through the dirty tear stains on my glasses
is not attractive
i don the plastic fabric again and again
waiting for some sort of magic to happen
but thats not how it works
it barely covers the scars
i should know better, this always hurts
but pain can be numbed
and because im really dumb
i abuse it
using because im losing it--
losing it because im using it
but i gotta have it, i cant face you without it
im an addict--but im masking it

there's supposed to be a purpose for all this pain
but the hurt and the dirt lurks so close to the surface
i cant contain it anymore
its about to break the skin, burst through my shirt
rearing its ugly head screaming "dumb stupid WORTHLESS"
so forgive me if im a little uncertain
if the doubts start to resurface
someone please convince me
that there's some sort of lesson or gain
on the other side of the pouring rain
that the sun still exists on the outside of this hurricane

the chip on my shoulder is growing and morphing
into a boulder i can barely carry
im walking funny from the weight
its noticeable now--thats the part thats really scary
when i said i was fine
i wasn't lying
i was trying to prove myself wrong
i was trying to will myself to be strong
but that didn't last very long
i guess i was kinda right about being wrong

itll work out in the end
dont feed your doubts
i wish it was that simple
i wish i could just bleed it out
i wish i could benchpress this weight off my chest
and finally be able to rest without forever being paranoid
about which part of me is slowly dying no matter how hard i try
to keep moving forward, to just keep going--
but no matter what i do or what i plan
i do what i can but it feels like its out of my hands
maybe one day itll count for something
but right now everything amounts to nothing

its mad tempting to just stop trying sometimes
its easier to just keep crying at night
its easier to let tears fall like fruits overripe
than to try to fight all the feelings that keep me wheeling and dealing with god
just to keep a straight face
to remember that i do have a place here somewhere
its easier to turtle up and hide from fate
to smother it all, to stay lost in the fog
to just forget it all

maybe this is just words on a screen
maybe this is as real as it seems
if i mean it in the moment
but when the sun shines again i disown it
is that a bad thing?
maybe its the doubts speaking
or my demons screaming
maybe the real me is down there somewhere
barely breathing
ears ringing
somehow clinging to the smallest shred of the one thing that holds any meaning
maybe im just daydreaming
and one day ill snap out of it
or maybe this is who i am and what ive become
im not proud of it
but if these feelings are real i cant just leave them be
to keep them crowded in the back of my mind is a dangerous game
if they win ill lose me

just let me rhyme its my disguise
everything i hold inside will be my demise
you'd be surprised at the things that pass through my mind
maybe the light was always there but now im blind
i know this isnt it
but i cant see outside of this
and even though i have ink on my arm to remind me otherwise
admit there was at least one night in your life when
you didn't know if you would see another sunrise

so restless
still feelin helpless
i know harming/killing myself is not the answer and maybe a bit selfish--
i wont get there i swear
ive stopped pulling out my hair
its a start
deep down in the bottom of my heart
i know this ugly weather wont last forever
i know even though it feels like ill never pull myself together
if/when i finally make it through this shit ill better for it
ill do better than this
maybe one day itll be fuel for some quality art
i dont know
but for now
i must quiet myself the only way i know how:
let it go or let it out
as you can see and read i chose the latter
because sometimes no matter what you do
some things wont ever let go of you
maybe i need to re-repent of my sins
maybe i need to think things through again
but before anything else, before i decide what to do next
i really just needed to get this off my chest

moths and mosquitos

the frigid air cut through my clothes and burned in my lungs.
i don't know how long i'd been out here, and i didn't really care.
indoors was too smothering, like the ceiling was slowly melting into the floor and threatening to crush me in the middle. but out here--too cold, too exposed. tonight the sky seemed as empty as i was, hanging there in silence high above me and my problems.

i finally stopped running and collapsed on my knees, out of breath and out of options.

footsteps? 

let them pass, maybe they won't see me.

and if they do? well, everybody has bad days, right?

or weeks... or months...

i can't be the only one.

the footsteps grew closer,
and as i stared at the ground hoping to evade eye contact at all costs,
i saw him.

i saw him moving slowly, a single silhouette on the ground.
he dragged it behind him on the cold concrete, his movements heavy and pained.
it was mangled and twisted, definitely broken.
he struggled to pull his lifeless leg along, to keep pushing through the pain, to keep going--
but it was useless. the end was near.
without help, he would die soon.

another figure emerged from the darkness,
and i saw hers too.
they hung unceremoniously behind her, lifeless and torn.
once her pride and glory, a work of art that used to shimmer in the light, her instruments of escape from the ground below to whatever heights her heart desired--twisted and bent out of shape.
ripped from her shoulders.
she was grounded.
no flight, no food, no light.
she would die soon.

i see them both now, on either side of me:
two wounded creatures, a moth and a mosquito, crippled and maimed,
gingerly stumbling around in the darkness, unknowingly drawn towards each other by some unseen force of destiny or fate or cruel luck.

and it was too late to turn around now.

he hobbled a little faster. he knew it was ugly, twisted into unsightly positions. he only hoped she wouldn't stare. maybe she wouldn't see it.
her gaze fell immediately, tears welling in her eyes, ashamed of her scars.

i watched, my heart in my throat as the distance between them slowly disappeared.
they neared, they almost touched--
and then they passed.
they walked right through each other without so much as a glance or a nod of recognition,
eyes averted, wounds too deep.
they vanished into the darkness once again, fates sealed.

i couldn't breathe.
a voluntary death sentence. a double suicide.
why? 

but i know why.
i know all too well.

it all came rushing back to me: the fleeting glances, reluctant smiles, mumbled replies, and trembling voices--how many have i seen in my short existence? how much more have i missed because i turned my own eyes away, trying to disappear into the sidewalk? how many have i shouldered past because i feared my own scars would be exposed?

i shoved my hands deep into my pockets.
guilty.

you'll see them too if you pay attention:
stragglers with their hearts full of holes, believing they are damaged beyond repair,
carrying the weight of broken wings and the fear that they'll never fly again,
destined to die alone.
but most of us are too busy licking our own wounds to notice the one quietly bleeding out next to us.

the night is full of these poor creatures;
hopelessly awake, sleep far from their minds.
some wander about, simply searching for warmth and a light for their darkness.
others roam with teeth bared,
seeking to draw life from another warm body to ease their own pain because they themselves have become cold and lifeless.
the night is home to two kinds of creatures:
moths and mosquitos.

i made myself a promise:
i will never turn my eyes away again.
but it's hard. sometimes it's scary.
some days i feel like a dead man walking,
a zombie,
too scared to look you in the eye for fear that you'll see what's really behind this thousand-yard stare,
knowing all too well of the pain that lies beneath.
but a promise is a promise.

