you

I like things when I like you,
go ahead; laugh and slap
my shoulder and do all
of those actions that confirm
that I like things
when I hear you in them.

Others have made
my heart skip a beat or
caused self-conscious analyzation
developing a strategic heart warfare,
all those things predicated
upon a caveman's thirst.

A few I look forward to speaking to,
sharing moments like trading cards.
A handful I wouldn't mind
seeing again, frivolously typing their names
on search engines and social profile sites.

But it is with you, alone,
when I am me when
we are together and it is
you when I dream of what
the world can be if it wanted to.
It is you, however farfetched it seems,
that makes me enjoy my peripheral vision
a little more when I spin the globe
and point my finger,
hoping to stop at the future.

You are not born from fairytales,
nor are the singular hope that I assume most
hopeless romantics like to foist upon
the objects of their affection.
My hopes were planted on a plot
of land and grew. Now it has whittled
down into not wanting to die.

But it is you that keeps it grounded
in its base, and it is you who makes me like
waking up when I'm willing to wave the white flag.
We might not be meant to be, nor do
I feel fate catapulted us into our direction.
We are more than the sum of dreams
and intangible chemistry, more than
harmless pedestals that allow us to see others
from heights they have not yet earned.

I offer no heart-shaped cards, no declarative
statements, no 3-day rules, no calculated
acts for you to want me. I dream of things like
clocks saying "wait a minute" and offer no
such resolutions to that quandary. I can only
hope to see you again, with or without kids and
spouses, because you in my bed is not my
intended purpose or goal. You in
the air that I breathe is more than enough.

an excerpt of ice haven by daniel clowes

I know time even knows

I know time even knows
there's no time for depression.
Things to do,
plenty of things to do.

Creation was only six days,
only 142 hours; there was no
time to ponder its relevance
when you're refining the proper
shape and form
of a leopard's paw print.

That is reserved for the sabbath
in which you reflect on
a hard week's work.

Shake off the shakes,
ignore tumult or rather
face it head on. There is
no time for depression,

which undermines a
sense of accomplishment.
There so much to do,
so little time. Walk in
powerful strides like
confident brush strokes.

Leave a mark, instill
urgency, we're not getting
any younger. There is no time
for philosophy (unless you're
getting paid).

Initiative is a turn-on as
much as skin and hair,
a magnificent ingredient
to sex appeal.
Tick
tock. tickTock stop writing

Look at the flowers and people
joking or being serious, driving
motorcycles, going from here to there,
reacting to stimuli,
all too busy to stop.

Look at the drunkards and beggars,
taking breaks means losing their
livelihood, losing their buzz.

Look around, walk, jog,
powerwalk, love, wake up.

This is a ghost town,

busy people moving
and growing
and afraid if they slow down
then they will realize
that they're ghosts.

Pretty girls holding plastic cups

Pretty girls holding plastic cups,
foam tipping from the top.
Sliding through shoulders,
finding doors to close behind us.

Love lusts for validation and lust
loves holding lucky hands,
awkward gropes, a stupor one
can only find when one
sees blood floating in a syringe.

We've come to the conclusion
that we're not good at this at all.
Well let's not be not good together
anymore, contrary to how
we want to want.

Single-file line to the bathroom,
mirrors point out the obvious
and pep talks are disconcerting
like snake-oil salesmen that
target marks with precision.

Draining the lizard.

There are so many things to
talk about, but the ones we
care to discuss seem to be the ones
that topple the see-saw. They
are the ones that are the

cause of broken limbs. Everybody
dance. We're dancing, no rhythm
but the ones we keep in our heads.
No song but the footsteps mistaken
for missteps and the gradual

build-up to what can be mistaken
as what we are mistaking for
key moments in the context of
an evening that pretty much
is begging for deception.

As if nobility simply meant
taking one for the team
and valor was just doing
the right thing, defining deviancy
down and when ants fill holes into

sugar bowls and when
destiny is just another word
for hope, I will keep you in
mind when I keep in mind

that all I wanted was to
keep this see-saw steady
by not participating in this game.

smorgasbord for the fuckuvit (or second-rate pretentiousness)

Hummingbird by Raymond Carver

Suppose I say summer,
write the word “hummingbird,”
put in an envelope,
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much, I love you.

-

-

The Charm of 5:30 by David Berman

It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.

We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun,
the sky is blueberries and cream,
and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard
Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is..."

It's enough to be sitting here on my porch,
thinking about Kermit Roosevelt,
following the course of an ant,
or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone
to find out she is going to be there tonight

On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance
turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white
courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated
and random "okay"s ring through the backyards.

This morning I discovered the red tints in cola
when I held a glass of it up to the light
and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat
I was packing away for summer.

It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses
after a long drive and realize it's earlier
and lighter out than you had accounted for.

You know what I'm talking about,

and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in
the public spaces. You won't overhear anyone using the words
"dramaturgy" or "state inspection" today. We're too busy getting along.

It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are
in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost
sure is true, outside under the sun.

Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a
nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark.

There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a
placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan." His head turns slowly
as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against
her flushed cheek.

She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into
town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy.
When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before
moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics
beside her homemade altar to James Madison.

In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over
one night.

In fact I'll bet you something.

Somewhere in the future I am remembering today. I'll bet you
I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty,
my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers
of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench.

I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up
with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said

great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you,
and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts
and said, wonderful, how are you.
-

-
I still believe words are fun. Whether I’m writing email messages, letters, poems, essays, or stories, I like the sounds and the spellings. I like stringing words together to form sentences. I like using words as tools to say what I want to say. I like, too, that words have roots and histories and lives contained within them, and that they can be re-arranged and borrowed and re-invented. And that all of that magic can happen in silence, but for the sound of breathing, or somewhere perhaps, the distant churn of the surf.-Kimi Eisele
-
drunk again in a crackerbox room, dreaming of Shelley and youth, bearded, jobless bastard with a walletful of win tickets un-cashable as Shakespeare's bones. we all hate poems of pity or cries of the wailing poor -- a good man can climb any flag and salute prosperity (we're told) but how many good poets can you find at IBM or snoring under the sheets of a fifty-dollar whore? more good men have died for poetry than all your crooked battle-fields were worth; so if I fall drunk in a four-dollar room: you messed up your history -- let me dawdle in mine. -Charles Bukowski
-

-
You Don't Know What Love Is by Raymond Carver

(An Evening With Charles Bukowski)

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what love is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ass
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people who build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude bastard like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
Shit I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this
and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
Shit I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
then the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are dirty
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebucks five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what it's like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of shit
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except the one I told you about
the one I planted
We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window
-



-


-

-
I feel like I'm not smart enough to answer the questions I'm asked. -Bret Easton Ellis.
-

-

Untitled, Chapter Six

Clark opened the door. It was his parents.

"Hey Clark," Monica walked up to him and gave Clark a hug. "How ya doing?"

"Hey mom, hey dad."

The meal had not been cooked and Andre and Hannah were undoubtedly going to be fashionably late.

"You early are guys, the place is a mess."

"Oh, pish-posh," Ivan said. "The place is fine... a fine mess!"

Ivan laughed a laugh almost as if he were trying to keep it a secret.

"No, no Clark it's quite alright," said Monica. "As long as you keep the contraband hidden we're happy to be here."

"All joking aside," Ivan added, "We're glad you invited us. It's always a pleasure to see you."

"Thanks," Clark said.

"But if the food's shitty, we're storming out."

"Alright, Ivan that's enough," Monica said. "You'll have to excuse your father. He's preparing for that roast of Hank Montgomery for his 50th birthday."

"Sorry Clark," Ivan said, "I've been in roast mode all week."

Ivan and Monica helped themselves to a seat on the couch. Ivan had thick gray hair combed to the side. His face had a reddish ruddy complexion. It gave off an impression that if one pressed a finger against it, that spot would cave in and slowly rise back to form like an inflatable raft. Ivan had put on a little weight, most visibly around his belly. He wore a red sweater (one size too small) over a pinstriped pink collared shirt.

Monica was physically smaller but her presence matched up to Ivan's size. Ivan's sloped, hunchbacked posture was counteracted by her confident, stoic one. Ivan's white hair was complemented by Monica's full red hair, the tips softly brushing against her shoulders when she turned her head. Monica spoke with more confidence than Ivan, looking you straight in the eye.

For Clark, watching them interact together was a pleasant escape from whatever conflict, be it external or internal, floated around him (and them). It was like watching two jigsaw puzzle pieces find their match.

Carly and Elden went out from their room to greet the Henrys and watched TV alongside Clark's parents (a gossip entertainment news show) . They were all waiting for Hannah, Dre and Hannah's niece to arrive for dinner while Clark cooked in the kitchen. He courteously declined any offers for assistance.

After inviting his parents for dinner earlier this week, Clark had planned an elaborately prepared meal. Between then and now, however, the time needed for "elaborate" dwindled into time needed for "Chinese takeout". Clark tried anyways. He baked a ham, made stuffing (from a box), mashed potatoes (instant), creamed spinach (canned) and macaroni salad (sour cream-based)

Hannah and her niece made assorted cookies and brought them over for dinner. Ivan thought the cookies were magnificent. Everyone agreed.

Dinner was pleasant, an updating of everyone's life as well as arbitrary opinions of current events. Hannah's niece, a 13-year old girl who looked to Hannah and Dre, sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" which Hannah had been practicing with her for her junior high talent show.

At around 9:30, Dre left to drop off Hannah and her niece. One glass of wine later, Elden and Carly excused themselves to their room. Clark, Monica and Ivan moved to the living room to finish the Golden State Warriors game.

"So," Ivan said, breaking the ice, "work's good?"

"Yeah, not bad," Clark replied.

"It's funny, even though we work in the same building I barely see you. This is the most I've seen you since the fall started."

"At least you get to run into him," Monica said. "We know you're busy Clark, it's just nice to see you. Twice in one week is a lot."

"It's great to see you guys too," Clark said. "I hope dinner was okay."

"It was great," Ivan replied. "Everything was good. My favorite were the cookies."

"The ham was great," Monica said with a wink.

