"Yeah, Sorry"

At the ripe young age of 17 was my first drink.  And by first drink, I mean the first time being drunk as hell.  It was the end of my sheltered existence, never being exposed to what’s really out in the world.  On that day, my 17th birthday, I was merely curious about the sensation.  To an impressionable, dumb teenager, there’s a mystique about underage drinking that can never be recaptured.  

Sitting in the back of a friend’s car on a frosty, December night, I didn’t care how it happened.  It wasn’t even supposed to happen.  For the first second of the first sip of the awful, cheap vodka, I just thought “oh okay this wasn’t so bad.”  Then, the actual taste kicked in and turned to “oh, that’s fucking disgusting.”  But you have to keep going because after a certain amount of time and a certain amount of drinks, it doesn’t matter.

I learned that drunk me is bitter and angry, not afraid to say the things that I thought.  There’s a surprise, that’s how it works for everyone else too.

But I guess I scarred everyone for life or something and people didn’t look at me the same anymore.  So for the rest of high school, I lived with the stigma of being the one that expressed my dislike of certain qualities of people directly to them.  Today, that’s not so weird but in high school, doing this is unholy blasphemy that you will be eternally cast out for.

Even with all the negative results, I still never truly captured the magic of being completely wasted for the first time.

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Urban Aura

There's something authentic about the street. Not stereotypically authentic in the way that you hear people say “the streets are real, man.” What happens on the streets are unique. Something different happens every single day; no day, no hour, no minute on the streets is the same.

The streets have a unique aura. The people you see, the smells you smell, the sound you hear, they are all unique to that second in that moment of time, like Walter Benjamin's “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.”

As I sit and observe for the third day in a row, I notice a similar man in a similar outfit cross the street. Maybe you can say that this is the same thing that happened yesterday or the day before. But if you pay attention to the little details, you'll notice that on this day, this man has an aura that unique to him.

Today his tie is green instead of the dark violet that it was yesterday.

Today he has to sit and wait until he is able to cross the street, having a close encounter with a car that just got a little too close.

Today, he just isn't the same. Nothing is the same. All we have to do is just look at things differently.

Look differently, think differently.

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Quality Locale

The first time I ever saw the beach, it was particularly striking. The dark and cold California sand that you couldn't walk normally in because it upset your balance, the way the sunset blanketed the horizon, the salty stench of the sandy breeze. The way that the waves crashed against the rocks and made distinct splashing noises.  The general consensus about this atmosphere is that it's majestic and beautiful.

It was terrible.

The wetness in the air, it was disgusting. Is this was they call “humidity” and how can I get out of this? All my life, I've never heard the end of the wonders of the beach. It's so fun, we'll have a great time! Wow!! The beach is the best!!!

Today, when people tell me that, all I can respond with is “I fucking hate the beach.”

I can vaguely understand the appeal for certain people. Maybe they enjoy the theoretical fun that the beach can offer. People go to the beach ready to enter the fun zone, but I am just not entirely sure where that fun comes from. I'd almost rather be in the savage environments from Heart of Darkness. At least the terror in that setting doesn't try to masquerade as a good time.


Now, living in Florida, not liking the beach is practically grounds for having your residency in this state revoked. So I'll just give in and go whenever asked. Then I step on a large shell and have a bleeding foot that hurts to walk on for a week. I'm thinking I'll take Africa from Heart of Darkness over this.

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The Smallest One

I was 14 years old when we moved to Florida and left behind the person that I was the closest to. He was a year older than me and I never heard the last of it. At that age, anything you can possibly brag about was fair game. Despite this, I still revered him as both a friend and as somebody who taught me a little about how life works - not in a cliché manner, but instead I learned the importance of the little things.



The little things are what I remember the most.


Little things like hiding out at his house every Wednesday afternoon for an hour while my parents thought I was involved in extracurricular activities at school.


Little things like the way I would stroll by his house every day dragging our tiny dog on a walk.


Little things like the day we climbed the tallest tree (which wasn't that big because it's the desert) and felt a sense of pride.


Our adventures were relatively modest and tame, but I remember them anyway because they taught me the importance of savoring every moment.


Today, the things that my brain remembers the most aren't grandiose details or major events in life. I have a clearer picture of the day that we sat outside a laser tag place than the day that I graduated from high school.



Now that we are separated, I remember the little things instead.



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Heat and Houses

The scorching heat is back again.  Here, it sticks around for most of the year.  When you walk on the sidewalk without shoes, the sidewalk leaves blisters on your feet.  The heat is unrelenting, and it's so dry that you don't even sweat.    At its worst, the desert takes no prisoners and is a force of destruction. But at its best, it can even be a home.


In the western part of the country, the landscape is different. Here, we see green. Green grass, green plants, green trees. There is no green there. There is only orange and brown, the colors of sand and rock.


The houses are an extension of this. They are like bricks, stacked on top of each other in a haphazardly fashion. To many, the rectangular houses are the first thing they notice about how “different” the west is. For me, it wasn't my first impression, but it was the one with the biggest impact.


It's something that defies logical explanation, but that is just the way it is. The thing that left the biggest impact on me wasn't the sweltering heat, or the landscape of the desert, or even the nostalgic memories of childhood. Instead, the thing that I remember most about living in the desert are the houses.


And I don't know why.

Works Cited

2007. Photograph. active rain, Albuquerque. Web. 24 Sep 2013. 
      <http://activerain.com/image_store/uploads/4/4/0/5/5/ar119926379955044.JPG>.