i’m trying to take time to notice the colors of the homes as whiz by or the pattern of the potholes as i try to avoid them.  i’ve driven down this street before with my parents, with friends, and now i drive it by myself.  left to my own thoughts as i see the city change from what it once was.  the small town feel of white middle class families and storefronts have gone from prominence to delapidation to revitalization of korean and then latino families and business’.

i picked up jan and we headed towards northridge mall.  i admitted that this was the mall i grew up in.  i know where every store is and by memory can tell you where broadway once stood, that macy’s once was bullocks, the places where ashtrays used to be, and what the mall looked like before renovation after the northridge earthquake.  every sunday after church my mom would make us go to the mall for lunch, most likely plum tree express, which was chinese fast food before there was panda express.  she would shop for hours and me and my dad would be bored waiting for her to finish meandering through all the sales racks and not so sales racks, eventually coming home with too much or nothing at all, both outcomes upsetting my dad.

i’m sure the dilemma of waiting for someone to be finished with his or her shopping is still felt by girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, and children.   the bored glass eyed stares still can be seen from the folks that sit on the couches that are now strategically placed throughout the mall.  faux living rooms in the midst of 2 floors of malls.  watering holes for boyfriends holding purses or children in need of naps after playing at the various indoor playgrounds now housed in the mall.

this is life in the 818.  shopping housed neatly in a 2 floors of stores, anchored by department stores with too many sales for too many people with bad credit.  cash exchanging hands and credit card slips being signed.  people selling their wears and others just walking by.  i didn’t walk by today and my wallet is lighter than i wish.  at least payday is fast approaching, but it probably isn’t fast enough.

el fin.

“What’s up with you?”

A friend who didn’t know me then, when I knew you, asks out loud.

“Nothing…”

He skims the room & findsd what I’ve begun to continuously glance at.

“Who’s that?”

I want to say, “The girl I’ve been trying to ask out since i was 13, but something always stops me.”

But my mouth comes up with, “Someone I grew up with…”

We met on the first day of high school. You were thirteen; your birthday coming up in December. By nature of the alphabet our lockers would mirror each other for four years. You would come to school early. Dump your Jansport into the confined metal space that was yours. Pick up whatever teen drama you were reading (most likely Sweet Valley High. You always thought it was funny that the girls from Sweet Valley Twins miraculously started high school when you did), sit, and wait for the morning bell.

Girls we knew had a tendency to shoplift. You were no exception. However instead of clothes or lipstick; books were your vice. As we volunteered to help your favorite teacher, an AP English teacher who in another life was an actor on a popular tv show where the lead character seemed to be on lots and lot and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of cocaine & frequently said “Nanu Nanu.” He would be the reason that you thought all gay men were all former actors who drank diet coke and owned one to two cats.

As we worked to knock out service hours, a catholic tradition of forced community service, we counted novels that were donated to our school. We put away copies of To Kill A Mockingbird. You wrote down 57 instead of 58 on the inventory sheets and one book landed in your book bag. The school was supposed to eventually give those books back, but you didn’t seem to care.

We became friends and I would hang out at the coffee bar you worked at. You were a barista and you hated it. If a customer was especially mean to you, you would put drops of visine in their drink order. Which would then lead to have explosive diarrhea. It was awful and hilarious. I would sit and study for the SATs and you would give me free drinks. I’d pretend to buy gum and you would open and close the register, then call my name to pick up my “order.” Those free drinks only exacerbated my enormous high school crush on you.

In the movies this would be the moment where I sweep you off your feet, tell you I love you, explain how I’ve loved all our short, quirky, awkward conversations that apparently are even more random when you smoke herbal remedies & only make me jealous that I’m not there to share that with you. Tell you how ever since we were kids you have been THE ONE.

…

That would happen in the movies. And you would be so impressed. And kiss me. And we drive off into our happily ever after.

But all I can muster; all I can find myself saying is,

“Hey…”

You look up. Smile at my familiar face. I want you to know, to read my mind, to know my thoughts, to know how I’ve felt, to say, “I love you too.”