"Yeah, it's your recipe," Clark said.

"Well duhhhh," Monica joked. "Nana Ellie's secret recipe continues its generation-spanning success."

At the exact same moment, Baron Davis shot a 3-pointer that cut Portland's lead to four. Clark got out of his chair and pumped his fist.

"How are the Warriors doing this year," Ivan asked.

"It's still preseason," Clark answered. "That's when optimism is still around. Everyone's tied for first place."

"Do you remember us taking you to that one game," Monica asked.

"Oh yeah," Clark recalled. "I was 12 and we were actually good."

"We?"

"The Warriors dear," Ivan answered.

"Yeah," Clark continued. "The Warriors. We actually won that game."

"You wore your jersey," Monica said. "And I remember all of us booing but I don't remember why."

"Mullin fouled out on a phantom charge call," Clark said. "I remember like it was yesterday."

"Mullin was cute," Monica said. "I remember Mullin."

"They've been sucking lately, " Ivan said. "I haven't paid attention though, really."

"They still suck, I guess," Clark mumbled but with a hidden electricity. "It's just part of the deal when you root for a team like that."

"What do you mean," Ivan queried.

"Like, it's just part of the culture to be a Warriors fan. We haven't made the playoffs since '94 and the last time they won a world title I wasn't even born yet. It's like rooting for Wile E. Coyote."

"Wile E. never gets The Roadrunner, right?" Ivan asked. "You're talking about him right? Not some new band or new Marxist rebel?"

"Yeah, that's the coyote," Clark answered. "That's the guy. He comes up with these ideas and they seem plausible and realistic -- at least in the world of cartoons -- but either the Roadrunner is too good or we fuck it up because that's what we do. I mean, the guy can probably look for easier prey. I can move on to rooting for another team or choosing favorite players or even just watch basketball as a neutral party. But I don't and he doesn't. You go in knowing that the odds aren't necessarily with you, that the past is more of an indication of what will happen because let's face it, as much as we learn from the past it's not really a lack of imagination that hurts us but the execution.

So I come back every year to root for this godawful team and every year I remain optimistic and every stupid year I end up rolling my eyes halfway through the season. It's this blind hope that someday we can make it, and I will not be one of those bandwagon douches that come out of the woodwork, I will be there from the insufferable and intolerable days to see us finally get the Roadrunner and it will feel better than just latching on, because the suffering is what makes everything afterward satisfying."

The third quarter had started. Monica picked up her cup of coffee, her hand slightly jerking and shaky. It was not blatantly noticeable. It was a shake one would have after a hangover from heavy drinking. Clark pretended like he didn't notice, but he couldn't discard the image from his mind. He tried watching the game. All he saw was ten men in a rectangular stage throwing the ball around.

"So how's fine Gregory," Ivan asked. "He wasn't here."

"It's actually Gregorio," Clark answered. "He couldn't make it, it was his cousin's birthday."

"I told your mom about Greg at work," I van said. "He was very polite. You've got that in you too, Clark. This genetic politeness."

"Shit dad," Clark answered. "I'm sure you guys raised me to be, too."

"Thanks dear," Monica replied. "We tried. But your father's right about the politeness of the Filipinos. At least the ones we met and know."

"I think you've told me that before," Clark said. "That book you gave me, the one by Teodor Agoncillo about the History of the Philippines, he says the same thing. It's nice to hear, but there are nice Irish and Portugese and Sudanese people, right? I mean if cultures don't want to be pigeonholed with negative stereotypes, why should we characterize ethnicities with positive stereotypes? And Agoncillo says that they're polite to a fault, which is so weird because the history books don't usually preface their book of facts with sociological reportings and pigeonholing an entire culture. It's like people will become predisposed to that demeanor after being told that over and over again. Filipinos are lazy, Filipinos are kind-hearted but also take advantage of their people's kind-heartedness, etc. etc."

"I guess you're right," Ivan said. But why can't a compliment just be a compliment?"

"Sorry dad," Clark said. "Thing is, I got confronted by a not-so-polite Filipino guy last night because I was in a rush and thought I lost my wallet. I didn't lose any sleep over it, but are we supposed to praise him for defying a stereotype? He was just another punk human being to me."

"Well you know, not every pinoy is polite, you know that," Monica said. "But it's the general cutlure, the values of a certain group. The genes and hereditary traits and the environment those things were nurtured by. When someone says Filipinos are warm-hearted people I'm not saying this guy and that guy are, I'm saying the ones I've encountered are for the most part really nice and generous with what they have. I'm sorry if it sounds rude or is a generalization and we should be more sensitive."

"But yeah," Ivan said. "All Irish guys are drunks. So Clark where's your scotch at buddy?"

Monica rolled her eyes. Clark smiled, stood up and went to the cabinet. The vision of his mom's shaky hand still played on loop in his mind. The sight of her tremoring hand was like expecting company you wish had never made it. He didn't want to open that thought into his mind yet, he wasn't prepared. Instead he took a swig of scotch before pouring a glass for himself and his dad. It was more hospitable than asking if they got checked yet.

"I think you guys get my point," Clark said with glasses in hand. "No need to drag it out."

Monica and Ivan both nodded their heads in agreement.

"Plus," he continued. "Looks like they're making a run."

Clark pointed to the television. The Warriors were up by 3 in meaningless game.

"That game we watched over a decade ago felt like another lifetime," Ivan said. "You were still a mushroom head."

"Yeah and you guys had a glass of wine every night with our neighbors, Art and Vanna."

"What was the name of their son," Monica asked. "Oh yeah, David."

"Davey Daugherty," Clark confirmed.

Ivan and Monica both laughed.

"We'd hang out while you guys were talking," Clark said.

"We were afraid," Monica added. "It seems stupid now."

Ivan continued where she left off.

"You see Art and Vanna were worried that he was gay and I guess through ignorance we were frightened you'd be gay too because you hung out with him."

Clark laughed.

"Not that we would be let down Clark," Monica interrupted. "We'd help you become the best homosexual you could ever be."

"Thanks mom. For the record I'm not gay."

"We know," Ivan said. "This is place is too messy for a queer-eye or what have you."

Clark finished his scotch before his dad.

"Whatever happened to them anyways," Clark asked.

"We lost touch, unfortunately," Monica said. "When they moved it was like they suddenly became the past."

"It felt like yesterday," said Ivan. "But at the same time it felt like a lifetime ago. I wouldn't be surprised to see David Daugherty at the Castro."

Ivan let out and embarrassed laugh and continued.

"When you don't see old friends, they become that-- old friends. Characters in anecdotes."

"That's sad," mused Clark. "They're no longer real. They're just footnotes in your own personal history."

Clark imagined Juan Lopez today, trying to remember what it was like to have a son. He imagined his parents funeral, which enhanced this moment between all three of them so that they won't become forgotten ghosts, so that they will always be more than worm food. He imagined Sandra before she died, waiting for him and unaware of his marriage proposal. She was already a person he would talk about in the past tense. She was already folklore and mythology for those that met him but never knew her. If he was drunker he'd give his parents a hug and tell them he loved them. Instead, he told them about Greg's aunt and how he was thinking of going with them to the Philippines.

"That's wonderful," Monica exclaimed. "We could give you the address of that convent, Our Lady of The Angels of Mercy"

Ivan smiled a smile Clark forgot that he could pull off.

"Then," Ivan said. "You can hit up those girlie brothel places."

"Ivan! Enough of that talk please."

She slapped Ivan's shoulder.

"Sorry, mother. Clark's of age and he's single and they're willing. Augustin at work says it's an experience worth investing in."

Clark poured himself another glass. He looked at the carpet, paid attention to the stains and the dried-out patches.

"Maybe it's not logical for me to go, you know."

"What do you mean, Clark," Monica asked.

"I don't know," Clark continued. "Isn't wrong for me to go anytime soon? I mean the lease ends on this house in January and I can't possibly afford it. Carly and Elden (he said with a wink) will more likely need their privacy and their own place."

"If you need tickets and accomodations," Ivan interrupted, "We can help you out, Clark."

"See," Clark re-interrupted, "That's the think. I really appreciate that offer but I couldn't in my right mind accept it."

"Clark," Monica said. "We're your parents. As long as we're here and as much as we can, we'll help you."

"That's our job, son," added Ivan. "It's one we enjoy. It's the only reason I watched Baywatch, to figure out the father-son dynamic between Mitch and Hobie."

Monica rolled her eyes.

"Yeah," she said with sarcasm, "that explains the box of Kleenex next to you when you watched it and how you never watched your taped copies with me."

Ivan shrugged his shoulders.

"It tugs at my heartstrings," Ivan answered, "what can I say?"

Clark went to get another drink. He asked if they wanted another. His parents declined.

The chemistry between his parents were obvious, their repoire was like watching seasoned vaudeville stars; the way their facial expressions reacted to each other's rapid-fire responses, the way tame vulgarity played off with sincerity. It was as if they were each other's life force, giving and takingas much from each other equally. Whenever one inhaled, the other exhaled. He still couldn't accept their money. They've been giving him everything he's ever had, he thought.

Sitting back on the couch, the Warriors were down by a 2 with a little over a minute left. Clark was checking for symptoms. Maybe it was an aberration. Maybe his mind was tricking him. The game ended. The Warriors lost.

"You guys have done more than enough for me," Clark said.

"We can do more," answered Monica. "Don't concern yourself."

"Maybe the best action might be not to," Clark said. "For the last five months it's like people feel the need to help me or delicately walk around me. I think maybe if Sandra was still here and I brought up a solo trip to the Philippines then you guys would be polite and tell me what I'm thinking right now: money, responsibility, priority, growing up, maturing."

"Clark, as your father, I personally feel like you need to get away from here for a little while. I wish we can go with you but we can't right now."

"I understand that. I have money saved up. I love you guys and I know you know that. But please stop pitying me I can't take being some sort of charity case."

"That's not how we see it," Monica said. Her voice was softer than usual. "We just want to make sure our son's alright."

"I want to make sure you guys are alright too. I'm grown enough that you don' thave to treat my situation as a burden stacked upon the individual burdens you guys are facing."

Ivan's eyes welled up. He composed himself before responding.