so when i saw her standing there, wings in a knot, eyes swollen,
i panicked.
what should i do?
i see her, but now what?
is she moth or mosquito?
does it matter?

i began to draw my hands out of my pockets and then stopped myself.
there's glass under my fingernails, and my veins are full of crystal, sharp and fragile.
im a mess of delicate parts and precious pieces, molded by a shattered past and an uncertain future. my feet are raw from walking on eggshells, trying to tiptoe over the jagged shards of my broken heart without getting cut. it's pretty tricky sometimes, trying to carry it all without bursting.
but today, i have blood on my hands.

i faltered.
i am made of glass--lost, broken, invisible.
i can't fix you.

does it matter?

i fished for words,
for some enlightened, encouraging one-liner to neatly fill the hole in her shoulder where her wings used to grow, to dry her tears and set her back on her feet in one swift motion. the hole was ugly and deep, like me.
but i had nothing. nothing to offer but silence and blood-stained glass.
crystal began to tumble down her cheeks,
and in a moment of terror, i lept towards her,
running to catch the little fragments one by one before they hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces, each one making little clinking sounds as they collided and mingled with the shards in my palms.

and there we sat:
her shoulders shaking gently as she cried,
and i, gingerly cradling a handful of tear-shaped jewels that could be hanging on a necklace or a large chandelier somewhere. the pile in my hands grew heavier as they hardened, and small cracks began to emerge on my arms and face, ominously crawling about and threatening to burst as i struggled to hold it all together.

the first rays of sunrise began to creep over the horizon, dancing through the precious stones in my hands, casting small rainbows of light all around and warming our tired, dirty faces. her breathing became regular again, rhythmic; no more in little gasps straining for life. felt like id been holding my breath for hours.

the sun continued to rise, smiling down on the two survivors,
two wounded creatures--
broken,
but no longer alone.

trickor[tr]eat

are you sure this is the right house?
the masked and cloaked figures beside me nodded vigorously. this is it, this is the big one.
i could almost see the prize on the other side of the door, i could almost taste it.
the mark had been made, the ambush set.
now we wait.
is it supposed to take this long?

the front door flies open and we leap into action,
shrieking the magic words in unison:
trick or treat!

our merry band of costumed children zigzagged across the neighborhood,
doing the very thing our dear mothers always warned us to never do:
approach unfamiliar houses, knock on the door, and face the stranger behind each one
for one reason only:
to collect and consume as much sugar as possible.
it was worth diving through the scary graveyard decorations on the front lawn,
all for that pot or pail of edible gold on the other side, the promised land.
all consequences are hereby canceled until further notice--no rules, no regrets.
all shoved away into that imaginary back room we like to call tomorrow.
tomorrow can wait.
it always does.

but sugar and sweets is only half the fun,
because for one night only, we receive the best goodie of them all:
the temporary gift of a new identity
bestowed upon every soul who sets out to discover the El Dorado of candy caches.
you can be whoever or whatever you want--
isn't that the best part of being a kid?
the possibilities are literally endless, limited only by the boundaries of your own imagination.
the makeup, the costumes, the masks--they grow more elaborate every year.
painted faces and fake blood, homemade props and duct-taped cosplay;
miniature superheroes and beloved tv characters roam the streets to save us from
space pirates and walking tacos and oversized hot dogs,
from ghosts and ghouls out to claim souls and collect sweets.
the freedom to be who you please is such a treasure to be cherished--
but maybe we were too young or too busy chasing lollipops to realize it.
the chance to trade the prison of your own life for whatever makes your imagination
take flight, even for a few precious hours is its own superpower.
we can all be heroes, at least for tonight.

i downed the last bite of my third jumbo snickers of the night.
not about to admit that the third time is not the charm.
definitely doesn't taste as good as the first one.
my feet hurt, this plastic scratches my face; the cold whips right through my clothes.
thought this costume was thick enough to keep me warm, but ive been wrong before.
my stomach growls. reach into my orange pail of prizes
to find only melted chocolate and stale candy corn.
does anybody actually eat this impostor trying to pass as something yummy?
yet i find myself trying to force it down every year,
as if passing time will magically make the bitterness disappear.
time usually does the opposite.
my younger self used to dream of a sugar-tarian diet;
the next best thing to christmas every day.
but be careful what you wish for,
because it's all fun and games until you wake up with your stomach in knots
when last night's prizes eat away at your teeth
when you're in need of real food, but only surrounded by the delicacies of yesterday.
last night's high, today's low.
full of sweets and bitter as can be,
head spinning, wishing i hadn't been so greedy.
my most recent regret and my first hangover.
it won't be the last.

but maybe one night isn't enough.
maybe i need to be superman more than just once a year,
maybe i need to trade in my face on other days too,
on days when i can't face the mirror no matter how hard i try,
on days when i finally gather the guts to square up to my reflection,
he's nowhere to be found.

im starting to outgrow this, this hodgepodge of garments and faces thrown together
to fit whatever role i need to play today,
or whoever i need to be to get that door to open.
the growing amount of patchwork is starting to spread around the elbows and the knees like a rash.
i should probably just start dressing as a quilt. it'd be alot easier than this.
the possibilities that used to be endless--they now seem a lot less.

christmas every day isn't working out so well.

at this point, my mask is just a mask for another mask.
the eyeholes are crooked and in the wrong spots, the strap is too tight,
and it feels like im wearing layers of sweatshirts on a steamy summer day.
i can't breathe.
every day is just like the one before--different mask, same story.
the paint is starting to peel, the "T" has almost fallen completely off.
the pain likes to stick around though.
the pain of an empty, bottomless stomach that isn't content no matter how much i eat,
the pain of seeing the door crack open just enough for some faceless figure to toss me
empty candy wrappers if im lucky--
or sugar-coated heartbreak that'll rot a lot more than just my teeth if im not.

look, it's not even about the candy anymore--
chocolate melts and candy corn will always, always be terrible.
my stomach can't take it.

now i just cling to the faint hope that there's something more behind that door--
more than rehearsed greetings and fake teeth
and hollow pumpkins with smiles almost as empty as mine.
that someone will leave the light on for me,
that maybe ill have a bench to lie on, or some stairs to sleep under.
that maybe ill make it out of the cold tonight.
i thought i'd eventually find a spot in that front lawn graveyard across the street
sleeping with the skeletons and forever roaming with the ghouls
but it turns out im more hospital than cemetery.
don't need a coroner yet, just a hot meal maybe.

so no more masks, no more disguises; no more sugar, no more bullsh*t.
on a night when everybody wants to be someone else,
ill just be me. no more, no less.
just faint smiles and real blood.
and please, dont go easy on me. be real.
its the only way to begin to heal these wounds.

are you sure this is the right house?
honestly, im not sure of anything anymore.
if i showed up on your doorstep dressed as myself,
would you open up?