But you say,

“Hey…”

And we sit & start this long dance all over again.

Baby eating baby food?

Stop. Look at camera with food dribbling down my face. Snap picture. Life moved on.

This is how my father chronicled our lives. And by our I mean my family. Family to me is not confined to the nuclear sense of the word. Mom, dad, brother, sister, dog. For one thing I didn’t have a brother or a sister. It was just me. The other thing was I lived with many people. My family consisted of mom, dad, me, Tita Sassy, Tita Baby, Lolo, Lola, Ate Caren, Ate Lynda, Ned, Brett, and whatever doggies Tita Sassy harbored in our backyard.

As a child growing up in that cauldron of family I found solace staring back at the pictures my dad took. Toddler me would stare at baby me and laugh, admire, even kiss my image in those photo albums. The world was so simple then. I was so simple then. I was a narcissistic toddler that could be made happy by staring at my own mug.

Dad had a talent for capturing both the posed and the candid moments. My cousins and I acting goofy as we wear sailor hats. That’s preserved in 3 x 5 photo paper. Me crying because I think someone has stolen my ice cream when actually I had ate the damn cone and my 2 year old self couldn’t understand that when you eat ice cream it disappears from the cone…also captured in 3 x 5 1980s celluloid.

I get lost looking at photos. I think of the stories behind them. But portraits, portraits frighten me. When your the subject of a portrait it’s you, the camera, and a smile. When your looking at a portrait it’s you, the yes of the person in the picture staring at you, and your own thoughts. My thoughts tend to wander and ask, what are they thinking? what did they have to do that day? were they mad? were they sad? were they happy? were they annoyed?

Bust mostly I ask why. Why did they need to take this picture? Why did they wear that shirt? Why is that person’s eyes so blue? Why are they staring at me? Why does it make me feel nervous? Why am I looking? Why can’t I stop? Why?

Why are they picture perfect and I’m not?

Portraits try to show the best of you. But what happens when your best doesn’t shine through? What happens when your best isn’t good enough? What happens when your best is a goofy glance behind the photographers head to the assistant jingling a stuffed animal with a bell on it?

Why? Why? Why?

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

I wrestled with this in my child mind. Santa’s Christmas wrap plus Mommy’s handwriting…

My mother was Santa Claus!

This confused me even more. How could the song “I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” ring true. This would mean mommy was kissing herself? How is that possible. She could kiss her hand. Perhaps kiss herself in the mirror. Somehow be able to remove her lips from her face and kiss herself on the cheek. Clone herself so that there was two of her and she would then kiss herself. Even as a child I knew that that was all preposterous, although coming up with all those scenarios fueled my imagination for days upon end.

But then another question came to m ind. How could mommy be Santa Claus when Santa was a man? My mother was very adept at doing what I call “lady poses.” Her petite frame sat in chairs with grace and an aire of regal appeal. Her legs crossed at the ankles; she spoke to her guests with an inflection that came with years of finishing school. Somehow my filipino grandmother had it in her head that her family was of aristocratic stock, so she sent her female daughters to finishing school and her sons to military school and a fine, non-neurotic bunch they all turned out to be.

I kid. I kid. My mother and her siblings are completely neurotic and totally crazy, but isn’t every family?

Back to the “lady poses.” She would sit elegantly at the dining table and instruct me to follow suit. There would be no slouching, no bad posture, no horrible table manners would be allowed in her house. too bad she married my father who was a, as my loving Lola put it “canto boy from the provinces.” I don’t understand why Lola called my papa that. As far as I knew my entire filipino family was from said “provinces.” Lola never approved of the fact that her lily white finishing school princess married a street kid instead of a connected son of a politician.  Mom ate her meals with a fork and spoon in hand, while Dad was more comfortable eating with his hands.  I glided back and forth.  Somethings are easier to eat with your hands, like chicken drumsticks.  While other things are easier to eat with a spoon, mounds of rice to go with said chicken drumsticks.