"We don't want you to feel burdened, we don't see it's a burden. We are proud to call you son. It's normal for us to worry about you.

If you go with people that you now the country and care for your safety, then we'll be waiting for you when you get back. We have no problem helping you out in any circumstance, as long as we can."

"And not just with this trip," Monica interupted, "anything at all. It's our job, not yours, to worry."

"And my job is to be a responsible adult so you won't have to worry anymore," answered Clark. "I don't feel like I'm living up to my bargain."

Monica sat next to Clark and gave him a hug.

"Bullshit," she told him. "I think you'll realize this when you have kids of your own."

"You know," Clark said, "all I hear or ever heard has been about parents getting divorced, single parents, abusive parents, crackhead moms, deadbeat dads, alcoholics, anorexics, closeted dads, frigid moms, control freaks, you know all of that."

Ivan and Monica looked at each other, puzzled.

"So which one are we," asked Monica.

"You guys are, I guess, the adoptive parents? But beyond that, you are parents who have put too much faith in me or are too worried about rocking the boat. You are nicer than you need to be and when I say need to be, I mean that you are nice to me regardless of me living up to my end of the bargain when I know and you guys both know that this isn't what you expected from a son you adopted, to be this fucking aimless loafer."

"Holy shit, Clark," Monica interrupted. "You have no idea how proud we are of you, no matter how often we nagged you about school or voiced our concern about your future. You blessed us just as much, if not more, than we blessed you. We had a child, someone both of us planned to have, to raise right and to keep us grounded. Our world was different before you. Our concerns are normal, and we don't think you're a bad seed and we don't have any regrets at all."

"It's part of parenting," Ivan said. "Worrying is part of parenting, making sure our son is on the right track. But at the same time, we have to let you make your own decisions and we haven't thought twice about what you could've done or anything."

Although Clark was warmed by those words, he was aware that this was following good parenting protocol: re-assure worried child, hide any and all symptoms of Huntington's, etc. etc.

"Thanks guys. I know. I mean it's hard to show my appreciation and criticize at the same time. I feel like maybe everyone with their own parent-child conflicts have their built-in issues associated with that problem. Once we pinpoint them, then are we able to approach them in a diagnosable manner. Well, what's my excuse for being this meandering buffoon with no definitive plans or goals in a sea of people who at least had dreams and aspirations (whether or not they followed them)? My one goal is dead. Do you know how selfish I feel thinking 'oh, if my parents did this, this and this then maybe I'd be some prick entrepenuer or maybe I'd write a screenplay in my offtime or I'd be over Sandra."

Monica started crying, muffled and shaky. He leaned over to his mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek and held her hand.

"I mean, you guys did excellent. I was in little league, in martial arts classes, you gave me opportunities that other kids only dream of. You've given me freedom and structure that other kids would appreciate and cherish. I should be more driven, more successful, less feeling like something's missing, less feeling like maybe tyrannical parents would be better or dumbshit parents who didn't give a damn about me -- at least I'd have a reason to not give a fuck."

Ivan held Monica's hand and placed his other hand on Clark's knee.

"So you're looking at yourself and wondering why you are who you are and how we fit into that, right," Ivan asked.

"Yeah, I guess os."

"Well, we think the same thing," Ivan said. Sometimes, I think we should've tested for Huntington's. Sometimes I think maybe we should've gotten you a brother or sister but our budget was always so that we were able to give you everything."

Monica sat there, nodding. Ivan continued.

"I was 24 once. I remember it, that's when you were born, two years before we met you. I had just met your mother at a Huntington's support group in Sunnyvale."

Clark had heard this story before, but wanted to hear it again. Ivan never told stories as re-runs, he always added new wrinkles.

"We chatted a bit, me and your mother and I was nervous asking her out. I felt it was inappropriate but at the same time your grandfather was dying and I just stopped giving a damn about everything, so I said 'Let it ride'."

"And I said yes," Monica siad. "Because I was pretty much lowering my standards as it was."

She winked at Clark.

"The thing was," Ivan continued, "i was lost too. I'm not you, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to say that I can directly relate to your situation but I felt a way similar to yours. I mean it was a different time back then. You guys can download pornography at the drop of a dime. I had to go to a theater or rent a tape. But anyways, earlier that year I moved to LA to become an actor."

"Really," Clark asked.

"Bet you didn't know that," Ivan said. "I was three years removed from getting an accounting degree, but between graduating and working I'd do community theater when I had the time."

Clark recalled seeing an old tape of his dad doing Neil Simon's Chapter Two back in the day.

"After work usually," said Ivan. "My buddy Nicholas Marzouk...you remember Nicky right, Mon? He was at our wedding."

"The fat guy hitting on my sister right?"

"Yeah," Ivan said with a laugh. "Nicky moved to LA, pursued a career as a filmmaker, was in an episode of The Price is Right, won a toaster or something. His sister would tell me stories about how he hung out with Debra Winger or how he was backstage at a Chaka Khan show. You know, living the life."

"Is he still in the business," Clark asked.

"I wish I knew," said Ivan. "So yeah, me and Nick we're castmates at the Hayward Community Center's rendition of Oliver Twist and all of a sudden he got a SAG membership and was dating Van Halen's makeup artist and here I am, working a 9-to-5 job and picking girls up at bars (Ivan looked at Monica)...unsuccessfully.

So yeah, I'm just this gy that's daydreaming and sleepwalking. I finally have a acar, I was single, I've got money, a steady job and then BAM, my dad's dying of Huntington's, I get passed over a promotion from weasel-faced guy and suddenly I'm lost, unable to even see anything beyond my nose. So impulsively, I call Nicky and ask if I can stay at his place for awhile.I mean at this point in my life I just saw days as calendars turning their pages until the pages flip faster and faster, like in the movies. I decided to take control. I didn't tell your grandparents, didn't tell anyone. I quit my job and drove down there with just the money in my pocket and tunes on the radio."

"Knowing your tight jeans back then," Monica interrupted. "I'm sure those pockets probably required a Swiss Army knife to unload that pocket change."

"Oh yeah, laugh now sweetie. But those pants had you hypnotized. They were like a magic lamp and you couldn't help but want to rub it and see the genie."

"You know what," Clark interrupted, "let's stick to the story."

Monica and Ivan laughed.

"Yeah, okay," Ivan continued. "So I call up Nicky and tell him I just got in and he was very hospitable and gracious. He helped me get my headshot and audition tape and I even got a haircut I always wanted. I was set to be the next DeNiro, I believed that."

"What happened?"

"What happened was I got no callbacks, got extra work, no lines so no Screen Actors Guild, worked as a waiter with other hack dreamers and basically sat around drinking beer and watching Easy Rider every freaking night. I'd go to parties but really felt no drive. I thought about my dad and my mom and about how I couldn't face them without being this successful actor. I got a role on a TV show about people who work as furniture movers but it was never picked up.

But eventually I was running out of money and I went back north with my tail between my legs. My parents were disappointed of course, how I left without saying anything. Grandpa Carl was different when I arrived, he was sicker. He had lost his motor skills. But I don't regret a single second there. If I didn't do what I did and fiddle with Hollywood and its style I don't think I would have ever settled down with substance, with real life and with your mother.

It started out being fun and exciting, but when that last door closed shut in front of me from an audition, I felt like I was going in circles. I felt like I felt up north but with different scenery.

Those uninitiated into the real world or voluntarily avoid it are the ones that allow themselves to treat life like a theory instead of actually living life. It's not like you're running away. It's never just either stickin it out or running away from your problems. Decisions are never made when you make those decisions, they might be confirmed.. Things that happened before seem more precious or pivotal because you now have the context to decipher what it all meant.

So Clark, go to the Philippines. Get gonorrhea, they have medication now."

"Oh Jesus Ivan, we're back to this huh," Monica said while rolling her eyes. "Your motivational speaking career will do great -- 'Gonorrhea: A Hospital Visit You Won't Regret'... listen Clark, with or without Greg's relatives or if it's the Philippines or not, just go. Take a break. Napa Valley's good this weekend, but go somewhere where you can forget for a little while, re-energize yourself. Go to Vegas, go to Hawaii. The Philippines would be nice, but if you feel uncomfortable going there for any reason at all, just go somewhere else where you've never been."

"Be young," Ivan added, "be stupid, be happy."

Monica playfully slapped Ivan's wrist.

"Ivan, please shut the you-know-what up. Seriously Clark, you can be free and responsible at the same time. Mind your father, he's acting senile when it's I who has..."

She stopped takling, as if the world was on pause. If the TV wasn't on, then the three people in that room would've thought so. All three of them knew the ending to that sentence

It's I who has the disease.

"It's OK," Clark said. "It's amazing how it happened so late."

"We just found out two days ago," Monica said. "I was getting symptoms since last month and so we got tested. We didn't know how we should tell you. I'm sorry Clark."

"Don't be sorry mom," Clark said in a very rushed tone. "It happens. Don't treat me like a kid when it comes to this. I've been prepared since I was three years old."

Clark looked at his mom. He felt as if he was talking to a living ghost.

"We had to prepare ourselves too," Ivan said. "You just lost the love of your life, It's not easy to deal with that and then hear your mother's got Huntington's. We feel like we should treat this situation with kid's gloves, sorry Clark."

"You don't have to," Clark said.

"Yeah," Monica replied, "we don't have tobut you're being hard on yourself as it is and we don't want you to do that. We need you to know that we're okay. We raised a son we're not ashamed to love, who's blessed us with his presence. I'm just going to enjoy the time I have left with you, with your father, with each other."

"I can't go," Clark said. "I don't want to leave. Why are you pushing me to leave? Time is fucking emptying through a sieve as we speak. I have the rest of my life to take a break or evaluate my life from a distance. The last time I did that, I came home to a corpse, mom. I came home to a corpse, dad."

He could hear his voice rise, his face animate (sprinkled with torment and disappointment and sadness), the whine in his tone. For some reason, amongst other people, his fuse was not as short. With his parents, he was not as composed or polite. It was as if they were the only people that allowed him to act this way.

