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Please refer to my old-standby blog, sharoute.wordpress.com for all future blog postings.

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Thanks,

WJNM

Moving On

Words cannot describe how excited and happy I am about the election of Senator Barack Hussein Obama as President of The United States of America. Of course, many of my co-workers in my fairly conservative town labeled him a “socialist,” “Muslim,” et cetera, but my joy was only a bit dented when I spoke to my mother on the phone (she is in California at the moment) and my exuberence were met with the words, “I’m disgusted.”

I love my mother, and this is in no way an insult to her – but her stance against an Obama presidency was not rooted in his policies or running mates. In fact, over the course of the hour-conversation, she applauded his choice of running mate over the choice of McCain’s running mate. She expressed joy about his tax plan, his policies against the privitization of Social Security, and agreed to the fact that we need “something different” after the last eight years of Bush. She also agreed that she was no more scared of a terrorist attack with Obama as president than if McCain would have been elected – she agreed that any president will most likely be tested.

Her real fear was that we have just elected the Anti-Christ. Not kidding. She went on to tell me that he met “quite a bit” of the qualifications. Yes, I know and can even appreciate on a level that there are alot of weird things going on in this world – China will harvest the moon in 2012, both Nostradomus and the Mayans predicted the end of time in 2012, and we have a Pope that once wore a swastika in his youth. But trying to believe that Obama is the antichrist? I mean, seriously? Unfortunately, as I attempted to kindly advise my mother, this is not the conclusion of even more than five minutes of educated, intelligent research. This is the kind of ignorant propaganda that gets swivled around email, late-night radio conspiracy shows, and conservative, scare tactic-oriented Christians. These are the same people who believe that 9/11 was caused by gays; the same people who believe that someday California will fall off into the ocean.

I love my mother, and in that interest, let’s take this as a serious acqusation for a second – Obama is the antichrist.

Okay, let’s begin by examining what is said about the antichrist in the Book of Revelation:

….

Oh, that’s right, the Book of Revelation does not mention the word or phrase or idea of “antichrist.” What is however, mentioned, is several “beasts,” all described in animalistic form. The Bible does, however, feature the word “antichrist” in the first and second letters of John. I’m not going to type them out for you – go read your Bible and actually see for yourself what it says instead of relying on chain email from your “Christian” friends and relatives. What I will explain is that the four mentions of the antichrist in I and II John do not describe the characteristic of a particular person, but rather speaks in vague terms referring to a group of people – people who deny the existance or divinity of Christ. So basically, every Muslim, Jew, Athiest, Wiccan, Buddhist, etc is an “antichrist” if you want to get Biblical about it. Using a strictly Biblical (non-external) deffinition, movie producer David Geffen is an antichrist. Mohammed is an antichrist. Actor Ian McKellan is an antichrist. Secular Jew Albert Einstein is an antichrist. Former Israeli Prime Minister Arial Sharon is an antichrist. Trent Reznor, Marilyn Manson, Michael Eisner, Michael Ovitz, Jerry Seinfeld, President Abraham Lincoln (bisexual AND athiest!), Andrew Carnagie, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Darwin, Ayn Rand, Dave Matthews, Benjamin Franklin, Billy Joel, Gene Roddenberry, Helen Keller, Napolean Bonaparte, Adolf Hitler, Leo Tolstoy, and Frank Lloyd Wright are all antichrists.

Many emails have come and gone, and even my mother, stated variations to this line:

According to The Book of Revelations the anti-Christ is:

The anti-Christ will be a man, in his 40s, of MUSLIM descent, who will deceive the nations with persuasive language, and have a MASSIVE Christ-like appeal…. the prophecy says that people will flock to him and he will promise false hope and world peace, and when he is in power, will destroy everything. Is it OBAMA??

I STRONGLY URGE each one of you to repost this as many times as you can! Each opportunity that you have to send it to a friend or media outlet… do it!

If you think I am crazy… I’m sorry but I refuse to take a chance on the “unknown”

Well besides the fact that there is no “Revelations” in The Bible, it is “Revelation,” the simple fact is … nowhere in The Bible does it give such a laundry-list example of what the “antichrist” will be. A man? In his 40′s? Of Muslim descent? My claims here are not based on hyperbole. Before you feel the need to debate me on this, I first request you to look at your Bible and find this antichrist description ANYWHERE in it. You will not. Just as nowhere in the Bible is marriage defined as “one man, one woman,” just as nowhere in the Bible is sex before marriage prohibited, just as nowhere in the Bible does it say “spare the rod, spoil the child,” nowhere in the Bible does it say that the antichrist will be a man, in his 40′s, of Muslim descent.