When Lola was over for dinner her frustration was visible.  It permeated the dining table.  I gladly manhandled my dinner and watch her carefully powdered face go from prim to not so prim.  It was hilarious.  I could have easily ate my meal with the traditional utensils of my culture and in my head I did.  Being able to eat with my hands and with a fork and spoon qualified me for Filipino American child of the year.  Lola didn’t agree with me.

She hissed from the dining table.  “ppppsssshhhhhtttt eat like a lady?!”

I didn’t take my eyes off my chicken.  It was delicious.  Papa continued to eat.  Mom fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair.

The spoon of rice was almost in my mouth when Lola wacked it out of my hand spilling rice everywhere.  My forehead crinkled in confusion.

“HEY! Lola, why’d you do that!”  The anger in my voice was fueled by the startling interruption to my delicious dinner.  Do not mess with a child and their dinner.

“You eat like a, a, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa”

Lola was lost.  She couldn’t find the words.

No what I did next.  I have no idea why I did it.  But I was a stubborn little brat.  Born from a family of fighters.

I stood up on my chair and proceeded to yell at my Lola.

“I DON’T HAVE TO DO YOUR STUPID LADY POSES!”

Said with the rage of an angry seven year old with rice in her hair, drumstick in hand, and hunger in her belly.

Now in a normal filipino family I would have been on my mom’s lap and spanked til my ass bruised purple for my indiscretion at my grandmother.  But my family isn’t normal.  In fact we’ve got our own brand of crazy.

Lola was shocked at my spirit.  Mother never blinked an eye and went on eating her meal prim and properly.  Dad laughed so hard he nearly choked on chicken.

I angrily stood my ground, well chair really, and glared at my Lola.  She would not win this fight.  My seven year old self would.

My father kept two things on our family coffee table.  A .45 caliber weapon, which is  a story for another day, and a canon a-51 camera.  He chronicled every second of his family’s new life in America.  And this moment was too hilarious not to capture.  And with a click I was immortalized.  Glaring at my Lola, rice in my hair, drumstick in my hand, standing on a dining chair.

When Lola passed away my cousins tapped me to do a eulogy on our generations behalf.  I spoke of this fine woman with elegance, grace, and laughter.  And I let her know that one day in heaven, maybe she’ll get me to do those lady poses.  Until then I’ll keep eating spoon in one hand, drumstick in the other.  The rice will stay on the plate…hopefully.

You always loved that phrase.  Carving a niche for yourself in this odd, crazy world, you said the phrase with frequency and consistency.

I hated the phrase.

I hated how you would seem smug when you said it.  There was a gleam of arrogance in your eye.  Suddenly the inflection in your voice would change and you would become this ulterior human being.  Someone I didn’t know.  Someone I didn’t want to know.

Lost in a haze of your ego. You frustrated the hell out of me.

But I could never leave, because I loved you.  I love you still.

“In an instance”

You were taken away from me.  One moment chatting on the corner.  Chatting turned to bickering. Bickering turned to fighting.  Fighting turned into shouting.  Shouting turned into anger. Anger turned into rage.  Rage turned into desparation.

You didn’t look both ways.  He didn’t check for pedestrians.

CRASH

“In an instance”

You fell out of my life.  He sped away.  And all I have is my memories and that turn of phrase.

Laughing through the sunsets while we sipped lemonade on your porch.  Your glass was a little sweeter because of your “special ingredient.”  I only know this because when you weren’t lookiong I took a sip of your lemonade.  I hastily finished my glass and was still thirsty.  It left me with one decision; drink your lemonade.  Little did I know your lemonade was spiked with Southern Comfort.

Accidentally drunk seven year olds are hilarious.  I sat in my chair and tried to feel the ground with my feet.  You walked out with snacks and motioned for me to have one.  Small cucumber sandwiches.  Mmhmmm my favorite.  I took a sandwich, got up from my seat, and began to prance, dance, and anse around the front yard.