"Oh Clark," Monica said. "We'd love to see you anytime we can. Inevitably, I've always known that I was going to get checked and tested. The whole thing with Sandra, the convulsions, I couldn't be afraid anymore. My whole life, and I think I speak for your father too, who dodged the bullet, but my whole life we've lived like we were desperately trying to outrace death. So we got tested. We just had to prepare to tell the ones we love. We were already prepared for ourselves.

"I'll be okay. I know I will. I just hope and pray you will be."

They had a group hug. Clark held on tight. He felt like he was 8 years old. holding on, scared of leaving.

"If you don't go with Greg's relatives," Monica continued. "Just go anyways, you need it. You deserve it. When I'm unable to communicate with you or your father. Don't let that be the last memory. That's my one selfish request."

Clark held on tight to his parents. They loosened their grip before he did.

"Of course, mom."

The rest of the night, they talked about nothing important. At around midnight, his parents decided they should leave. He walked them to his car, watched their car leave until it was specks of light, went back to his house, took a swig of scotch, cried his eyes out and picked up The Anti-Failure Plan.

the thoughtfulness of forgetting to remember

they caved in
like little kids in love,
aroused
by the idea of defying logic.

holding hands;
which earlier helped him empty
a box
of cheap wine,

hands that -- in what
felt like another lifetime --
held on to each rosary bead
like toes on a tightrope.

kneeling, looking straight ahead
at imagery of a dead man--
smiling -- looming over them.

eyes closed, thinking of
what to say and what not say.
thinking of the things
they did and didn't
want to do.

it was casual,
his conversation.
talking in pretend,
feeling like it was real.

walking across an empty lot,
avoiding the lines
that denoted where cars
should be parked,

avoiding cracked pavement,
he looked up and
saw nothing but the collective hope
of people that didn't exist
if he didn't believe.

On The Threshold of Eternity

“Once again, you are to me more than a dealer in Corots, that through me you are directly involved in the creation of paintings that will appear calm even in the catastrophe.” -Vincent Van Gogh

p.s. what collective balderdash was intended to be is now over at runningcorrespondence.blogspot.com

this blog

now has tags! click on em if you wanna see more of what i'm specifically working on.

Untitled, Chapter Five

Clark had a feeling Greg would've eventually been privy to this tale. Sometimes one has an instinctual connection with someone they meet in which one wholeheartedly believes that this person will play an important role in their life. This wasn't it. It was just finding out his last name. He knew Greg would know such information about three minutes into their first conversation based on his last name being "Lopez".

He was a janitor at the office, a TNT (tago ng tago, the Filipino term used for hideaway illegal immigrants). Greg once worked at a cruise ship as a chef's assistant, seeing the world and what it had to offer -- especially their women. Then one day he watched the movie Titanic. He told Clark the movie changed his life. Dre would bust Greg's chops, telling him he was afraid the ship would hit an iceberg.

Now Greg had joined Dre, his roommates and Hannah in a small collective of people who knew what was up.

"I'm sorry, Clark," Greg said. "Sandra seemed like someone special, like true love."

"The kids died, too," Clark responded. "One of them was pinoy actually. Not that it matters, I don't know why I brought it up. Police reports said they were going 135 mph in a 40 mph zone. No drugs were involved. They were probably just partaking in normal teenage shit, you know, toying with the idea of immortality."

"If I were you I'd be so angry," Greg said. "I wouldn't make any excuse for those god damned motherfuckers."

"Of course I was mad. I was pissed. When the person you know with the strongest convictions, the purest belief in what it means to be someone who follows Jesus, someone who's focus was strictly doing what was good for everyone around them no matter how it affected them, who didn't treat faith like fanaticism but as an active desire to do the right thing. Well, when you know all that and the person dies with no rhyme or reason and for no purpose but the random whim of humanity, you're not just going to be mad at crazy drivers. You're going to be mad at everything."

"I'd grab my gat, Clark," Greg said. "I'd see them at the crossroads, nigga."

Clark laughed, Greg smiled.

"Thing is, man," Clark continued. "I met the kid's parents. They apologized to me and to Sandra's parents and his friend's parents. His name was AJ and he was going to NYU in the fall. He had a girlfriend. His death was just as tragic, just as random. You stop thinking about how someone was taken away from you, just you. You start thinking about how everyone lost something that day. Holding a grudge would've been the opposite of what Sandra would've wanted."

That sat silent in the car, staring at what was in front of them, an audience of gravestones. There was not a cloud in sight.

"It would've been such a nice day for a picnic," Clark said. "So you ready to meet Sandra?"

"Game on."

Standing in front of Sandra, the sound of cars quietly grumbled behind them. Greg turned around to the view of a procession.

"Do you ever think about your own funeral," Greg asked.

"Yeah, but when I do I try not to dwell on it."

I know what you mean, man. I always imagined dying like 2Pac or someone cool, I think. A death that is very important."

"Yeah, I think everyone doesn't want to die in vain, but wanting to die with purpose is the ultimate vanity. I mean we're not going to be there when people are mourning or not mourning."

"Uh huh," Greg responded. "I think I'd rather not die at all. Since that is not possible I imagine being immortal in some way. I'd rather forever be in someone's mind. Like the story of Adam and Eve. Adam is still alive because we know him. Everyone remembers Cain and Abel (pronouncing it A-bell) but no one remembers Adam's third child."

"I'd love to be their third child," Clark said. "If I believed they existed, of course. I'd love to hang out with my older brothers and I think I'd try to fix things before Cain killed Abel (pronouncing it A-bell out of politeness).

"You, ha," Greg answered. "I think I should leave you with Sandra. Get some alone time and stuff. I've never been to an American funeral. Maybe I will crash the party."

Without waiting for an answer, Greg gave Clark a hug and walked towards the procession which was two blocks away. Clark watched Greg leave, then sat indian style in front of Sandra's grave.

"Hey Sandra," he said. "That was Greg that I've been talking about. Gregario Lopez. Gregario like Gregario del H. Pilaar and Lopez like Juan Lopez, my fake dad. He was the guy I told you about, he watched Titanic and saw that scene were Leo Dicaprio sneaks into the rich section and is having dinner with Kathy Bates. He tells all those hoity-toity people in the bourgeouise table that he doesn't know what to expect but he wouldn't have it any other way. Crazy, Greg was inspired to do what he wanted in his heart because of that movie. Andre thinks he saw that boat hit that iceberg and didn't want to die like that.

"He likes to talk like a rapper sometimes but he's my hero. He snuck his way into America and lives with his aunt and uncle and cousins. You would love him. You'd be able to speak tagalog with him and talk about President Arroyo and ask him questions about how it is back there. I know he would love you too.

"We got super drunk last night last night so I'm a bit hungover."

He closed his eyes.

"Your parents were kind enough to to keep your cellphone in their plan so we can all hear your voice message still. I left you a message. I hope you got it. I stopped seeing my therapist, he wanted me on Paxil i think it was, but I'm not ready for that. I couldn't really tell him all that much because I just imagined him thinking about all those things he learned from school and diagnose me. Your therapist was probably better, Dr. Hutch. I haven't even told him that I miss you. I miss you and I'm moving on, I'm supposed to move on, but I can't even masturbate without feeling guilty. It's weird being in love with a dead person I feel like the biggest bitch alive. You'd probably say it's also safer for me to get stuck in something like this because I wouldn't have to move on.

"Right now I feel like this is the closest way I can be to God, talking to you. I wish I had found faith like you did and maybe I can just be a better person for the rest of my life and hopefully St. Peter will be very nice to me and let me see you again. I wish I can go to confession and say Hail Marys and just keep living. But I can't, belief for the sake of afterlife safety is not a concept I can grasp.

"I love you.

"Your parents are cool right now, I'm sure you've seen them. Your brother is cool too. He's coming here from San Deigo in Thanksgiving. He loved the Philippines, he said I should've went. He talked about going to this place where he walked in and saw a bunch of women in schoolgirl outfits and you can choose one to spend the night with. He was saying it was awesome.

"Oh before I forget, I should tell you Elden is finally proposing to Carly. He's still weirded out so he asked me if he should and I said 'hell yes' if that's what he wanted. We're going to be in Napa Valley this weekend. This weekend is the big day and I'm sure it won't be a stretch to that Carly will say yes.

"It was my birthday yesterday, I got work in a bit. I don't know why I did what I did last night. I came here like two weeks ago. I just wanted to share my birthday with you, but I should've went there earlier. I'm still adjusting, acclimating. I imagine this adjustment might even last til I'm 40 years old, going back home from your grave to an empty apartment and eating frozen dinners while watching a Real World marathon. I wonder where the Real World will be in 16 years, maybe Antarctica. And when I see a guy that's around 40 years old right now with that sort of loneliness stamped all over him, with that I-could've-face it makes me want to go up to them and tell them to wake up and that they can't waste their life. But when it comes to me, I'm finding so many excuses not to. For some reason, it's not even a remote consideration. And I have to change that.

"When people would say they'd fall apart if the other person would leave them, do you remember how we'd look at each other and roll our eyes? Kind of like how we understood how nice it was to feel that way but how it's not the entire truth because we used to emphasize how independent we were from each other while staying connected in a way that transcended words or urgent declarations. It felt like we were performing an experiment on the perfect relationship without ever really trying to. I mean, we both had our flaws and mistakes in that relationship but nothing we could talk out. We always found that balance between want and need and necessity and indulgences, we gave each other space but still made it known how important we were to each other.

"Well, I've allowed myself to fall apart without you. I can live without you, but I would never have chosen to, despite how indifferent I sometimes acted. Last night was the culmination of all of that. I'm sorry for this transgression. I owe it to myself and to you and my parents and everyone around me to keep living. I've still got something to lose, I'd like to thank you for helping me realize that."

Clark laughed to himself and watched a centipede being picked apart by a gaggle of fire ants. He thought about how he felt uncomfortable talking about himself to anyone. He even wanted to apologize to Sandra for just talking about himself. She would've told him to piss off.

"I'm dead, dude," she'd say.

The sky stayed blue, the birds still chirped as if singing for something beautiful, for something else. He told himself that the birds were made for this moment and suddenly the birds calling out to each other were in sync with how he felt.