Besides – before you go looking for this in the Bible – take note that the Bible was completed long before the creation of the Muslim people. So before you tell me that you’re afraid of the antichrist being Obama and use his Muslim descent in the argument … just realize that hey, it doesn’t say that. In fact, it’s IMPOSSIBLE for the Bible to claim that. In addition, what is the big deal if he IS Muslim? He’s not, but what if he was? Is that a problem? Last I checked we have freedom of religion, and it is okay to be President AND Muslim. Our ancestors escaped religious persecution in England … the ironic part now is that discussing religion in personal politics is HUGE taboo across the pond now. In that way, we have become what we fled to escape.

So where does this description of the antichrist being a “man, in his 40′s, of Muslim descent” come from? Well, the Book of Daniel doesn’t describe an antichrist, but it does describe someone who will promise “peace to Israel.” This was taken literal until Israel’s destruction. Then, it was taken figurative since there was no Israel. It was taken even more figurative once the Holocaust started, and ended, thinking the term “Israel” merely symbolized “the Jews.” Then it was taken extremely literal upon Israel’s resurgance. Now it’s taken half-and-half since no one is really sure what it means. While the Bible never states that the antichrist will be Muslim (Muslim didn’t exist, remember?) it does somewhat, kind of where a “lawless man” would come from (“lawless man” is not the same as “antichrist,” I don’t care what concordance you use).

See, the “lawless man” who brings peace, then destruction, to Israel (Israel, not the whole word mind you), would come from the “land of the North” and be a “king of the north.” The “north” that Daniel refers to is a region that SOME scholars have suggested is the same “north” that Jeremiah refers to … which is the Assyrian Empire, modern-day Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Israel, Palastine, Lebanon, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt. Us Americans have come to mean this also as a “man from the east” (since this region is “east” to us, not “north”, yet another example of freedom of interrpretation), and since many of those countries (including Israel) have a huge Muslim population … well there you go. And what about the antichrist being a man? In his 40′s? Well since when is someone important not described as a man? And in his 40′s? That came from left field.

So how does this add up against Obama? Well my mom claimed, I quote, that “he wasn’t even born in this country, he’s not a real citizen.” I countered he was born in Hawaii. My mom said he was born in Kenya. Sorry. Barack was born August 4th, 1961, at the Kapi’olani Medical Center in Honolulu, Hawaii. He was born to a black man from Kenya, and a white woman born in Witchita, Kansas. He did visit Indonesia at one point before living in Los Angeles. Indonesia is a highly-Muslim country, and he was photographed wearing a turban. This does not make him Muslim. I spent some time in Israel after living in Los Angeles, and there are several photographs of me at holy sites in Jerusalem wearing a yarmulke. This does not make me a Jew. In my house I have a New Testament in English, Hebrew, and Greek, a Book of Mormon, a Catholic Bible, a Torah, A Book of Secrets (Wiccan), a Quaran, The Athiest Manifesto, The Secret, and several books representing over twenty religions and cults. This not make me a Christian, a Jew, a Mormon, a Catholic, a Jew, a Wiccan, a Muslim, an Athiest, a New-Ager, or a member of the Bahai World Faith. Reading Deepak Choprah does not make me a Buddhist any more than reading Robert H. Schuller makes me a Dutch Reformed Positive Thinker. It’d be wrong and irresponsible to apply such logic to Obama, or even your next door neighbor.

If you want to discuss someone who wasn’t born in this country – John McCain was born on a naval station. In the Panama Canal Zone.

Let me be clear here: If you don’t support Obama because you disagree with his policies, you don’t think he’s qualified to be President, you don’t support what he says in his speeches … I applaud you! You are disagreeing with a canidate for ACTUAL reasons … that is YOUR right as an American, and I fully support your decision and respect you for it. I am not one of those people who have to agree with you to respect you and converse intelligently with you. However, if you didn’t vote for Obama out of fear, because you believed he was a Muslim, the antichrist, or whatever, shame on you. You should not be allowed to have a voice. Instead of intelligent research, you have contributed to the fear and bigotry that has held back this nation. Are you prejudice against Muslims? Are you afraid of a possible Muslim? Do you watch attack ads from the opposition and put more stock in those and chain emails than you do thoughtful research? Are you racist? Intolerant? Those are questions that should be asked.