[cursed]

my biggest fear
is that these words i craft
the worlds i draw
the stories i work so hard
to make stand so tall
will fall like rain on dead dirt
on ears too busy to care
on hurts too deep to repair
to give a damn about little words
from a little man
with empty hands
with no future
with no real plans
so here i stand
forever struggling
to say what needs to be said
to live when its easier to play dead
to tame these thoughts in my head
that will surely tear me to shreds
if they ever escaped my lips
or rolled down my cheeks
or seeped from my fingertips
so it seems my fate is set
to either implode from within
or commit a sin i could never forgive
some days i dont know whats worse:
to reside in the back of a hearse
or die every night in verse
i dont know what i did to deserve this
but this is my curse

copy//write

i leaned over as far as i could

and tried to scribble a bit more while he wasn't looking.

maybe he wouldn't mind.

i used to wonder why he didn't come to class every day like everybody else.

does he think he's too good for class?

well actually, if you'd seen his work you'd probably agree.

he's one of those lucky kids who just happens to be gifted for no good reason. straight genius. he'd probably ace the class if he ever actually showed up or turned in work with any kind of consistency. he'll probably do some real good with his life if he ever takes his talents seriously. he'll probably get that same speech in the office again sometime this week.

he turned back around and i swiftly assumed the faux-relaxed, slumped position in my seat like i'd been there all along, like i wasn't wholesale lifting his intellectual property from under his nose.

dammit.

i'd have to wait for at least one more pass to finish making his work mine.

but how is that fair?

he gets to come and go as he pleases?

the rules don't apply to him?

guess not.

my side-eye has gotten so strong i can almost see my own ears,

bending my vision around his slumped shoulders to leech the last bit of gold off his desk...

whew.

got it.

i should really thank him for being here today.

i might actually turn in an assignment for once,

and he gets to raise his F- to an F.

everybody wins.

it's hard trying to pass off someone else's work as your own 

without possessing any actual skill.

unless the fine art of tweaking a little bit of him

to sound a lot like me doesn't count as a skill.

it's totally a skill.

because when he's not here i have to pretend im just having an off day,

or pull a page from his book and take the zero.

better that than admitting i forgot to wake up and bring my intellect to class again.

because when his seat is empty, i am too.

look, if we ever get found out:

that he's masquerading as a mediocre, could-care-less student

who will never get off the ground 

because he doesn't have the stomach to at least beat his wings and look skyward,

getting caught with his work in my hands will be the least of my crimes.

either way, we're still failing.

yeah, it still feels like cheating,

like i don't deserve him.

but maybe it'll work out;

maybe one day he'll take his soiled papers and vivid imagination

and never look back,

reaching outside of these four walls to do what people like him are meant to do:

change the world.

maybe one day, if we're lucky.

but for now,

as i watch him fall back to sleep on his desk,

it's copy and paste.

vow of silence

he slowly fingered a single piece of paper in his hand. the microphone hung in the other, eagerly waiting to project the sound of his voice throughout the walls of the chapel.

but his voice never came.

the jovial, bubbling guy from the day before was nowhere to be found--in his place stood a man preparing to pledge himself to one woman before his friends, his family, and his God. his eyes remained glued to the page, to handwritten words that would change both his life and hers forever, for better or for worse, for rich or poor, in sickness and in health. but those words lingered there on the page, they did not leave his lips.

the room shuffled and squirmed as the minutes passed but the expected awkwardness in the air was soon overtaken by a unified leaning forward in the seats, an anticipation, a silent prayer of encouragement--come on, come on. his smiling bride gently urged him on with stars in her eyes and patience in her posture.

but it wasn't fear that held his tongue. this was more than the point of no return. this was the beginning, a new birth, the final push as all ears strained for the cry of a single voice announcing the start of a new life, a new relationship, a new journey.

"that's a profound point there," the minister quipped at last. a collective chuckle rippled through the room, releasing some of the pressure that had steadily gathered under the ceiling and now threatened to start bending the walls.

"sorry," the man apologized sheepishly. "i guess ill just go really fast." his voice weak but still alive, he faced the page and his bride, and he vowed, he pledged, he committed.

but the minister was right. one man's silence rang louder to me than any other words uttered in that chapel for the rest of their special day.

LUTALICA

I've never been in the eye of a hurricane before (or even a hurricane for that matter) but I'd imagine it would be something like this:
like standing motionless on a busy street corner during rush hour in the middle of a big city--cars whirling about as blurs of steel and color on the streets like trees uprooted in the wind, people swarming the sidewalks like worker ants in an anthill going about their business. All contributing to the cacophony of sights and sounds that give life and color to the tempest of the big city.

Or maybe it can be better compared to the first day at a new school, new faces of all shapes and sizes, each with their own circle of friends and cliques and stories to tell, trying to get to class or lunch or wherever; all someplace to be, something to do, and someone to see. All in motion.

And then there's me--motionless in the center of this storm, in the middle of the school yard, new and clueless as the world happens all around me.

But here I am, I've arrived! That counts for something, right? Me, the FNG, the "I have no idea what's going on" written all over my face goes hand in hand with the dark circles under my eyes. I haven't even moved in yet. Instead, all of packaged me resides somewhere in this precarious armload of boxes and bags and luggage and baggage--all the things they said I would need to survive. Most of these are "necessities", the things you absolutely can't go without--all the neat little cubbies and compartments, tagged, bagged, and labeled appropriately. Without these, no one is gonna know who you are or who you're supposed to be. Without these, you won't know your place--and everybody has a place. It's only fair. Thus, my arms are full and still no one--not even I--knows who I am.

And the other half of my load, the non-necessities? Well, some things you'll always carry with you, no matter how hard you try to leave them behind.

All in all, it really is too much to carry. Everybody else clearly has it down to a science. Most only carry one, maybe two bags, or just a briefcase or a backpack. Some don't even carry anything at all--they hold hands with another. But me? I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous carrying all of this extra weight. I feel worse. 

