My balls and my word

If I were a good writer, I could describe the beautiful experiences of my life, & not just the horrible ones. I could describe them effectively, without the literary squeals of an eight-year-old, & without the apprehension of a seasoned woman who knows what comes next. I could take you there, where you would see, hear, feel, taste everything.

If I were a good writer, I could describe driving north on George Washington Parkway at 10 on a cool morning. Vivaldi proclaiming life, love, Spring out of the windows. I could adequately relate what the smooth drive makes me feel: the stark shade, the sun peeking through the trees, the smooth ride of my Oldsmobile as it hugs the curves like a man's hands caressing my shoulders, waist, hips. The way all other cars disappear from view, physically & mentally.

If I were a good writer, I could describe how beautiful the scenery is, even at 75mph. How my eyes never miss a detail, how my chest jumps playfully, lovingly at every flicker of light. How the trip handles itself, as all the turns, stretches, surprises are known already, instinctively. Everything comes natural, & at that moment everything, even me, is elegant. 

If I were a good writer, I could describe all of this, & make you feel the breeze, the tranquility, the movements of my vehicle & soul orchestrated by the music. No memories, no expectations, nothing except enchantment for a moment as long as the road. The dream ends abruptly at the end of the Parkway where the traffic spits out into civilization: the gritty, bustling, wicked Beltway.

If I were a good writer, the end wouldn't matter. In fact, it wouldn't even exist.

If I were a good writer, you'd be there in the car with me tomorrow morning sharing the experience.

If only I were a good writer ...

I've been watching the Godfather III today. I got the trilogy on DVD but haven't watched it yet, III is on television today. During this, I had a revelation of Biblical proportions. These two forces inside me, that lead me to either be a passionate, melodramatic racehorse or a calm, calculative businessman are not unlike Sonny & Michael.

I pride myself on never in my life having been like Connie the fucking snake or Fredo the fucking retard. There are many in the family that already populate these categories. Throughout my life I've mostly been like Sonny. I'm impulsive with a hell of a temper. I'm passionate & impratical. But I can be the life of the party & make curly hair.

I never was like Michael. I'm sure I had it in me, but I never felt the need to be calculating, pragmatic & intuitive. Michael observes, then acts. He has bursts of anger, but they do not last very long ('WHERE MY WIFE SLEEPS! Where my children play with their toys ..). It came out all of a sudden, without warning, without contemplation.

I had to be Michael when my mom died. I had to swallow everything but pride & steer the family into doing what I know my mother would do. I handled everything like a Godfather. I held family meetings, everything went smoothly, & when it didn't, I had someone else take care of it for me. It seems that when my mother left this world she left me with her gift. All the advice she ever gave me on how to handle things turned right into practice ('Never let anyone know what you're thinking').

Sonny died almost completely soon after that. What a wild quarter of a century, I must say. But then Sonny got murdered in broad daylight. The worst week of my entire life left me cold & beaten. & we all know that When Sonny dies, Michael takes over. Sonny made a last appearance sometime in September, then I went on a slow, painful road that led to Michael again. I was on a roll there, for a while.

But even Michael gets weak. Michael makes wrong moves like any other human ('Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in'). The world becomes a beautiful but dangerous display of golds & reds. & when that happens, Sonny takes over, or rather, Vinnie (which is really a cinematic reincarnation of Sonny as we all know, or should). Whatever Sonny/Vinnie has wanted to do for a long time, that's been laying around in the back of my mind, gets done. I fuck things up for myself. I get happy. I fall in love. But when I crumble, Michael takes over again. Only in me, Michael doesn't need to think too much, or rather, doesn't show any thinking. Sonny/Vinnie thinks a hell of a lot, always out loud & for the wrong people to hear.

Michael will show up any day now, I hope ...

I find myself wondering if they'll ever come head to head, & if they do, who will win. It's a sick affair between two ways of feeling that have every right to be there considering the soul they occupy. It's even more sick that I can sit here calmly writing about a struggle I have inside myself that could potentially lead to my complete downfall or complete takeover of the Universe.

No matter which one wins, though, I can guarantee dramatics, sharp clothing & beautiful lighting on the right occasions. I suppose I am a walking trilogy in the classical sense, really. Not the contemporary sense that has bastardised the meaning of the word, not unlike what they have done to 'diva' as well. But I'm not there ... yet.

Wait for iiiit ...

Sick again.

One time when I was a kid, I was rushed to the emergency room. Whatever was wrong with me I don't remember, maybe flu or stomach virus, but what I do remember is their discovery of the fact that I was extremely dehydrated (to this day I am very prone to dehydration). The nurse commenced to fill me full of holes on attempting to give me an IV. She tried my arm a few times, then claimed my veins were too weak. She then tried the back of my hand a few times as well, somehow took out three viles of blood, then said she had went through the vein so she would have to try again. It hurt being stabbed with the needle over & over, & I was crying.

Up until this point, I had never been afraid of needles. As soon as I could walk, I was strutting into the rooms on vaccination days, sitting down & saying, 'Hit me, sweetheart'. Proving my siblings to be mere peasants was more important than whatever some tiny needle could do to me. I didn't even need the lollipop. 'Give it to the big kids, honey, they need it more than I.' But ever since that day, I've been pretty apprehensive. I can't look. I rather not even think about it. I get nervous, people tell me it's alright, I become suspicious, look away, & it ends up being quick & painless. But that irrational fear didn't show up until this nurse fucked up royally.

My mother appeared out of nowhere (I'm not at all sure where she had gone) & demanded the nurse to stop. The nurse said that I was in dire need of an IV, & my mother told her that no one but a doctor would touch me. The nurse explained that it was the middle of the night & not many were around, but my mother knew the hospital very well & knew where they were, & demanded that the nurse call them. A doctor came in no time, & after reassurance from my mom that this lady was not like the evil lady at all, I said alright. Quick & painless.

I think of this every time I'm sick, like right now. I have this thing that comes every once in a while, but I have no clue what it is. It first happened Summer '06, then Summer '07, then Winter '08. Now it's back. It's a pain in my stomach that starts with discomfort all around my abdomen, even my back. Then eventually, I'll feel a stabbing pain in my stomach. When I first went to the emergency room in Sevilla, they misdiagnosed me, which I found out a year later at the pharmacy. I haven't had money to go to the hospital here, but I've found ways to stave off the worst of it. So here I sit, unable to sleep, wondering when the pain is going to go away.

I also think of this story whenever something outside of myself is giving me trouble. My mother had this knack of swooping in & saving the day, or demanding that someone else save the day. Either way, she would get it done. I miss that. I've needed her a lot lately, especially within the last two years. Sometimes she comes to me in dreams, but sometimes I have to think really hard about what she would do in the situation. I know she's with me & that makes me feel a lot better.

But sometimes I need more. Sometimes I just can't take it, whatever it is. Sometimes everything comes at once. Sometimes I have no fucking clue what to do to make my situation better. Sometimes I'm absolutely helpless. Sometimes I just sit & wait for my own Special Agent Seely Booth to swoop down & save me. I usually just end up chain-smoking until I get tired, then take a nap, & try to start all over again.

Some things I just can't solve by myself, & I'm usually by myself, which makes for a horrible situation. But my legs just keep on moving, attempting to strut again or just searching for a crossroads ...