On a lighter note, let us round out the list of people who have been rumored to be the antichrist because they fit various “descriptions” to a tee:

Roman Emperor Nero

The Pope (almost every one)

Charlemenge

Franklin Roosevelt

Adolf Hitler

Joseph Stalin

John F. Kennedy

Henry Kissinger

Ronald Wilson Reagan (six letters in all three names!)

Yassir Arafat

William Jefferson Clinton

Sam Donaldson

Barney the Dinosaur

Bill Gates

Jacques Chriac

In short, if you’re an evil mastermind who murders thousands and thousands of people like Hitler and Nero, you’re the antichrist! If you’re a religious leader in charge of one of the largest religions in the world, you’re the antichrist! If you’re financially stabler than a medium-sized country and “self-made,” you’re the antichrist! If you’re a well-spoken, charismatic, well-liked world leader, you’re the antichrist!

And, finally, if Obama is the antichrist, if he REALLY IS the one who will conspire with the Chinese, the Mayans, Nostradomus, the Pope, Israel, and Waldo to usher in the end of times, then, well … there’s nothing what we could have done to stop this. If you believe in prophecy, you must also believe it must be fulfilled … and not act shocked and suprised and push against when it “is.” Hell, all you Christians should be happy for the ensuing rapture that is sure to happen the moment that Obama is sworn in!

If Obama is the antichrist, he was going to get to a position of power soon enough, with or without his help. In the great words of one of the world’s great black leaders, “What has happened, happened. It could not have happened any other way.”

Elections

It is a little past 1am on Tuesday morning, November 4th, 2008. In less than 18 hours we should know the results of one of the most anticipated presidential elections of recent time. The youth of America was supposed to get out and “rock the vote” during the 2004 presidential campaign. They didn’t show. However, I believe South Park got it right about that election year when they parodied the George W. Bush vs. John Kerry elections in an episode where students had to vote between a Giant Douche or a Turd Sandwich.

However, this year, we don’t have the Giant Douche eligable for re-hire, and the Turd Sandwich – well Kerry has remained relatively low-key in the Senate, having only slightly made headlines twice – once in January of 08 to endorse Sen. Obama, and the second a few months later when his helicopter (also carrying Sen. Biden and Sen. Hagel) had to make an emegency landing in Afghanistan.

Early on in the presidential race, when everyone and their mother was trying to make a bid for their party’s nomination (including California Gov. Schwenegger, who thankfully, is not eligable since he was not born in this country), nearly everyone in the country thought that the November election would come down to a hard-fought race between former NYC mayor Rudy Gulliani and former First Lady Sen. Clinton, all while we would be continually amused with home-made “Ron Paul Revolution” signs tied up near our local chain-link fences.

At that point in time, even though I am a registered Democrat, I thought my vote would go for Gulliani. In my ignorance, I was hoping that this big city-dwelling activist who had single-handedly turned one of the most dangerous cities in America into one of the safest, and whom had also succecced President George W. Bush in leading our country after unprecedented terrorist attacks, would come from a fiscally conservative but socially liberal stance. Not a chance. To hear his first couple interviews and debates was astonishing. The leader of one of the most progressive and cosmopolitan cities in the world reverted to someone who acted like they pounded beers every night in a workhorse bar whilst blasting Toby Keith and denouncing fagots. It was somewhat akin to watching my Aunt Sharon transform from a proud Orange County, California citizen to a Southern-twang speaking Bible thumper almost the minute she moved to South Carolina.