"Alright, Sandra. I got work and everything. Thanks. I love you. I'll be better, promise."

Taking a turn into the freeway, Greg asked Clark what they do after funerals in America. Clark told him they ate Chinese buffet after Sandra's and then prayed for 40 days at Sandra's parents' place.

"She's filipina, so yeah that's good," Greg said. "In the Philippines, funerals are quite eventful. It's going to be weird not being there during All Saints Day."

"When is that, November?"

"November 1st," Greg replied. "Never really celebrated Halloween like you guys do. It'd be nice you know, my cousin says I'm too old to trick-or-treat but I've seen the movies with the Halloween parties. I want to have a beer in the kitchen with a girl dressed like a maid. I'll dress up like Cyclops in X-Men. Well I don't know what I'll be yet. What were you last year?"

"Oh I didn't dress up," Clark said. "I mean I just wore an afro wig and handed out candy. We watched scary movies."

"You're probably tired of Halloween, huh. I can't wait. We celebrated Halloween on the ship but we were working. I'm in America. I'm young and I want to have a keg of beer, but I think since I am so used to someone either getting laid or getting murdered at a Halloween party maybe a stupid part of my brain will think that is a chance. It'd be different than All Saint's I am sure."

"What'd you guys do during All Saint's," Clark asked. "Is it like another fiesta?"

"Kind of, I guess," Greg answered. "My family would take a trip to the cemetary and visit our grandfather We'd have a picnic. The whole cemetary is packed like a festival. Then we go to the cemetary of my mother's grandmother."

"Is it solemn?"

"What?"

"Is it a serious, mournful thing?"

"No, not really. We eat, we talk. It's just an obligation but it's an excuse to see family, you know. You should really visit the Philippines, man. My uncle and aunt are going there this Christmas. It's nothing like America but it's really laid-back and everyone is mostly chill."

"Are you going too?"

"I wish, I really do. But I'm illegal. I can't fuck with the government. But I really miss the hell out of it. There's no place like it. It's got it's negatives and things you might not be used to but it is accomodating, especially with your English."

"What do you mean, like I'll be treated differently?"

"No, I mean yes of course," Greg laughed as he said that. "You can fuck any bitch you want probably."

"Yeah," Clark said awkwardly. "I want to go. I think a change of pace would be great. My parents have always wanted to send me, yunno, to see my culture. They werent able to afford it."

"Just go with my relatives. They know who you are. They're glad I'm friends with you. When I first arrived they were scared I'd be fucking around. I played them Titanic again but they weren't sold. Telling them about you made them more relaxed. They want to meet you."

"Thanks Greg. I'll definitely look into it."

"You should. If you do go, I wish I could go with you."

Clark was semi-serious about going. He always wanted to go to the Philippines but it always seemed to fall into the inevitable list of wants such as becoming a neurologist or adding three inches more to his penis.

He had the engagement ring money, his parents were pushing 50 and still didn't have exposed symptoms. If they were to be diagnosed between two weeks out of the year would not conflict with his loyalty to take care of them. But he always wanted to go with them or Sandra. He didn't really know Greg's family, but they gave Greg a car after his surprise arrival so they couldn't be assholes.

At work, he talked about his fantasy football league with his co-workers, checked teh pictures Hannah took last night on his computer, overheard a co-worker listening toa book tape way too loudly and queitly farted while in an elevator with his boss. And he worked.

Towards the end of the day, a co-worker he hardly ever spoke to walked up to him to wish him a happy birthday. They talked about one minute a day, usually a polite greeting. He gave him a book as a present. It was called "The Anti-Failure Plan".

"Changed my life," his co-worker said.

"Thanks, dude," Clark told his co-worker. He didn't know his name.

On the way home, they went to a gas station. Clark was at the station's minimart to grab beef jerky, a bag of pretzels and a Dr. Pepper. Back in the car, he realized he forgot his wallet. He ran back into the minimart and rushed to the register, relieved to find his wallet. Walking out, he walked by a man whom he accidentally bumped into when sprinting to his wallet. The man was Filipino. He had a Filipino girl with him.

"Excuse me," the man said, with an accent as thick as Greg's. "Haven't you heard of of the words 'excuse me'?"

The man was agitated and confrontational. He had a rat-tail and a thin mustache, rail-thin and sporting a black jacket. His chubby girlfriend tried to diffuse the situation, apologizing to Clark while tugging at her man's jacket as a gesture of disapproval. Clark looked at the man straight in the eyes, apologized and hustled back to the car.

The walk to the car had Clark imagining a different scenario where he explained to the guy that he was sorry but hopefully he understood he thought he lost his wallet. He imagined the guy lunging at him and he using judo (a skill he didn't posess) to take him down.

In the car, he tried to justify why the guy was being a jerk. Maybe he had a bad day or he was rushing home to watch basketball or just wanted to pick a fight. He felt that by backing down it showed he had no backbone. He tried to dismiss even the thought of that non-event but it still lingered. He'd forget about surely when he woke up the next day at the latest. In the car, he was bitching to Greg about what an asshole that guy was.

At the house, he sat down with the book his co-worker gave him. Regarding a present after about year of just arbitrary greetings, Clark felt compelled to read a book he had no interest in. The Anti-Failure Plan was gaining momentum amongst the self-help book crowd. Clark read the back of the book.

The world is not rocket science. You are either a success or a failure. Dr. Milton Hines has used his vast knowledge in the field of psychoanalysis to gain insight into the psyches of successful people, both in the world around them and the soul inside them.

"Leave rocket science to the Rocket Scientists," says Dr. Hines. "And leave life ultimately to you."

Carly walked into the living room.

"You actually bought that," Carly asked.

"Why are you surprised," Clark asked. "Because it doesn't have pictures?"

"No, just because you once told me self-help books only help the publisher."

"Yeah I didn't buy," Clark said with a laugh. "Some dude at work gave it to me. I'll be polite and give it a shot."

"My mom read it," Carly said. "She gushes about it. She seems more optimistic, which is a good thing. She still smokes a pack of Reds a day though so it didn't completely help her."

"Maybe we'll have something to talk about aside from you future next time she visits," he said.

"Thank God," Carly said. "You guys can talk about stuff like if you act like a success then you will be a success or that anyone that feels like a bum is a bum."

"Groundbreaking stuff," Clark answered.

"Hey," Carla said with a smile. "Sometimes the most obvious advice can reach a person as opposed to the Clark Kent Henry philosophy of focusing on the peripherals of life. Simplicity can reach people. If Shel Silverstein was filed under Self Help would you meet him with the same resistance."

Clark nodded, understanding her point.

"Let's see then," he said. "I won't hold my breath thoough if this book can hang with The Giving Tree."

"Blasphemy," she mockingly exclaimed.

"You made the comparison, not me."

"I'm just saying," Carly responded. "Because it's not our thing doesn't mean it's not effective for others."

"I agree. Maybe it'll even be effective for me. At least in occupying time I'd spend watching ESPN Classic."

"Good luck with that, Clark."

She went to meet up with Elden for a late dinner. She asked Clark if he wanted anything from the Italian restaurant hey were going to. Clark politely declined. When she left he got started on the book.

Dr. Hines read like a man with a very deep, authoritative voice. The picture of him in the back sleeve was like a very serious Sears portrait. He wore a suit and tie and his hair was gelled to the side. He looked borderline sleazy, but attempted to look serious. Clark wondered if he had a very overwhelming prseence in person. If he was content on the inside and successful on teh outside, then Clark thought his own judgement of character was unfair. Clark imagined Hines confronted with the angry Filipino guy. He was sure Dr. Hines would've calmed the situation down and maybe they would share ice cream after, but a thought in his head also crept in that the good Doctor would do that tought guy thing where you put your hands up defensively, walk up to him while apologizing and when the pinoy kid least expected it he'd headbutt him inbetween the eyes. This made Clark laugh.

Barely reading the preface, he closd the book and called his parents to confirm if they were coming over for dinner tommorow night (they were) and proceeded to watch videos on the internet before getting back into the book. One page later, he fell asleep.

He had a dream that night. He was at the mall. That girl from the bar on his birthday was there, too. Her name was Holly, he remembered. They were both in line at a submarine sandwich shop, she in front of him. The line was long and they were at the back end. Clark tapped her on the shoulder.

"Is this were we met before," Clark asked.

"I don't think we met," Holly replied.

Everytime he stepped forward in line, the innocuous mall music was interrupted by a woman speaking over a PA system. She would speak in tagalog but he didn't understand what she was saying.

"Holly," he called out.

She turned around.

"I have to ask you," he continued. "Do you think I didn't feel guilty enough that night? Because I wanted to sleep with you."

She looked at him in the eyes and held his hand.

"You were drunk," she said. "Your sex drive isn't dead."

"Sometimes I feel everything is," he said.

The line moved forward. The woman spoke serenely again over the loudspeakers. The closer they got to the end of the line, the calmer the woman spoke.

"I can't tell if you were being nice or interested," he said. "You played with your hair, I was drunk, probably glossy-eyed. Why would you be interested?"

"It was a Tuesday night. We were both drunk. It was your birthday. You were able to hold a conversation, albeit blitzed out of your fucking mind. You were interesting."

The lights dimmed, like a slow dance on Homecoming Night.

"It just feels weird," Clark whispered without knowing why he did. "It's like when I'm making a decision it's not just that one specific decision that I'm making. It's that decision plus the path that potentially follows it."

"I don't quite follow you," Holly replied.

"Ok," he said. "When you look up front of you there's a menu. Do you know what you're going to get?"

"Yeah, the meatball sub."

"Yeah me too. What chips?"

"No chips."

"I'd like to have your willlpower. I need those stupid multi-grain chips. But I digress," he said with a laugh. "Obviously I don't stress the food order that much. A little bit, but not that much. But anyways, that decision is minor because I'm ordering a sandwich. You eat it and digest it, but it determines paths which might include getting the runs and missing parts of a TV show because you gotta take a dump or going out on a date and farting at critical point where she'll like me.

But for each decision there includes a series of events that involves different paths. With lust, there is a series of events that can involve sex, what happens after sex and on-and-on-and-on: Relationships, broken hearts, herpes, a baby, misread signals of commitment, etc. etc."