A tree stump sits in your front yard.  The site of many posed pictures of your line of children and childrens children.  Years from now the tree stump will be removed by a disgrunteled nephew who did not want to deal with trying to have a clunky lawnmower curve around it.  For now the tree stump becomes my stage.

I place my feet in a ballet stance and begin to do pirouette’s and pointes.  My body tried to immitate the dancers I had seen on television.  You were watching Swan Lake as I faked my nap.  Instead my eyes tried to memorize every graceful move of the dancers on screen.  I asked my parents for ballet lessons, but they simple said just dance around the house.  There way of appeasing me because they couldn’t afford lessons.

Now that you’re gone.  I sip on Southern Comfort and Lemonade.  I feel the warmth of the concrete under my feet as I walked around your porch.  The goosebumps on my arms rise as I recall the way the cool breeze would get caught in your presence. I laugh at that accidentally drunk seven year old and I try to get that feeling back.  I laugh and I smile with you one more time.

Sitting in a dead pan meeting.  The air is stuffy and still.  The guest speaker’s voice sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher.

“Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah Wah”

Brochures and postcards are passed around.  My haze of boredom is struck by the colors and lines on the brochures.  The advertising mimics my favorite Mondrian paintings.  The bold lines outline squares of filled in by an olive green, bordered by grey boxes, and images of cities unknown.  My eyes trace the black lines as they outline white boxes, quiet silences fill my ears even though my supervisor is asking our guest speaker a question. 

Memory transforms my mind and I find myself back in Amsterdam standing before the original Mondrian print that squared me and held me in its grasp.  Blues. Reds. Whites. Yellows. and Black.  It was a simple canvas that caught my attention.  No pop culture references. No comic book themes. No dates and times.  Simple geometric shapes and lines.

The lines are crisp and clean, the opposite of how I feel.  My current state of confusion seems to be bogged down by a mild depression.  Attempts at positive thinking are lackluster.  Looking at the bright side feels trite.  Smiling my worries away looks grim. The colors feel like the flashes of emotion running through my mind.  Yellow equals the cowardice I feel about not confronting a friend about her narcisissm and foolishness.  When I really want to say “No I don’t give a damn about saving the world. Why don’t you shut the fuck up already?” I struggle with my thoughts and sit silently.  Red mirrors my anger at neighbor who consistently whines about life.  Incessantly barking on about how women don’t find him appealing or how his ex was a terrible shrew.  My thoughts scream “Women don’t know anything about you if you don’t talk to them.  And you both fucked up your relationship, why don’t you shut the fuck up already, no one gives a rats ass about it.”  Blue meaures my sorrow with myself.  Swimming in my own pity party of trivialities.  Looking at my piles of work, piles of books to read, piles of crafts to do, piles of photos to sift through, piles of empty journals to pen words of my own sanity in; my mind gently nudges me “Hey why don’t you get crackin’ on some of those projectsI”  To which I find every reason under the sun to not do anything “productive.”

The Mondrian canvas pierces my soul.  

. . .

No it doesn’t. That’s dumb. How could it really pierce anything? What a load of malarcky!

. . .

Thank you for coming by and speaking with us.  If we have any questions we’ll definitely come and see you.  

The meeting ends.  The postcard in my hand is littered with my own doodles.  Attempts at staying awake throughout the meeting.  I flip the it over to find the Mondrian-esque advertising facing me.  And I wander back into the fantasy as I step out of our conference room.

El Fin

Squirrel A) “Get off my tree?!”

Squirrel B) “Wha???? Your tree?!”

Squirrel A) “Yeah buddy, this is my tree!  Get off it!”

Squirrel B) “Well I’m not gonna leave, whatcha gonna do about it?!”

Squirrel A) “I’m gonna chew your fuckin face off!”

…

Squirrel B) “Ehh this tree sucks anyway. Go fuck yourself!”

To which Squirrel B jumps of said tree and finds shelter somewhere else.