Then I began to look at Ron Paul. His ideas seemed interesting, and while I did not get behind him fully, I made the mental note to follow him closely. I was excited and honored when in mid-2007 I had secured a freelance writing contract under Mr. Paul to ghostwrite a collection of essays and stances and notes on his campaign that would be released the following year. Working closely with his office, and occassionally the man himself, I wrote the first three chapters. Just before turning these three chapters in for review, I received a phone call from his office stating that they had “done some vetting” on me and through my blog, Sharoute, learned I was a homosexual. I was bluntly told this was not acceptable because if it came out that I was his ghostwriter, my affiliation with him could do political harm. I was told “not to take it personally, however.” That’s some “revolution.” I was asked to send those chapters in even still, for a greatly reduced percentage of my pay (it would not have even pro-rated three chapters worth of work). I refused. The book was released in April 2008 as “The Revolution: A Manifesto,” and Paul had widely discussed how hard he worked on the book and how much raw emotion went into the work. In September 2008, an independent investigation by The New York Times discovered the book was “almost completely” written by ghostwriter Thomas Woods, a gentleman surrounded in controversy for his overtly-vocal criticism of Vatican II and Pope John Paul II, as he is a strong proponent of traditional Catholicism. This troubled the offices of Ron Paul, since Paul is a devout Catholic and proponent of Vatican II, even though his children were all baptized Episcipalian. Paul has since tried to distance himself from Woods and goes to great lengths to keep their connection from being brought up. But, at least he likes the vi-jay-jay. We all know that most conversative Christian Republicans can overlook religious values even amongst their own to some extend, but even homosexuality is still the black sheep of the land (that, and I guess, casting circles and using black mirrors).

So with Ron Paul out of the picture in my mind, I began to focus on Rudy and Hillary. It wasn’t along before Rudy went plop in the water – and John McCain began competing alongside Mitt on the Republican side, and Hillary was strong on the Democratic side. But – what the hell? – who was this black dude from Illinois coming out of nowhere? Realizing that the Republicans – as much as the last eight years have both blown and sucked – had a chance of winning, I was very glad to see Sen. McCain beat out Mitt on the Republican side. But I grew to love my Hillary Clinton over Barack Obama. My initial dislike for Obama wasn’t at all dislike – unlike many Americans, I did not care that he was black, might be Muslim, or that his middle name was “Hussein.” I just liked Hillary because I have always admired her and Bill … and the idea of having Bill Clinton back in The White House in some form just made me giddy. He was, I believe, a strong president who knew how to lead, charm, and network – but again, many Christian Republicans pointed out his sexual indiscretions. Who the fuck cares? We’ve had eight years of George W – and while there has been no scandels of sex – our country is in the worst shitter it’s been in since - well there hasn’t been a worst time that combined fiscal instability with global community hatred. If the worst thing that Bill Clinton did was get a blow job from the intern – seriously, I’ll BUY him the prostitute. Just do what you do best when you’re all done buddy!

But alas – Hillary did not make it. I began to study Obama more. I’m not going to go into all of the strengths and weaknesses of McCain and Obama – there have been far better sites with far better writers than I who do just that. I also studied McCain. See, even though I am a Democrat, I am NOT one of those ignorate, blind, sheepish Americans who vote their party 100% of the time. So whilst I was familierzing myself with Obama, I did the same for McCain. And in all honesty, McCain came VERY VERY close to having my vote and my support. I would see him on various talk shows and he was confident, witty, intelligent, engaging. He knew what the fuck he was doing. But then he began to feel threatened with Obama gaining in popularity, and his own party’s overall ratings began to dwindle. Hell, McCain seemed like even HE wanted to move to Canada when George W. Bush endorsed him. But when he got desperate, he got negative. The hyperbole came out. He got angry, visibly frustrated. Visible uptight and angry. He began the negative attacks and instead of appealing to the logic of the educated, he began appealing to the logic of the uneducated, and tried to scare us. Worst of all he STOPPED talking about what he wanted to do with our country as president. He replaced that with gross negative hyperbole on how untrusting and wrong Obama is. Fuck, I’m not watching you so I can learn about the bad things or scary things about your opponent. I’m watching to learn about you. He couldn’t grasp that concept. And then, he did another horrible and vile thing. He wanted to steal the female vote that Hillary had gained in her run. He thought that having a female VP on the ticket would be enough to undermine Barack. He insulted women everywhere. He thought they were ALL behind her JUST because she was female. No, sir. The females were behind Hillary because she was qualified, intelligent, respected, educated, eloquent, charming, and took stances that they believed in. Not because she, too, had breasts. So McCain selects for his VP a woman who is the exact opposite of Hillary – underqualified (sorry, you’re not going to win on this argument), unintelligent, unrespected, educated but with hardly any grasp on how to apply that to her daily life, stumbly in speeches, insecure, and changed her stances to blend in.