The register guy interrupted them. They were now in front of line.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm ready to take your order."

The lights started getting brighter. Holly ordered and then Clark ordered (changing his to a seafood salad sub).

Are you sure man," the guy asked.

He must have been 17. He was freckle-faced with blonde feathered hair.

"Yeah," Clark replied. "Seafood Salad sandwich."

The clerk chimed in.

"Maybe the problem is that you only know what you don't want," the guy said. "What it does is it shortens your options of what you want but you still don' t know what that is."

The lights were getting overwhelmingly bright now, as if someone was raising the tint on the remote control to the point that everything was fading to white.

"Maybe I'm holding your order against you," the guy continued. "We shouldn't do that. The truth is we're out of seafood salad."

Clark couldn't see anything but the an empty whiteness. He closed his eyes to ease the pain. It felt like he was blind. A hand grabbed his shoulder, made its way to his arm and down to his hand.

"Follow me," Holly said.

The woman in the PA said Clark's name. He stopped, Holly's hand insisted they went.

"Don't listen," she said. "Just follow me."

There didn't seem to be any panic in the mall.

"Watch your step," Holly said.

This time, she wasn't the only one who said it. The lady in the PA system also spoke the same words, in sync with with Holly. It wasn't as glaringly bright as before, but it was still white. Silhouettes were visibly parading in front of him.

"Escalator coming," both ladies said, in perfect stereo.

Clark felt for the conveyor hand-rests and slowly made his way onto an escalator descending. Downstairs, Holly's hand was tightly gripping his. There was an urgency in their steps. He could see in his distance a vertical rectangular shape that was presumably a door. As they inched closer to exiting, the PA speaker was crackling and buzzing, struggling to convey its message over the muszak. The lights slowly turned down to visible levels. The outside was a mere stone's throw away. Holly pulled a gun from out of nowhere and shot the locks. Clark kicked the door open and they rushed outside.

It was dark out. They were still holding hands. He put his arm around her. A bunny rabbit showed up in front of them. The stars were getting bigger, encapsulating the night sky into on blank canvas. The rabbit had fangs. Soon, more rabbits arrived. Holly had disappeared. He could her the PA speakers from outside the mall. They were playing Boyz II Men. The rabbits were ready to attack. He saw Holly's gun on the ground, picked it up and shot at each rabid bunny advancing. He kicked off the ones on top of him, shooting them as well. Some slipped through and managed to gnaw on his leg before kicking them away.

They were multiply at an accelerated rate, piling on him. He couldn't breath. The woman on the PA system squawking in the background.

"Don't blame yourself," she said. "Don't blame anyone. No one is destined, they just reach destinations."

He tried one last swing, a hammerfist with his right hand. A couple bunnies flew off. The rabbits were shearing his flesh. His body lay limp, accepting this destination.

Clark woke up, screaming and drenched in sweat. His lights were still on.

At least once a year since he was 18 he had a dream that ended with killer bunny rabbits attacking him. It never recurred enough for him to think much of it, so he didn't document any patterns of his life when they showed up.

Clark turned the lights off and turned the radio on to a classical music station. The alarm clock read 3:47 am. His eyes soon read the back of his eyelids. Another dream came to him. He was a guest of a talk show host named Tyrone McGregory-Day.

The alarm came on. He hit the snooze button. The bunny rabbits, Holly and the white-light sky were all but forgotten.

faith

confess
loveless

suggests
some pain. explains
correct
diagnosis
a semblance
that you're sane, can't complain.
weight-
like a storm
when walking home.
shapes,
not buildings, are
in front of your nose

drink and smoke, sleep and hope,
work and cope, breathe and float

days
are just squares that
fill a calendar

found time
behind

diversion's crimes;
i saw it flyin'.
tea time
on my dime
we'll stand in line
stand side by side.
saints-
just a team
that plays football.
fate,
a false excitement
to minutae.

look around, hear the sounds,
feel the ground, wait around

faith,
it doesn't need to
be magic

fingers crossed for a stranger

everyone in new hampshire
now knows maura murray,
wonder what she's doing
hope she's doing something.

dangerous territory

all bad is all i can say, but all good according to certain parts of my body.

the role gravity plays when boiling potatoes with a casual partner

I.

She poured enough salt
to taste like the sea
and acted like a host
of a show on TV.

He laid down his head
on the blue formica,
stared at her bottom
covered in lycra

and that was when all notions of form was lost

II.

(he
breathed in when
she
exhaled)

what do you think about gravity he asked

she checked on her lamb, checked on the potatoes, checked on the ingredients
he checked out the nape of her neck, he checked out that sliver of muscle that connected her lower jaw to her collarbone and loved how it moved adjacent to the mere swivel of her head

do you remember thriller that michael jackson song, she asked .

he nodded his head.

well when i was younger that music video scared the living daylights out of me: the zombies surrounding that girl, vincent price's cold, classy composed voice calculatedly timbred to elicit suspense, michael jackson's eyes -- especially michael's eyes. that part where he reassures his girl how everything's alright and then he turns around to smile with these terrible evil soulless eyes. they were freeze-framed, vincent price's cackle in the background. it creeped the hell out of me, i couldn't even hear that song when we went shopping at safeway without holding on tight to my mom. i would just think about how he had his arm comfortably around his girl but revealing to the world he was really a monster -- oh my god i just described my last three relationships.

they both laughed.

i watched again last night, anticipating that fear to come back. but all i got was this campy hokey music video. what was scary was michael's hair and nose and skin and how he would 25 years away from being 25,000 times weirder than that. if he spoke indian it would've been a bollywood horror film

he smiled,

then replied

yeah it makes me wonder how someone in today's world, like britney spears, can cope with the scrutiny of our open jaws and bewildered eyes (while thriving off us too) for the next 25 years. how irrelevant she'll feel when she might be irrelevant to people she would never meet or wouldn't even like standing in line with at the atm.

if that's how she'll be, she said, then she'd lack gravity. because thriller last week is what i think about gravity -- the relief in knowing what's worth it and what isn't even there. our mind is stronger than the weight an ant can carry; it recieves information and sends out orders accordingly. when it's hot, we sweat to balance the heat. when i touch this boiling pot (she pointed to the potatoes) without gloves the heat tells my brain to pull back before i get badly burned, when something scares me as a child it stores that memory, that feeling so it will elicit the response at the thought of it. but when reality arrives, after time, and you see that what frightened you was so long ago was just this goofy thing, then your brain officially writes over your memory with a new one.

gravity has no ETA or waiting period, it waits for you. it waits for you an apple to fall off its branch, it waits for my breasts to decide when it doesn't want to be as firm. and if you refuse to acknowledge it then it's your prerogative, but perception isn't gravity.

he smiled.

the potatoes were finally cooked mixed with dijon mustard celery sour cream worcestishire sauce roasted hazelnuts and orange juice. he sprinkled salt onto it grounded pepper on top of it. they agreed it tasted good though she was humble and said it was alright

is it pronounced, war-shester, he asked.

when i was a kid, i pronounced it woos-est-shire but i'm sure that's wrong.

III.

when they finished their food, they both let out a sigh.
when they were in bed, they both moaned and made ugly faces.
when they finished their session, they both let out a sigh

He picked himself up
got a roach from her desk
and watched her sleep soundly,
the rise and fall of her chest.

Grabbed himself a plate
and got off the stool,
took a walk outside,
sat at the complex's pool.

Lit the roach and saw his reflection
between the leaves in the chlorinated water.
Looked where the leaves came from up above,
looked at the branches that teetered and tottered.

Looked beyond the trees
and saw a bird --
behind was sky, was stars --
looked while it dropped a turd

if he looked harder
if he looked beyond,
he thought he'd
see infinity (because
infinity is where he'd want to be)

and in infinity, he'd say
(he rolled another j)

about gravity, i think you find it romantic.

not so much romance, she would say.
romance is a man fuckiung before dying for
what he believes in. gravity
is the resonance hours after
the orgasm, hours before his death.

that sounds romantic, he said.

because you're a romantic, she answered.

no i'm not, i'm just the fuck buddy.

he would smile saying that and she
would smile back. he had to think
before she smiled and he wondered
if she did the same thing, too.

he continued,

this is what i think about gravity, and
i don't disagree with what you think --
about gravity and me being a romantic.

we can both draw a dog,
yours might have spots, mine
will have long fingernails and
neither of us will be wrong.

we'll both have drawn four legs
and a nose that looks like a
bloated upside-down "W".
our idea of a dog is there,
just different interpolations.

she laughed, telling him her
dog's nose would a circle at the
tip of a long hotdoggish feature.
it'd be a weiner dog, she said.

well, maybe you'd be wrong, he
joked.

just kidding.

she shook her head,
then nodded it.
go on, she said.

true, he continued, it's
been established i'm a romantic,
a manic, a hopeless rote manic.

romance and love aren't
mutually exclusive. romance
and wanting to fuck aren't

diametrically opposed to
each other. romantics find
the seriousness of water boiling

romantics find the whimsy
layered underneath a
mother's funeral,

they find contentment extra-
ordinary in a monogamous
relationship, find the

lust enthralling in a casual
encounter. from what you said
you think gravity is --

and by the way i wish i came up
with an answer like yours --
gravity is the equilibrium

in keeping a romantic grounded,
and putting a romantic in all of us.
she interrupted, it attempts to at least.

yeah, attempt, i'm sorry.

i don't think i'm a romantic, my
heart's not on my sleeve, i see
water boiling and i think

100 degrees celsius, i see my
mom's funeral and all i could
think of was if i wasn't mourning

enough or too much out of respect
for my mom. the thing is, gravity
requires my sentimental side to

come out for balance, right. there
was a pregnant pause and she
answered; well it doesn't

require anything. it is just there,
inert. whatever floats up top was
you all along. (he choked on a toke,

his cough arrhythmic and isolated
from the area surrounding him)
when you asked me to buy a

sack of potatoes, he asked, was that
gravity? it wasn't part of our agreement
that we cooked for each other or do

boyfriend/girlfriend things. the way i
felt when you were talking about watching
Thriller when you were younger, was that

gravity? me listening to you, seeing your
depth go over me like shade on a hot
day. maybe gravity has allowed us

to get comfortable when all we looked
for was convenience, or maybe i'm the
only one who feels that way. what i'm

trying to say is that your idea of gravity
is broad, while mine is more specific. if
you asked a physicist about gravity

he would discuss the theory of relativity
or newton's theory of gravitation. if you
ask a high school student he'd give you

a textbook definition that shows its
responsibility of keeping the earth and
the planets around the sun. but mine

is more specific. when i'm not with you
this gravity feels like quicksand. gravity
is many things to many people, determined

by many things for many people. this is gravity
for me, determined by me. if i can look into
the future, which i can't, many paths

take us to where we shouldn't be and many
of the factors that existed before this evening,
before potatoes and before we discussed gravity,

foreshadowed that. our agreement is on
the verge of being null and void on account
of gravity. how do you feel about that that?