So it's been a little while now--maybe a couple weeks, maybe a few months, I'm not sure--and I still have all my boxes like I'm constantly moving house but I never actually moved in. It's the nightmare of move-in day that doesn't inevitably end with sleeping in my own bed because I never found my room. Instead, it's always new boxes and new labels for new places and new faces, something for every occasion and circumstance. Always moving, forever struggling to carry everything I'm supposed to need and leaving behind anything else that doesn't fit.

So I learned to think on my feet, to categorize and summarize, to condense twenty-something years of existence into twenty seconds of "so tell me about yourself"--to revise my own history. Eventually, with some trial and error, I learned to bring forward only what I hoped was interesting, leaving out the boring parts, the mundane, the quirks, the details--because no ever sticks around long enough to find out you really are.

And now it seems like the only thing left to talk about is what fits where, and which labels are offensive or acceptable. Take a test to determine your career, your inclinations, your personality. It's all planned out for you, just pick a path and follow it, find a recipe and cook it up. Maybe I really should pick a path, but I can't even see my own feet.

I mean, it's almost comfortable. I'm wearing clothes that almost fit and I've somehow managed to shove myself into the right shape, folding and contorting myself until I almost look the part, armed with a twenty-second sales pitch for a product that I still don't fully understand--or know why I'm selling it.

But hey, stuff happens right? Sometimes things leak. Tags fall off. Boxes break. After all, they're only made of plastic and serrated cardboard. Things get mixed up, mingling into places they're not supposed to be, running the risk of contamination and potentially hazardous chemical reactions. And when stuff does happen, I embarrassingly wear the stains of my mistakes on my sleeves. And now they can see my innards smeared across my chest.

But even with all my compartments and tags and labels and warning signs, I still don't fit.

Everything hit the floor, and it all came crashing down in an instant. I didn't even see her there; I swear she just materialized out of nowhere.

My cheeks hot with embarrassment, I scrambled to pick it all up and stack it as it was before. I spent years trying to learn this balancing act and now it's all on the ground around my feet. Thanks for making me look like an idiot. Again.

I at least expected this round of 52 Pickup to be a two-player game, as she was the one who so rudely bumped into me (or I into her--doesn't matter now), but she didn't even bend over. Can you be more inconsiderate? I noticed her hands were empty, arms free. I don't think she was carrying anything before we collided, nor was she carrying anything now. No nametag, no boxes, just a smile. Who are you supposed to be?

"Are you... lost?" I fished.
"No," she smiled. "Are you?"

From the center of this whirling dervish of trash and broken boxes scattered on the ground, I watched incredulously as she extended a hand to me. If my life had been anything more than lugging useless piles of junk around for the last few years, it would've flashed before my eyes right then. But one hand isn't going to tame a hurricane.

"Thanks, but I got it."
I gritted my teeth, veins bulging on my forehead as I used my legs to lift my load off the ground like they taught me. I'm guessing she wasn't smiling anymore but I can't see much from here. Can't afford to worry about things like that; this stuff is already heavy enough. Everything still smells like cardboard.

My curiosity got the best of me, however, and it took a bit of effort to turn around and look back. I expected to see her standing there alone where I left her but she wasn't.
She was gone.
I was alone.

Heavily inspired by
"Lutalica"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig

broken soles

i tried to call for help
but as i feared
no one came
and no one hears because their ears
are filled with their own screams
the silent ones that populate bad dreams
while you struggle to wake
from scary scenes that you know arent real
but it definitely feels that way
its easy enough to shake those feelings during the day
but when its dark out
the blood in the water brings the sharks out
ominously circling floundering swimmer
as he slips beneath the waves of his own fears
and while he fights to stay afloat
just remember that we're all in the same boat
as desperate cries escape water-logged throats
with the same look of desperation on each face
all trying to escape from the same place
running from nightmares

that empty shriek that makes no sound
like the absence of a crash when a glass hits the ground
was it full or was it empty?
shattered violently or crushed gently?
does it matter now?
just a hairline fracture
the smallest crack in the surface
can make the earth shift
or burst a pursed lip
one misplaced nail can sink the whole ship
a small mechanical fail
can derail the mighty train
or down the fastest plane
and a few days later
theyre put to rest
by strong men in dark clothing dressed
complete with flowers laid across their chests
mercilessly slain before they reached their best
only to live on in verses penned in cursive
once they depart from blacked-out hearses
curses!

but i digress
back to plan b
back to gingerly tiptoeing over tiny shards of me
spread haphazardly across the floor
while i limp around in shoes that dont work anymore
broken soles cant mend bleeding feet
tattered shoes wont hide cuts these deep
crimson footprints smear the wood as i try to sweep
crystal daggers under the rug
would you know it was there
if i didnt tell you it was?
sometimes i think
a lengthy hug is the least of what i need
to keep this straw man from bursting at the seams
but other times it seems
that a little bit of love
would undo me
completely

broken souls
dirty feet
open wounds
killing me

gone fishing

The windows were shut, the door locked; a lone sign hung loosely in the breeze.

He peered closer to read the sign and then threw his hands up in disgust.

So I wasn't in the office today.

Or yesterday.

Or the day before that.

Instead, here I am, tie untied, slacks rolled up to the knee, bare feet swinging inches above the water, trying to tease the Loch Ness Monster out of the shallows with my naked toes. At first, the silence was refreshing to my bruised ears, but now the thick sound of near nothingness was almost painful. I almost miss the dull roar of life, the murmur of movement, of people doing and going about their day--almost.

Now, all I can hear is the faint sounds of calm water lapping against the rotting wood. It's dead out here. The bucket is empty and the rod is still. I feel like the Old Man and the Sea, except I'm not old (yet), I'm not in the sea, and I have no idea what I'm trying to catch--still stressing out over what bait to throw, what hooks to use, which lines are the strongest. Why am I sweating the big catch when I can't even get the little greedy ones to bite?

My patience is wearing thin. Maybe I should go back. At least I get paid to sit there and be miserable. At least there's food on the table every night. Out here, if I don't catch, I don't eat--and I'm starving. The ringer on my phone is off but all the calls I'm neglecting are clanging loudly in the back of my mind.

But perhaps there's a better way to fish than wishful thinking on the dock.

