Ideas for collective works

Roots

With an ancestry dating back as far as the Aztec King, Montezuma, it is hard for him to take life for granted. A nationality split down the middle. A true son of the Southwest is born and raised in the Southwest; therefore one could label him a true son of the Southwest. He has never known anyone who would apply such a name to him. His paternal lineage traces back to the heart of Mexico. His maternal lineage bears no resemblance to his fathers, hailing from the Netherlands. Although both his mother and father are in America because of immigration, only the immigrants on his father’s side are looked down upon. The racial slur "wetback" comes from people like paternal great great grandparents. His ancestors crossing the Rio Grande is a driving catalyst behind his existence.

Hard work is in his blood. Nothing has ever started out easy, from the day his great great grandfather began picking Sunkist oranges in the hot Mexican groves. With hard work and diligence over long periods of time, actions and reactions fall into place. Throughout his ancestry and even for himself, honesty and real contribution to society is not immediately reciprocated. It may take years if not decades for karma to manifest itself.

Even the best fiction writer could not have created the cast that is his family. A lawyer, a nurse, a few full blown alcoholics, a gay therapist, a gay opera singer and even an old man once investigated by the F.B.I for selling a jet to a drug dealer. These people make up the eccentric cast of his family. Everyone is hoping he turns out somewhat normal.

My Bloody Valentine

"Abre los ojos, Roberto. Abre los ojos, mi amor."

"Good morning Raquel, how was your slumber?"

"How was my what? I have not heard you use that word in reference to sleep before, what has come over you?"

"I can't quite put my finger on it, I do feel different. It may have something to do with all the History channel I have been watching. They use words I have never heard before."

"Everytime I see you watching that damn television, you look as if you are anticipating something. What is it?"

"Now don't take this the wrong way, ok? Every night after I finish watching a war documentary on the History channel I change it to the Food channel and watch Giada DeLorentes cook afabulous Italian meal. To me she is everything a woman should be. Do not worry though, you are the only other woman I feel that way about."

"Do you at least take notes? I would like to see you put your new found love for cooking to use, one of these days."

"I would love to, really I would. The only problem is I am usually listening to Journey with the T.V. on mute. I never really know what she is saying, it is great."

"Oh really? Is that what this is about? Would you like to put me on mute? Is what I have to say not important enough for you?"

"You sure do ask a lot of questions. I can see why you would be upset, but it is much to early  though."

"We aren't even married yet and you already bored of me!"

"Married? Who said anything about married? I know I just accused you of asking to many questions, but I promise you these questions are warranted. I never said anything about marriage."

"Then what is all of this? Some kind of sick joke, or am a just a convinient way for you to pass time when you are not at work?"

"Yea about that, I have been meaning to talk to you. I don't technically have a job. That isn't to say I don't make money, you know from my trust fund account."

"Are you telling me you are a liar and a bum? I don't even know this man in front of me."

"You do know you are not required to stay here. In MY house, that I pay the bills for. Well Technically the trust fund pays for, but that is besides the point. Anyhow the door is wide open."

"No, no, no I am sorry I overreacted. I love it here with you. And besides you have a trust fund. That changes everything!"

Writing About Place

Squeaky plastic chairs are all the same, they annoy me and make my ass hurt. I guess sitting in one of those chairs at 2:15 in the morning does not help. At least that is what the mounted atomic clock on the wall reads. Out of my peripheral I notice that the employee working the register is fast asleep with his head hanging off the back of his office chair. The main waiting area carries hints of an old fast food restaurant, a box of curly fries a deep-fried corn dog. Yes this place was a fast food joint at least once, if not multiple times.

Just as my eyes begin to feel heavy, a sudden jingle of the bell attached to the door startles me. A woman wearing a Wendy's uniform pushes a stroller with a sleeping baby through the door. The sleeping employee immediately opens his eyes and jumps to attention. Now that he is standing I can see that his name tag reads, "Hi I am Maxamilion! I am here to assist you." The woman finally pushes the cumbersome stroller through the door and approaches the window of bulletproof glass separating her from Maxamilion.

Right on que Maxamilion spouts his rehearsed introductory speech, he does it all with a contrived grin on his face. As Max enjoys the sound of his own voice the woman fumbles through her knock off brand purse and hands her I.D. under the bulletproof glass.

The woman feebly asks,"I need an advance up to until March 9th."

Her raw unedited emotion, her shame in even walking into a Cash Advance spawns a desire to help fix her life within me. Either that or give her old Max's biweekly paycheck.

I responded to..