IV.

He stared at the stars.
It was a long time since he looked
carefully. He kept his eyes at earth's ceiling,
knowing he won't know when
he'd enjoy it again.

She came out, looking for him
(when he exhaled, she inhaled)
I wish I knew constellations, he said.
She looked up and smiled.
There's orion, she said. My favorite

You can see it because of those three
stars aligned, Orion's belt.

He squinted at the sky. I see
it, he said. They looked at it together.

about gravity, she said.
i think you find it romantic.

i want to be there from the beginning

i want to be there from the beginning.
i wouldn't care if it was big bang or
adam figuring out if being inside eve
was the greatest thing ever.
i wouldn't tell anyone that i was there.
i want to be part of the genesis of feeling.

i want to be there when a man baked bread
for the first time, i want to see his reaction
to the smell, the taste. i want to see how
he even thought of how yeast would rise
and how moist and soft bread would feel
on his tongue. i wouldn't even intrude,
i just want to see and smell a smell in front of
someone who never smelled that smell
and see how he'd respond to something
some people take for granted.

i want to be there when you decided
that the idea of feeling sad was an idea
that you would not be a part of.
i would like to hear your parents
listening to some guy playing piano
and the television being background
for everything else you considered background.
and as much as i would like to tell you that
everyone's emotion is important and worth
feeling, regardless of whether it makes you
want to ignore dinner for philip larkin,

i would stay quiet. i would not try to
deduce or figure out why you
acted in the way you acted.

i would sit there, watching the
lines on your face grow into
the person i met and felt

because i would never
time travel to change history,
or to figure out the psychology
of humanity. i would just like to see
something beautiful.

Dick Around by Sparks

Untitled, Chapter four

i've got two tentative titles now: "about awareness" and "the book of okay, alright"

Sandra Tay was Clark's third girlfriend but his first pinay girlfriend. He had previously dated a Chinese girl named Wanda (losing his virginity to her his sophomore year of high school) and a Persian woman called Sanazz (who was insufferable, had hairy arms and big-time daddy and insecurity issues -- otherwise the sex was firework-inducing).

While Clark obviously came from a more obvious lineage of Malaysian and pre-colonial Philippines (dark skin tone, 5'5", stocky build), Sandra was part of a much less defined heritage. Her skin was fairer, her eyes rounder, her surname Chinese.

Clark's parents had always nurtured an awareness of his culture. They had bought him books on the Katipunan, Jose Rizal, Philippine presidents and the like. He also had Filipino friends, but it wasn't until Sandra that he actively searched for that part of him in his own life.

After graduating, she started as a midwife at the local hospital and working an inconsistent schedule. They met at a grocery store. It was after midnight and Clark was a buying a last-minute Mother's Day card after second-guessing his initial purchase. He was changing from a sentimental card for a cheesier one ("It's Your Day! M- is for your Matronly strength, etc. etc.).

They both knew the register clerk, Harold. Harold was hitting on Sandra with the veracity of a great white shark. He sensed blood, Clark would later joke, because she was there to buy tampons.

It was Harold who introduced them in line. She was ahead of Clark, who had listened to Harold's tactless come-ons with guilty delight. Sandra was polite but obviously exhausted. Harold had asked Sandra to wait a bit so he can supply contact information for a party he was throwing next weekend. His invitation to Clark had been an afterthought.

On their way out, Sandra obliged to make small talk.

"So are you going to the party," she asked.

Clark shrugged his shoulders.

"I can't plan that far ahead right now," he answered. "We'll see. How about you?"

"My horoscope says I should accept any invitations that come unexpected."

"Oh, so I guess that means you're going."

"Nope," she replied. "I might go but I don't believe in horoscopes."

She winked at him. He smiled back.

He sat n his car, re-writing his Mother's Day card and then drove home.

Not a second of that evening crossed his mind until the night before the party. He was at a sandwich shop ordering a bowl of chili when he noticed Sandra sitting by herself. He wasn't sure if she would remember him so he didn't say hello but sat in a strategic location where she can see him just in case. She instantly recognized him. Clark reacted as if he didn't see her first. She invited him to take a seat and they started talking. Clark had to cut it short because he was just on lunch break, but there was neither a lull nor a forced word in those 15 minutes. The conversation wasn't earth-shatteringly deep but the chemistry was comfortable -- like an old favorite song you happened to catch on the radio.

Before he left, Sandra asked Clark if he was going to the party the next day.

"I don't know," he replied. "What does my horoscope say."

She laughed. They exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up at the sandwich shop after work and play it by ear. The next day, Clark brought Elden and Carly while Sandra's friends flaked on her. Carly had the same first year classes at college with Sandra so there was no awkward introduction and ice breaker hullabaloo.

They never went to the party. The topic of Sylvester Stallone was somehow brought up and they ended up ordering pizza and watching Cobra at Clark's place. Right before the big fight scene was coming on, Carly and Elden decided to go to bed and Sandra had dozed off. Clark decided to stop the movie to watch a Cheers rerun. Sandra woke up to Clark's laughter (Woody kissed Sam in a dark office) and laughed at Clark laughing.

That evening they talked about everything but with the casual airiness that usually accompanied talking about nothing. This talk continued for two weeks, with interruptions for work, school and sleep. They spoke to each other about anything and everything. They were entrusting each other with information that would be considered classified for all but their closest friends. They were never uncomfortable hearing those things and never felt vulnerable saying those things.

He told her about his parents' ailment and how he felt like he let them down by not becoming a neurosurgeon. Her reaction was when he realized how she never felt sorry for him, but rather an empathy that you could see radiate around her. When people would tell him that everything will be okay or to that he was lucky with what he had so far or told him that they was sorry, he felt like they were programmed as human beings to be polite -- a detached segment of their voice that subtly exposed that they had nothing to lose when saying that. Sandra would say the same thing, but he felt and knew she had an investment in his heart.

One month after watching Cobra, they were sitting on his couch watching Rocky 4. When they held hands, it was as if the entire space of the universe was confined in that living room: just Clark, Sandra, Drago and Rocky.

At this point in the story, Clark asked Greg for a cigarette. They were at a red light.

"I've never seen you smoke before, Clark."

"Well, yeah. I figure it's my birthday week so I might as well indulge."

Greg obliged, lighting another cigarette up.

Re-telling the story, Clark's feelings resurfaced at it's maximum. He was talking about the only person who knew how he imagined stranger's parents fucking and understanding why he did that.

Although they were old feelings, the still felt immediate. Although they were immediate, they were still old feelings and those feelings at the start of the relationship begat uglier later feelings in different stages of the relationship that were harder to stomach. It saddened him that he even thought they way he thought. He thought differently now, hindsight tends to do that. It couldn't change the fact that on the way to the cemetery, Clark knew he and Sandra would never be the same age again.

Six months into their relationship Clark graduated from State with a degree in Library Science. He also graduated with a debt that would probably force him to take extra janitorial duties at whatever library he would work at.

While Sandra bulleted her way to four straight years at school, working full time at a medical supply store, Clark wobbled through three schools and four majors in six years. Going from Neurology to Library Science felt like buying a Lotto ticket and settling for it to just be scratch paper. His parents never showed it, but there was some concern with his future and what he was going to do with it. Sandra by his side did eased them their worry.

Clark was not only aware of how his folks felt but silently agreed with them. He didn't feel inferior to Sandra, but all signs pointed to him being inferior and it became hard to stop listening. Clark understood that his lack of a professional career was an issue with Sandra's parents, a well meaning duo of pediatricians. To them, every day she was with Clark seemed like another day he was derailing her from Med school. She was studying for her MCATs after a year and a half moratorium from school.

On their one year anniversary, Sandra had been accepted to her dream school in the east coast. They had always supported each other to the point that Sandra had already decided to be a Neurosurgeon. He was ecstatic for her, but at the same time felt a sense of emptiness. What she offered him seemed more than what he could offer her. He felt guilty for feeling guilty.

His job was a shortage control analyst for the same company that employed his father -- a chain store that sold defective brand name clothing at a lowered price. It was his job to make sure all stores don't run out of things to sell. It was an entry level corporate position with potential for upward mobility, but it was not something he had envisioned for the rest of his life. They had discussed him moving with her to Washington, D.C.. The was not remotely considered a deterrent to that option. It was his parents and the idea of potentially abandoning them when the symptoms struck. Although testing for Huntington's had been available since 1983, both Monica and Ivan had never sought that option (though the idea had been in their minds since discovering the breakthrough). It wasn't so much finding out if they themselves were diagnosed, it was the fate of their partner that paralyzed them. Both of them had been through the tumult of watching a parent struggle and couldn't bear to know the future just to prepare with coping a second time around.

Sandra understood -- sometimes more than Clark really -- and even considered going to a school closer to him. It was an idea Clark blanched at simply because of the loftiness of the compromise. Since he couldn't meet her halfway, why should she budge one step at all?

With the looming idea of distance between them, the itching suspicion of being more dispensable hung like a hooked lure in front of him which begat his resentment. Why be dependent on someone else, he had asked himself. Relationships were theoretically ideal when two independent beings were able to share the same love and were cool when the time had come to move on. He made it a point not to take the relationship seriously, which triggered an unnerving feeling of loneliness, a feeling he was never aware of until she arrived to fill that reservoir.