Perhaps I need to get into the water.

i thought i was

I thought I was an apple

I mean, I live in a box surrounded by other apples

I'm shiny and red; I even wear that stupid little sticker just like all the other apples

I fell off a tree, landed in a truck, and now I'm here

but your hand descends and then it leaves again, pushing me aside, picking all the other apples
slowly emptying the crate, leaving me alone at the bottom

because I'm not the biggest apple

because the wax has worn off and I'm no longer shiny

because I'm bruised and ugly

because of the hint of sourness that grows stronger and stronger with each bite
because of the worms that have begun to burrow through my insides

because I'm two weeks past my expiration date and should've been tossed a long time ago

I thought I was an apple

because I thought you liked apples

but I don't think I want to be an apple anymore

dust to dust

It tumbled several more feet before finally coming to rest. Ouch. That one was almost too big to kick. But with the ground covered in loose chunks of earth of all shapes and sizes just begging to be given a good boot, the temptation was just too great. It's an excellent way to break up the monotony of hiking in the middle of the biggest desert in the country--plus it's the only thing currently keeping my mind off the blistering heat and wishing I was back in the air-conditioned tour bus.

Now it tumbles around somewhere in the bowels of my backpack, jammed in with books, water bottles, and my camera as I continue to walk new paths and see new horizons, soon to be joined by anything else I deem noteworthy enough to throw in my bag, recording and preserving both ancient and recent memory, all contributing to the weight on my shoulders.

I caught up with my most recent victim and stopped to examine it more carefully, giving myself a few seconds to catch my breath. It was still warm, faithfully radiating the heat of its native sun as I turn it over in my hand, carefully tracing its jagged edges with my fingers. Other than a bit of coloration on one side, it looked just as dusty and dead as the landscape around me.

I dumped the contents of my bag onto the floor and everything tumbled out--all the accumulated dirt that slipped through the cracks and tiny bits of trash I forgot to throw away and a few gems I thought I'd lost or forgotten, along with the ones I'd purposely collected. I stood there in the middle of my mess scratching my head. I don't remember acquiring all of these--too busy collecting to worry about carry weight. One of the unforeseen problems of travel. How am I supposed to fit all of this in my suitcase for the flight home? Even worse, how in the world am I supposed to pick which ones to keep and which ones to leave? Which one is more valuable than any other?

True, it's been dead longer than I've been alive. But it's probably (definitely) seen many more years than I have--it could have been resting here for centuries or even a thousand years before I, traveling wanderer extraordinaire, forcibly removed it from its tanning spot (and now I feel bad for kicking it). Who knows how many civilizations worth of dust it accumulated before I nonchalantly brushed it clean Indiana Jones-style, or what historically significant person may have dragged his or her shadow over this very spot. And now, as I squeeze it in my historically insignificant hands, my DNA is mingled in with the dust of history too.

I repositioned it carefully on the shelf for the fifth time. It had to be perfect, my personal display of my most prized possession. Dust and desert were months and miles away but now I traveled the jagged edges as much as I could, both alone and with anyone who would listen.

I looked both ways and slipped it into my pocket like I was stealing priceless artifacts from a museum--because dust and sand make for poor security guards.

I brushed past it again. It's still right where I left it. My fingers don't dance in the ancient dust like they used to, no longer gracing its grooves once worn smooth by desert winds and now by frequent finger traffic. Sometimes it lingers at the edges of my vision or I get to mention it in passing but nothing more. Once a proud resident of a free land now lies a stale ornament on a shelf like a majestic lion rotting in a cage, muffled by the graying dust that settles over things that no longer move or live or remember.

~

I laughed sheepishly, almost embarrassed how quickly I passed over it without noticing.

"Wait, you went where?" he stopped me.

I picked it up off the floor where it had fallen, nearly two years since the very first time I stooped to retrieve it.

"You went to Israel?"

I turned it over in my hand carefully, tracing its familiar grooves and edges once more just like old times, no longer warmed by its native sun but by the grip of memory.
I smiled.

shadowfall

Can anyone explain to me that almost beautiful yet oddly depressing moment 

when you watch the sun fall behind the mountains and descend below the horizon, 

and all that remains are tongues of fire painted in the ever-changing sky as shadows begin to creep along the ground and darkness slowly consumes everything around you while your thoughts grow louder and louder by the minute 

until all traces of the sun and its glowing warmth has faded away, 

and you realize darkness has prevailed yet again 

and another long night awaits you with hunger in its eyes, 

and you find yourself alone once again 

as your thoughts reverberate off the walls 

of your own emptiness...

disparate

sometimes i wish
just for a moment
that you could feel as i feel
see as i see

but perceptions disparate
is a gift
not a curse

it's what makes you, you
and me, me

OPIA

I heard footfalls, quick and rhythmic moving in my direction and instinctively braced myself. When I looked up, I immediately regretted it.

I've seen it far too many times in my brief existence--two galaxies swirling about, minding their own business until they are inexplicably set on a collision course as if drawn together by some unseen, inescapable force or gravitational pull that feeds off the clashing of worlds and smashing of stars.

The streets are full of these "galaxies" set up in neat little living quarters not unlike mine, all in a line, all purposely facing the same direction to avoid such catastrophes. But some days it's hard to walk down the street and resist the urge to steal a glance at every passing window. I know staring is considered rude, but a quick peek won't hurt anybody, right?

As gravity pulls and distance shrinks, it grows and looms larger in my path, and I find it increasingly difficult to avert my gaze--his, however, is nowhere to be found. It's probably tucked away somewhere behind that expensive glass, or maybe buried in the glow in his palm, or even flirting with the space just above his shoelaces--it's hard to tell.

Oh! I've crossed the moat--now I'm at the front gate.

There it lies, beneath the typical assortment of decorations, distractions, and window dressings: the front door--the final frontier. It's amazing how much effort some people go through to hide it, and how much others put in to make it more visible--but if you pay attention long enough, you start to see the same doors on different houses. Although they come in all shapes and sizes, each one always possesses the same weakness: the little two-way tunnel of glass in the center, right at eye-level.

Yet, beneath it all, there is more. Something else lies beneath--something small and fragile perhaps. I can almost hear it rattling about in that uninhabited space masquerading as residency, like the echoes of a rock hurled down an empty well as scary sounds reverberate from walls that haven't seen the light of day for a long time.

And suddenly here I am, up the steps and on the porch, within arms reach.

Do I knock?

I lean in and carefully put one eye to the glass. At first, I see... I don't see anything. It's too dark. But as my eyes begin to adjust I begin to see shapes and forms, and then...

I jumped.

I turn tail and fly unashamedly away from the door, unable to hold my gaze any longer, retreating blindly back to the safety of doubled locks, blacked-out windows, and thick curtains. The walls around me shudder as he swooshes past my right shoulder and out of sight.

My hands won't stop shaking. All is quiet again except for the faint sounds of sharp breaths escaping my chest.

~

I looked up again. Mistake.

I see it coming from a long way off, just a single cloud on the horizon. But I know better.

And this time, she sees me too.