This all takes place in high pitched squirrel tones and the conversation takes 15 seconds.  But it’s hauty, full of attitude, squirrel-tude if you will, and territorial.

The napping squirrel has since left.  Off to scavenge for sustinence.  Off to get into more squirrel squabbles.  Off for more squirrel adventures.  Off to start my squirrel shit.

That’s one tough squirrel.

The end.

Well I’m tired of waiting.  Sunshine and sunny days shouldn’t be left to slight names for high fructose corn syrup orange flavored beverages.  What’s going on world?  Are you leaving me for another?  Is there another bird fleeing this coo coo’s nest?

I can’t count enought words to become this quality story.  I can’t paint enough colors for the sky to be beautiful.  I can’t remember what fresh air smells like and it’s killing me.  Killing me softly like that damn Roberta Flack song.  The song which haunts me because Lauryn Hill decided to sing it so sweetly and inspire my pubscent generation.

It’s a crazy topsy turvy world.  Filled with incompetent drones that make more money than I can imagine and my laziness warps my drive.  

Ms. muse.  The tool you blessed me with isn’t helping much these days.  Reading has become a chore and it’s sister writing has become a nag.  I want to do both, but it’s stepbrothers day and night seep into my veins and take the reigns of my pschye.

Ms. muse laughs at my lamentable state.  

“Shake yourself out of this rut.”

She proclaims as she begins to strut

Out of my life as fabulously as she came to it.

“Shake?”

My shoulders move in an I don’t know swagger.

“Shake.”

…

To which the earth answered with a rumble and quake.

Smog alerts and water fountains remind me of the San Fernando Valley in the middle of the 1980s; where I wore short shorts, Hillcrest school tshirts with a notable mouse or pantless duck, and chowed down on cheddar popcorn.

San Fernando Valley in the middle of the 1980s fills me with memories of going to school wih kids in “the biz,” sitcom stars for classmates, movie producer fathers of friends, and plastic surger trophy wife mothers.

It’s really odd seeing your classmates on tv.  I once asked a friend, “Why doesn’t your brother Mike go to our school?”  To which he looked at me all confused.  ”My brother’s name is Andrew?”  

We paused.  Looked at each other with perplexed seven year old stares.  Then went back to painting shoeboxes that would later be turned into various buildings for our second grade “let’s build a city” project.

As I showed my dad my shoebox converted to a smoke stacked industrial factory, my friend showed his mother his intricately designed hospital.

I couldn’t help bu think to myself, “That isn’t Mrs. Seaver?”

My dad is one of the only dad’s in the room.  Almost everyone else has invited their mom’s to our open house.  This doesn’t really phase me.  He works five minutes away at a fruit company that makes excellent orange juice, while mom works 30 minutes away for a company that makes public restroom accessories like toilet seat cover, paper, paper towel holders. 

He makes me pose with my industrial factory and I strike a smile with my frilly pink dress and white mary janes.  

“What a pretty daughter you have!”  Corey’s mom says to my dad as snaps a picture.

“Corey take a picture with Irene.” Corey picks up his hospital and places it next to my factory.  What an unfortunate place for it to be.  Our little city would have lots of sick folks if this were a real town.  We both grimace toothy grins and wait for my dad’s camera to click.

Corey’s used to this because of his “biz” experience.  I”m used to this because dad has been carrying that Canon A-1 since I was born.  We pose, wait, and relax when we hear the familiar click.  

Shoulders relax we stare at our shoeboxes.  Corey’s building is neat, clean, and white.  My building is messy, blocky, and black.  The bell rings and it’s time for lunch.  We both drop our buildings and scatter for the door.  

“Bye Dad!”  

“Bye Mom!”

“Irene/Corey!”

Corey stops and trucks back to his mother for a kiss goodbye.  I stop short, turnaround and smile.

“Gotta go, there serving ravioli in the cafeteria! Bye Dad, love you!”

The faint sound of a shutter trailing behind me.