If you were to ask Sandra, she had never seen it the way he had and Clark knew it. He wasn't perfect, but she saw something Clark didn't see in himself and it was this hindsight that had Clark apologizing to the ghosts.

On March 12, 2006 -- seven months before his 24th birthday -- was the date when every insecurity he held inside decided it couldn't stay fettered. Sitting indian style in front of each other, eating burritos, they had a staring contest. Behind her was their desktop computer, photos of their trip to Big Sur as their screen saver. To distract her, he spit guacamole into his hand. She retaliated with smearing sour cream on face like war point. After two minutes, they called a truce, promising to blink on the count of three. She blinked and he didn't. Surrounding the bed was scattered junk, a forest of clothes, fast food receptacles and papers. They cleaned it together every Sunday. They called it "Gardening Day".

"I cheated," Clark said.

"What do you mean," asked Sandra.

"When we both counted to three, I didn't blink. I'm sorry I was just making sure if you blinked too."

Sandra laughed, punching him on the shoulder.

"You kind of are a bitch, then," she said jokingly. "Your punishment can only be a bitch slap as stated in the rules and regulations of Staring Contest LLC."

"Bring it," Clark said, playing along.

Leaning forward, he anticipated the slap. Sandra opened her right fist, cocked back and slowly directed the palm of her hand towards Clark's face. Just before lightly tapping his face, Clark ducked and spun her around to push her against the bed. He got on top of her and started kissing Sandra. She looked away.

"Clark, I kind of don't feel good right now."

"What do you mean?"

"It's nothing to be alarmed about, babe."

Nothing to be alarmed about infers that something might alarm him, a pre-emptive strike from being alarmed. This worried Clark.

"What is it?"

"I've just been feeling off lately, you know. And I'm sorta late."

Clark rolled off of her and laid beside her.

"So you're feeling off like morning sickness and a nausea-sort-of-off?"

"I don't know, I don't think so. It might be in my head. Craving Mexican hella didn't help."

Clark laughed. The image of Sandra waking up and deciding to lust after Mexican dudes couldn't help but fill his mind.

"Why are you laughing," Sandra asked.

"It's juvenile, not worth talking about," Clark answered. "So I'm assuming you're like a week late, right?"

"You're a dumbass. But yeah a little over a week."

"Why am I a dumbass?"

"You're laughing because I said that I was craving Mexican you pervert. I know it."

They shared a laugh, Clark denying her accusation and saying it was about The Mexican starring Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts. It wasn't exactly a shining moment in his history of making shit up.

"So," Clark continued. "That's not too long, right. I don't know, but what do you think about this? Have you felt sick for all those days?"

She sighed.

"A couple days I've been sick. I'm thinking too many things, honestly. Seriously Clark, a lot has happened within the year and it's leading up to a whole lot happening this upcoming year. I'm afraid, excited and everything in between and I just think it's making my body feel like shit. I do know that if something is there," pointing to her stomach, "I know it was made out of love."

Clark inched closer to her on the bed.

"Listen," he answered. "If Nino or Josephine is closer than we imagine, you do know I support you and whatever you choose to do. But I don't want you to fuck up your life. You are on the path to great great things, babe. Staying here, derailing that plan -- I couldn't live with myself."

Sandra sat up.

"Why do you use those words, fuck up my life?"

"I'm sorry. You know what I mean. I didn't mean to use those words. C'mon though you're brilliant. I walk around and see people surrounding me with these I-could've-faces, looking at the world yearning for an alternate universe. They seek refuge in hoping that universe they think about at least exists somewhere. And I know how you are."

"How am I," Sandra curtly asked.

"You're great. Everything I admire about the world. Your empathy, warmth, your ability to see things in a positive light. They way you act like you're not the center of the universe. You take any hurdle and just jump. You just jump and leave everything else to divinity and your faith. At 23 years old, I want you to be the best you can be. People always tell kids when they're younger that you can be anything you want to be if you put your mind to it. You actually accomplished most of it and the dirty work didn't phase you at all. You have more to offer the world than what we are right now and where we're at.. I don't want to be a contributing factor to that I-could've-face, you know."

Clark instinctively put his arm around Sandra. She pulled away.

"Listen to yourself, Clark. Trust me, I know and share your concerns. You know me as much as I know you. Even though you don't outwardly share my faith, you still love life in a manner that God looks for. But you show it in a different way than others; you doubt. You love life by doubting and examining every possibility of it, you're the model Catholic -- guilty on a count of nothing in particular."

"I'm a model human then, not a model Catholic. And why are we talking about this? I was talking about us, about you."

"I think that's what I'm talking about, too."

"OK, it might seem like I'm ready to drive to an abortion clinic right now but I'll support whatever happens 100 percent."

"No," Sandra interrupted. "Let's first acknowledge that they baby isn't even certain for now. And you know what, those I-could've-faces you saw could just be a bad day or it just could very well be because they didn't go through with having a baby. No matter what personal goals they had, in their heart they felt a connection with something and they decided to destroy it. Life isn't about making the right decision. It's about reacting to whatever decision you make. Declaring every action as right or wrong misses the point of it, and you were the one that told me that."

There was a pregnant pause.

"You know I love you," Clark said.

"That's never been an issue," Sandra answered. "I love you too."

"Then you know why I feel the way I feel too," Clark responded.

"I need you with me right now, Clark. I've been telling you about Manila. My cousin's getting married there and I really want to go there to see her and I really want to introduce her to you. I want and need you with me in July, regardless of what's going on in my tummy. Don't be a martyr, please. Let's let whatever will happen happen. I've still got a lot of thinking to do, but I'm confident in what I want in Manila."

"If I can, then I will."

Clark was thinking dichotomously. The path they had chosen together was something he begrudgingly took, but it wasn't as if he didn't have a choice. He was the one who pushed her to stick with Washington, D.C. He was the one who wasn't going to move. If this pregnancy was the real deal, then what his irrational side hoped for would arrive. Sandra staying for a little while longer, the idea of marrying her. What he didn't like was that it would involve an innocent child whose father was not prepared for parenthood and the financial and emotional responsibility it entailed. A father who was unable to figure what to do with his kid when he was still figuring out what to do with himself. He would have a child with a mother who was sidetracked from making good money with something she was not only driven about but loved. The pursuit of self was no longer an option if they had a kid.

"Do you want me to get a pregnancy test," Clark asked.

"Yes, please. Let's go when you're ready."

"No, I'll go by myself. I need to absorb this all and think."

Clark went to the restroom. He didn't need to go. Pants down to his ankles, sitting on the porcelain oval, he scratched his balls and thought about masturbating to relieve stress. He thought maybe Juan Lopez did that when Alice told him she was pregnant with him. Instead, he pulled up his pants and made faces at himself in front of the mirror.

"How do you, how can you, how dare you want and not want at the same time," he asked himself.

Conjuring up a terrible British accent, he answered.

"Because love is a cherished burden. It's better to have something to lose than live by just merely existing... you moron."

He flushed his imaginary dump and left the bathroom.

"I'm sorry about that, Sandra. I love you."

"I love you too."

They kissed and he went to the grocery store.

At the market he grabbed Vitamin D milk, hot cocoa mix, instant coffee (for hot chocolate), chicken stock, carrots, celery (for chicken soup), a six-pack of domestic beer (for himself) and -- after much hesitation -- a pregnancy test (for the both of them).

On his way back, he thought about Manila. It wasn't the first time Sandra had brought it up. Her parents were not too keen on the idea of his going but they put on a polite if not cold facade. He insisted if he did go he'd pay. Although they still offered to buy him a ticket, the idea of reneging his claim would make him vomit.

The thing no one else knew was that he was saving up for an engagement ring before she was accepted to med school. He was unsure of whether or not to propose to her, not because he didn't want to marry her but because it might not be the right time anymore. He didn't want to believe he was doing it to make a last-ditch effort to hold onto her, he wanted to do it because he loved her. Clark felt he needed to establish himself more as an adult. He didn't want her to marry someone so bum-like.

With the pregnancy test in the backseat, he had a revelation. He didn't want her to marry any bum-like person but himself. Whatever would happen, there would be 100 percent commitment from him, even if he had to wait for her. The decision of having the baby if she was pregnant was out of his hands. Knowing her faith in Catholicism, if the test ended up positive she was sure to keep it.

Regardless of the result, he was finally positive of one thing, and that was Sandra Tay was the one he wanted to marry.

He wasn't necessarily prepared but he was willing to accept any responsibility given to him. His concern was always more about how it would have affected her life. His life was a continous cycle of eating, shitting, surviving and breathing. His passion was living. Some people immersed themselves in math or fashion. Although not financially viable, he lived for the nuance of a man eating risotto or the way your breath looks on a cold day. He could sit around and not be bored by anything. It wasn't a strength and it actually gave people the perception that he was aimless (his and Sandra's parents included). His desire of living could withstand whatever confronted him, but he couldn't think about just himself when he thought about what he wanted to do. His desire of just living could withstand whatever confronted him. Sandra's med school was not as flexible, neither was his parents potential for Huntington's. This lack of concrete passion was something she understood and defended to her parents when they told her that his 24-hour introspection on life was just a way to play hooky with responsibility. That he was relying on her future to stay afloat. And maybe they were right, he thought. But he couldn't find anything else he wanted to do but take a walk, and even better than to take a walk with Sandra.

Driving back home, this sort of revelatory thinking had him preparing. He had around $1,600 of engagement ring money and he was ready to buy a ring.

He prepared for all possible responses. He was confident that what they had built up was real, that his concerns over his fear of what he would become was overriden by knowing she loved him for what he was. He decided to tell her after making soup for her. He'd get on one knee without a ring. There was confidence in what he wanted, whether or not he would be a dad.

Through all his plans, he was not prepared for one thing; seeing a charred 1999 Honda Civic flipped over 20 feet from his driveway, a bevy of on-lookers surrounding the lawn, or an ambulance carrying the woman he was planning on marrying along with four teenagers errantly making a right turn while going 125 mph toward his mailbox (where Sandra was getting the mail).

Greg then parked the car.