The space between us begins to do that terrible thing again--shrinking. But the cloud is multiplying and growing and moving towards me now in an almost gliding, sort of floating fashion. I blinked really hard; maybe the stale air in here is affecting my vision.

I pressed my face against the glass, trying to look through the smudges for a better look. Yup, it's still coming, racing towards me and gaining speed like a tidal wave as I look on helplessly from my little shack stranded on this deserted island with nowhere to go, no way of escape. It's overwhelming my defenses, climbing the seawall. I can't fight gravity; I can't slow these winds.

We're gonna crash.

Everything in me screams to bar the windows and lock the doors, but I can't move. It's like that cliche, slow-motion moment that lasts forever yet no time at all where I'm standing there waiting for impact against my better judgment. And on it comes, this rolling thunder, this explosion of motion and light.

Light.

My eyes start to water from the sheer brilliance of this anomaly descending into my front yard; light and color pours in from the windows and seeps in through cracks in the door. Afraid to look and too terrified to pull my eyes away, I see her. She's here. The house begins to quake as she makes her way up the steps.

Oh no, you can't come in.

I finally convinced my stupid feet to move, backing away from the door as light gathers at the edge of the doorframe. I hear a commotion at my back--the trembling of the house has rattled loose everything I shoved into the back closet, and now they're awake and moving, falling and crashing to the floor. The windows clatter loudly as the locks clink and jingle in their bolts.

Beams of light begin to crawl about the room, investigating every corner--but not like the overpowering spotlights of a guard tower. These were small and gentle, fireflies searching, looking. For what? For who?

You can't come in. Not here.

This place is an unforgivable mess but if she comes in--no, she can't; she will destroy everything. She will be a tornado in the parlor, crushing my little arrangement, breaking furniture, and smashing it all to bits.

You will rearrange me. All without a word. With just a look--a glance.

I shrank into a corner and hugged my knees, trying to make myself as small as possible. For a guy who strives to be invisible, I am painfully visible. I sat there waiting for the front door to swing off its hinges, for my house to be destroyed, for the waves of this storm to wash over me and drown me in something so terribly wonderful.

Now she sees. Now she sees me.

I looked up and caught her gaze, strong yet gentle, soft but bright. The corner of her mouth curls ever so slightly, and for the first time in a long time I feel...

The lights begin to retreat from the windows and then disappears altogether as she brushes past my left shoulder. The house descends into a thick darkness once more, empty and bare. I sit on the floor alone in the dark, ears ringing, eyes full of light. How long I sat like this, I don't know.

I heard footsteps. I looked up. And then I got up and unlocked the door.

"Those eyes of yours could swallow stars

galaxies and universes

what hope did I ever have?"

Heavily inspired by
"Opia"
The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
by John Koenig

The Present

No new promises, no fancy diets, no regurgitated resolutions. I always break promises, my attention span lasts longer than my diets, and I'm behind on my resolutions by at least four or five years.

We both know long before the new year rolls around what we should and shouldn't be doing with our lives, whether it be huge, life-altering decisions or simple things like "I should really spend less time on the internet" (which could also be life-altering). But we generally don't and won't think about those things until it's socially acceptable to publicly lay out a list of things that we know we probably won't see through to the end.

So let's not do that this year. This isn't my "resolution to not have a resolution". This time, let's keep things simple.

Whatever you (and I) know that you should be doing, just do it. Whatever action/lifestyle we know we shouldn't be doing, stop doing it. Or start taking the steps to remove said bad habit or addiction from your life. And all the good and positive things you've been doing or have already started, keep going. I'm gonna go ahead and quote Shia Labeouf because it's true: If you're tired of starting over, stop giving up.

Let's not wait until New Year's Day to start trying to fix everything. Just as the new year is a jump off point to start doing things right, so is every morning of every day--even every breath you take is an another chance to do right, that coveted clean slate that we're all looking for. Change isn't a one-time decision; it's a constant one.

Every day, every morning, every breath is a gift. Let's not waste it.

Don't count the days.

Make the days count.

Math

Every time I have ventured outside of my comfort zone, outside of this little burrow where I  like to hibernate until the sun is shining and the weather is just right, every time that I have mustered the courage to do something I've never done before has been so worth it: memories made, lessons learned, friendships of the strongest caliber forged.

Yet my calculations must be wrong because every time I steel myself to take that leap of faith outside of the familiarity of my cozy circle of existence, I falter on the front porch because the risks still seem to overwhelm the rewards.

But then again, I was never very good at math.

Stained

I tried to erase the stray line and only succeeded in smearing more ink on the page. I silently cursed the pen in my hand. This would be so much easier if this was a pencil.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Once again I put pen to paper, lightly dragging the tip across the page, the quill just barely caressing the white spaces. I could feel the muscles in my arm tense and tighten as I gripped the pen, trying to guide the little black snakes into their proper places.

Yet dark lines prevailed, wild and crooked, no matter how much I strained to lighten my touch. Little branches of ink grew into sprawling trees spreading their dark limbs into all the wrong places, quickly casting long shadows into the furthest corners of the page. The more I tried to correct the lines, the more the ink smeared and smudged. The ominous trees were rooted too deep, and it was going to take a lot more than vigorous rubbing to remove them.

Dark lines progressed into thick smudges and black puddles. Long streaks originally meant to atone for earlier mistakes morphed into blatantly dark blobs that settled nowhere near the mark. Ink seeped out of the quill and continued to creep across the page like dark clouds gathering speed. I began to scribble recklessly, anger and frustration fueling the whirlwind of ink that threatened to consume the entire page.

In the midst of my frenzy, I looked down at my hands for the first time. From the tips of my fingers to my wrists was covered in ink. Both hands. Ink was creeping up my forearms too, almost to my elbows. My workspace was sprinkled with the splashing of my efforts; my face was probably covered in ink too.

It's everywhere and it's not coming off.

What are they going to say about the kid who came out of art class with more ink on himself than on his paper?

So I coped. Hands shoved deep into pockets, pulling my hat over my face, eyes on the floor. Maybe if I don't look they won't see it. But once I stole a glance at other people's papers, and well, their papers were dark and smudgy too.

I watched the way they streamed in and out of the classroom, walked the halls, interacted with each other. I wasn't the only one with dirty hands.

It lies in bags under the eyes, in deep wrinkles on the cheeks, in the faint sadness that lingers within shrinking pupils that are often hidden behind sunglasses, fleeting glances, rehearsed smiles, and the latest smartphone. But it's there. You can see it if you pay attention.