Christine Lee's letter. One of the best qualities about the letter is the honesty behind it all. It demonstrates how much easier it is to be honest through writing then it is through speech, well at least for me. Anyways the url is http://moosiescafe.blogspot.com/.

Rat Kiley Underneath a Lemon Tree

I have not had a solid sleep cycle in over 15 days, I am exhausted. Whenever I start dreaming I wake up almost instantaneously in a cold sweat and short of breath. Every time my dream starts out the same way. I am sitting underneath a lemon tree when it starts to bleed then I wake up.

It was 15 days ago when old Curt Lemon stepped on a booby trapped 105 round and became one with a nearby tree. Ever since that day I cannot get the image of him exploding out of my head, and I have a feeling I will not be able to for a long time. Before I witnessed the death of a friend first hand, war had not affected me in the least bit. For Lemon and I war was a game, it was a competition between us. Volunteering for a shit job like night patrol was all part of the rush. Even taking a step and not knowing whether or not our foot would still be attached the next second provided a thrill. The only problem was that neither of us expected to ever actually experience the horror of war, let alone find out that there is such a thing as horror in war.

Now Lemon is dead and I am trying to keep myself from dying in a Vietnamese rice paddy shit hole. Two things fill my mind these days, one dismembered limbs hanging from a lemon tree, two going up to some gook with a bayonet and showing him the true meaning of pain. As we set up camp for the evening I wonder to myself how much pain I will have to inflict on those gooks and their native animals before my pain goes away. Unfortunately there is no guide to these kind of things. I am just going to have to bottle up my emotions until I get the chance to release my anger on another living being.

I have heard that it is mentally unhealthy to bottle up emotions. The only problem with that is the last time I tried to tell someone my emotions the fucking cooze never wrote me back. I will not waste anymore time on words that will not be heard, instead I will do what comes naturally and bottle it until I can hold someone responsible and exact my revenge. I know now that I will never get my innocence back. I was a fool to think that even after war I would still be a playful Rat Kiley.

Being brought up in a conservative Christian home I was always told that when you start being sexually immoral is when you loose your innocence. I say that is a bunch of bullshit. Before being shipped out I did my fair share of horsing around with beautiful women. Whether we were fooling around in the back of a taxi cab or on my rickety old twin bed, I always came out of the encounter feeling rejuvenated and enlightened. Now watching a man explode, that will take away your innocence and deprive you of sleep for years.

What is my Name?

SELF-CHARACTERAZATION

He sits at his desk surrounded by people he does not recognize. He probably doesn’t recognize them because he hasn’t seen any of them before. They do not recognize him, not today at least. Soon those surrounding him will recognize his facial features. This does not make him feel intimidated, it only presents more opportunities for him to spawn companionship. He notices that social evolution takes place on both a micro and macro level. If he were placed in a room full of people close to him his actions would reflect his surroundings. This is not the circumstance though; in this case his actions reflect those of a dog in a brand new house. Like the dog he is eager to become comfortable in the new house.
He thinks to himself, “My friends call me T.J. but should I tell them to call me Thomas? When she calls role should I tell her to call me T.J.?” The thought of being called by a different name almost seems like a fresh start. Once those surrounding him begin calling him by Thomas, his legal name, the name T.J. goes out the window along with his past and everything in it. He has nothing to be afraid of, for some reason it seems that becoming someone else could be fun. Then reality sets in and he realizes no one is defined by his or her name, well no one except for Adolf Hitler. The name Adolf Hitler carries connotations with it that most people are aware of. Had Hilter been a middle class male his name would be just another name.
Now it seems that no one will notice if he starts going by a different name because they never knew him in the first place. The fact that no one here knew him previously makes him nostalgic, but at the same time he feels that good impressions are important. Nostalgic or not he cannot go back to a different place because he is constantly living in the present. For T.J. or Thomas, whichever the reader prefers, the present consists of a hot crowded classroom with new carpet. Then while he notices the new carpet his nostalgia comes back. This is not uncommon for him; every once in a while he will see or smell something and immediately begin to feel nostalgic. It is probably a weakness; living in the past can overcome someone.
Then all at once he snaps back into reality and forgets about the smell of new carpet. He decides that it does not matter what people call him just so long as he gives good connotations to whichever name he adopts. Besides isn’t Thomas a name used in the world of professionals and young graduates? Rhetorical questions do not require an answer. He thinks to himself, “Maybe it would be better to become Thomas when I am a young professional of some kind of graduate. Since my life isn’t over yet and has not necessarily begun yet I will stay content with T.J. and nostalgia.”