So I sit at my desk, drowning my own ink while the teachers tell me I'm doing fine because hey, everyone else's hands are stained too. We're all drowning really, faces permanently darkened by the stain of past mistakes; this incurable blot that can't be rubbed out no matter how hard we try. Instead it smears and stains as we spread it around from page to page, hand to hand. And yet, no matter whose ink has found its home on my hands or on my page, it's still my picture because my name is at the top and I'm holding the pen, however loosely or firmly I choose the grasp it.

I felt a swoosh of air and there he sat next to me. I gave him a funny look.

"Whatcha got there?"

My ears were hot again and I'm sure the red of my cheeks was visible under the mess on my face.

"A drawing," I mumbled. I felt like smothering my paper against my chest.

"Not really an artist huh?" I shook my head without looking up.

"Let me draw it for you," he said.

Ahh, I don't know dude. I know it's bad but this is my drawing. You don't even know what I'm trying to draw (well, neither do I but still). And where in the world are you going to put any sort of artistic expression on this ink-soaked piece of paper?

"I don't think you wanna get your clothes all dirty," I began.

He began to roll up his sleeves before I finished speaking and he motioned towards my pen. I was ready to hurl it across the room only moments before but suddenly it mattered. He wants to take my pen. 

I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my chest. I could've heard a pen drop. He sat there patiently with his hand extended towards me and I noticed for the first time that his hands were clean. Stainless.

I took a deep breath and reluctantly surrendered the pen. I still couldn't bring myself to look at him but I could tell he was smiling. My hands felt weird and empty after furiously clutching the pen for so long. 

When I finally looked up, he was bent over a notebook that had his name on it. He wrote my name underneath his and turned to the first page.

It was white.

Field of Dreams

May 13, 2003

Amidst the ocean of brake lights I finally saw it: the majestic stadium nestled in the soft bowl of Chavez Ravine, and the towering stadium lights burning bright and pure against the orange sunset and steel backdrop of Downtown Los Angeles.

People of all shapes and colors streamed through the parking lot in the same direction as if they were being sucked into a black hole by some unseen force, like worshippers journeying to the temple, all with one thing in common--Dodger blue. I could easily pick out the names of my favorite players on the backs of other fans. How was it possible that so many people were just as obsessed with this as I was? How had so many followers all decided to unite on this one night?

Inside the massive maze of a stadium, everything was covered in everything Dodgers: vendors, gift shops, Dodger dogs, Dodgers television. Crowds of fans swirled in all directions and I clung tighter to my dad's hand as he led me through the throng towards our seats. I was suddenly embarrassed that I neither wore nor possessed anything resembling the sacred shade of blue that I had pledged my allegiance to and that now enveloped everything and everyone in sight. I felt naked and out of place--until we stepped into the stands for the first time.

The first thing I saw was green--the most vibrant, perfect shade of green I've ever seen, almost too green to be real; greener than any field I'd ever set foot on, greener than all the times I'd seen it on TV. How do they make the grass so green? Maybe it's special Dodgers grass. Perfectly manicured stripes of green crisscrossed their patterns across the grass where fan-favorites like Shawn Green and Dave Roberts would roam eighty-one nights a year. Several figures clad in white effortlessly tossed the ball impossible distances across the vast green expanse; the white of the ball easily visible against the sea of green.

I watched other players warm up and stretch elsewhere on the field as groundskeepers watered the infield, turning the rich brown of the dirt even darker. This time the names of my favorite players rested on their own shoulders. Cesar Izturis and Alex Cora talked casually in the grass while Adrian Beltre continued his jog across the field--my idols in the flesh. I was breathless, riveted to my seat.

And then it was game time.

"And now, your Los Angeles Dodgers!"

The stadium erupted as the vibrations of the booming PA system rolled through my chest, adding to the pang of excitement in my stomach. I already knew the lineup by heart before the PA announced it, but with the music pounding through the enormous speakers behind the centerfield wall, the rumble of the announcer enunciating every name, the roar of the crowd as each player was announced--I'd never heard the lineup like this. Dave Roberts wasn't leading off tonight; Brian Jordan was playing center in his place. Sad. Oh well.

The ball seemed larger and everything moved much faster than on TV. This was nothing like watching televised baseball: no onscreen stats, no commentators, no commercials or ads between innings. The players played and the stands roared its approval; no more, no less. It was purely baseball, unfiltered and untainted. Every crack of the bat, every pitch hitting the glove was just as real and close to me as the crunch of peanuts beneath my feet. This was heaven.

I couldn't see the faces of the players up like the close-ups on TV; now they were just walking colors and numbers but I could tell who was who. I could peer across the field into the Atlanta dugout and spy Chipper Jones leaning over the railing with Gary Sheffield; I could watch Brian Jordan interact with the left field ball boy between innings. Although I couldn't tell whether Paul Lo Duca had shaved tonight or not, it all made my idols seem more believable. More like men instead of gods.

And they played ball. Every strike was greeted with thunderous applause, vendors patrolled the stands selling peanuts, frozen lemonade and real Cracker Jack, and fans played keep away from the stadium ushers with beach balls. I begged for a Dodger dog until Dad gave in. There I saw, happily munching on a ten-inch hot dog slathered in ketchup and onions while my dad asked my baseball trivia that I fielded with ease.

I counted the innings as the game went on because I didn't want it to end--but I wanted the Dodgers to win too. The score went back and forth; Atlanta scored and the Dodgers answered back the next inning. In the bottom of the 5th, LA outfielder Mike Kinkade hit the ball high into the night sky. The piercing crack of the bat sent the hometown crowd to its collective feet. Andruw Jones could only watch as the ball soars into the mysterious space behind the centerfield fence. The stadium explodes as lights flash and Kinkade nonchalantly takes his victory lap around the bases while I high-fived as many people as I could. It was the best thirty seconds of my life.

When the middle of the seventh rolled around, I stood on my seat, wrapped my arms around my dad's broad shoulders and sang "Take Me Out tot he Ballgame" at the top of my voice along with 40,000 people. Because it's root root root for the Dodgers, we sang; if they don't win it's a shame. When Ron Coomer singled home Izturis later that inning to give us the lead, it appeared we were on our way to victory.

The Dodgers entered the 9th leading 4-3, and that only meant one thing--Eric Gagne. The noise meter on the jumbotron began to spike as the stadium came to its feet one last time to hail the beard Canadian jogging in from the left field bullpen. "Welcome to the Jungle" blared over the speakers as he took his warmup tosses. I couldn't see his goggled face but the big number 38 on his back was enough for me. Fifty-two saves in 2002 made him one of the best closers in baseball and my favorite pitcher. Gagne on the mound with a lead was game over.

But not tonight. The Braves kept swinging and send the ball into the outfield grass as runner continued to cross the plate. The 4-3 lead quickly became an 8-4 fiasco. Gagne was pulled and had to take the long walk of shame to the dugout, a walk he rarely took. The stadium began to empty as the Braves continued to hit Dodger pitching, and soon the score was 11-4 Atlanta. My dad wanted to leave because it was late and LA traffic was getting worse by the minute but I begged him to stay.

"The Dodgers are losing and it's past your bedtime," he said. "Sorry bud." I knew that but I didn't care. I didn't want it to end no matter how bad it was; I wanted to hold on to every minute of this once in a lifetime opportunity to share this sacred airspace with the best in baseball.

I walked dejectedly back through the parking lot with thousands of disappointed fans, my back to the lights and the grass and the players. On the way home I turned on the radio to listen to Vin Scully describe the last inning. The Dodgers went down quietly, unable to mount a comeback.

When I got home, I  gratefully collapsed into bed. My team had lost and my ears were still ringing, but as I slipped into dreams and unconsciousness, I was back on that field of perfect green.

Keep Going

The smiling little boy from earlier was nowhere to be found as Jason chomped down on his mouthpiece. The adorable little blue belt had sprouted nerves of steel as he squared up with the kid opposite him, both clad in sparring gloves, helmets and feet pads. I never knew how drastic height discrepancies could be between eight and nine year old boys until today; Jason's opponent was a good twelve inches taller.

Continuous sparring was different from normal point sparring matches. The kids got two thirty- second rounds to go at it and judges decided who had a better overall round; first to win two rounds moves on. After judging for the past eight hours, I never wanted to see another eight year old martial artist again. But this last fight of the day was for 1st place so I summoned a final burst of energy from achy knees and tired eyes for one more match.

The cuteness factor, complete lack of front teeth (also cute), and Jason's wild ride to the final match (he'd taken an illegal kick to the back in the previous round and walked it off) all added up to my "slight" pull for the little asian boy to defeat the odds (and the height difference) and take the win in this David vs. Goliath reenactment. As a judge I'm not supposed to be biased or root for one kid over another, but from the first time he flashed his toothless smile at me, I was Team Jason.

The two kids became a flurry of movement. Jason was quickly overmatched by the bigger kid who used his longer legs to descend upon the smaller boy with sweeping roundkicks. Jason did his best to dodge them, dancing on the edges of the hurricane of hook-kicks to dart in a land a punch or two between kicks and duck back out again. He was successful several times in a row and I smiled at his strategy. I've definitely gotten the short straw in matches like this before.

Jason mistimed one of his lunges and Goliath countered with a high roundhouse that ended in a loud thud, sending Jason to the carpet. All three of us judges dove between the kids to stop the fight. Jason was slow to get up, mouth hanging open but no sound came out. I sent Jason to his sideline coach, his dad.

"Go on, Jason," his dad said to him quietly when he finished examining Jason's mouth for blood. "You can do it." He turned Jason around and gently pushed him back into the ring to face his new worst nightmare. Jason was crying now, the sweat from his brow mingling with the tears that tumbled down his cheeks. Only six seconds left in the round. C'mon Jason. 

Suddenly a large group of people materialized in the stands, all wearing the same blue t-shirt that Jason was wearing. The quiet encouragement of his father was quickly drowned out by Jason's entire team filling the room with shouts and cheers as Jason's gingerly toed up with the big kid again. You can do it.

The longest six seconds of Jason's life ended as he ducked and dodged in earnest.
Judges score: Big Kid 1, Jason 0.

I watched father console his weeping son during the twenty-second break between rounds. I'm sorry Jason. I was in your shoes just yesterday. I took 2nd place in a semifinal I knew I couldn't win, yet the sting of defeat was overshadowed by the hopelessness of having my sliver of hope crushed, my window of opportunity closed, a peek into a dream that didn't come true today. Blood, sweat, and tears for nothing. I felt like throwing chairs. Going home heavy-hearted was far worse than going home empty-handed. I let my fists fly into the bathroom wall instead.

I knew why Jason was crying, and it wasn't because of the pain shooting up his little spine or the ringing in his little ears or the 2nd place trophy that already had his name on it. I would've spilled those same tears myself if I wasn't twenty-two years old. Everybody in the room knew Jason wasn't going to win, but we weren't cheering because we wanted a comeback. We just wanted Jason to come back.

Jason's dad pushed the little boy back into the ring again. Jason's team was even louder than before as twenty plus adults stood on their feet and shouted at the top of their voices for an eight-year-old kid. His face was still wet as he squeezed his hands into little fists. C'mon, Jason. 

The second round began with Jason on the move again, running from the black-padded feet that swung above his head. He had stopped looking for openings long ago; Jason just wanted to live.

Yet the kicks managed to catch up with him no matter how hard he tried, and Jason ate another kick to the head, quickly followed by several solid punches to the chest. Each collision of pad meeting pad was dreadfully audible, and Jason was reeling again. Jason's team roared with every successful dodge and poured forth many encouragements for the boy who was crying again. Amid the cheering and the tears and ringing ears, Jason's dad was ever present on the edge of the ring, just a few feet away from his son.

"C'mon, Jason! Keep going!"

Keep going, Jason. Don't give up like me.

Another landed kick. Jason stumbles.

C'mon, Jason.

Jason ducks to his right, narrowly missing another blow to the head. His team roars their approval.

Keep going, Jason.

Only a few seconds left. It's all I can do not to encourage the brave little boy.

Keep going--

Time!

Jason's team goes berserk as he disappears into his father's arms. The lump in my throat steadily rises as I have to cast my vote against the real winner of this match: Big Kid 2, Jason 0.

Jason was still sobbing as he stepped into the ring one last time to receive his second place trophy to the thunderous applause of the hometown crowd. As the competitors walked around to shake the judges hands, I knelt and grabbed Jason by the shoulders. His dad was still on the sidelines patiently waiting for him, but for the next couple of moments, Jason was my son.

"You did good, Jason. You did so good." I'm so proud of you.

I blinked back tears as I returned the sobbing boy to his dad. If my dad had been here I'm certain he would've said those same words to me as I tore up my second place card the day before. But now I understood those words, perhaps for the first time.

The scene remained ingrained in my mind for the rest of the weekend: crowd cheering, dad whispering encouragement, and the young boy in the center of the ring facing his demons, armed with nothing but sweat and tears.

I bit down into my mouthpiece and clinched my fists.