Two things began to worry me about McCain, and these are the two things that kept me, and probably hundreds of thousands of others, for voting for this man: 1) If he cannot control his anger in something as routine as debates, and rely on logic and not emotion on his campaign, what the fuck is he going to do when face-to-face with leaders he disagrees with or a critically-dangerous global issue that he is too emotional on, and 2) God forbid if something happens to the man, but President Palin? Think all of the positive things you want to about her … but she can’t even name a newspaper she reads or admit when a conflict of interest arises, do we really need her in front of The United Nations? 

::Palin waves to Russia from the U.N. platform::

“Hey, there you are! It’s been a few days, how do you go, Joe!”

Real American?

I was born in Orange County, California. But I spent several years in Gilbert, Arizona, once the Alfalfa Capitol of the World.

I was once a youth pastoral intern for a large Christian church. But I’ve also been known to hang out and drink beer with homeless dudes in Santa Monica.

I run a small, independent publishing imprint. But I’m also on the payroll for a book under Hyperion, an imprint of The Walt Disney Company that is distributed by Harper Collins.

I spent the last three years processing literally millions of dollars in financial aid money for the largest private university in The United States. But now I create latte art using a 1965 espresso machine at a market run by a local, Gilbert born-and-bred independent restaurateur.

I was once well-liked in a couple small groups at above-said church for my engaging, conservatively-minded Bible studies I led and mini-sermons I gave. But my book centers, partially, on me being gay.

I co-founded a non-profit organization when I was 22, preached sermons at a local coffee house, and initiated service projects for the elderly and disabled. But I also served food in Skid Row soup kitchens in Los Angeles, been in plays in Orange County, and helped set up and tear down band and sound equipment once for Death Cab for Cutie on Sunset’s Whiskey-A-Go-Go.

One of my best friends is a hard-working, conservatively-minded, devout Republican Calvinist. Another one of my best friends is a white magic Wiccan, former go-go dancer, and current member of the Suicide Girls, and has started in two Nine Inch Nails videos.

I was once on a first-name basis with the owner of The Butcher Market and Restaurant in Tonto Basin, Arizona. But I was also on a first-name basis with Mohammed, a youth hostel owner in Huntington Beach.

One of my friends is a Christian spoken word artist who travels around performing and spreading the gospel of Jesus. But another one of my friends is a drummer in a popular secular rock band.

I have been to Israel. But I took a taxi to Palestine.

So according to John McCain, Sarah Palin, and many others in the GOP, am I a real American, or not?

Conversation

Chef David: “Will, why don’t you try rolling the top of your apron down a little bit, so you don’t look like the neighborhood butcher behind the coffee bar.”

Me: “But I cut meat back there as well.”

-Conversation between David Traina, Executive Chef of Liberty Market, and myself during my break.

Summer Number Twelve

My twelth summer in the Valley.

A customer today, upon asking where I was from and subsequently inquiring as to the tenure of my Arizona residency, further inquired if I could really still claim that I was “from” Orange County, California. Apparently, some people like to differientiate “from” um, from, the word “born,” and since I hath attended a portion of junior high, all of high school, and three (yup, three) different institutes of higher education all in the Phoenix area that maybe, just maybe, I should claim that I was “from” Phoenix.

Hmmm.

If I spent, say, a decade in Arizona and then moved back to California, or even to the Pacific Northwest, and I was asked “Where are you from?” I would skip the Arizona chapter entirely and say “here” or “California,” respectively. I’m not one of those overtly-witty fags who say something stupid like, “Well, ma’am, Garden Grove by the way of Gilbert!” with a snap and a wink.

So when this customer today asked me this, I informed him that I still had two more years in Arizona until I got to the break-even point of 50% of my life in sunny Orange County and 50% of my life in fuckingly-sunny Arizona. Once I get over the 50% range, I will simply say, “Around.”

So, to commemorate this twelth summer in the Valley, I haven’t blogged very much this last summer. Why? I certainly have no reason to whine – I know things are going a great deal harder for alot of people in this world (I’m talking about the poor and starving – not the live-beyond-your-means irresponsible suburbanites who are actively trying to blame the “Fat Cats on Wall Street” for their own financial choices), but this summer has been … trying. The way I felt about life in the last couple posts? Yup, still feel that way. I’m thinking through alot of things – and I cannot honestly remember the last fucking time I have been happy with my life. And I’m not blaming external factors. It’s all choices I’ve made, and remade, sometimes, over the last ten years. I accept full responsibility for all of my actions, and they were all choices I made – haven’t hurt anybody else – but I did all of these things because it’s what others wanted. Be it where I lived, who I was with, what job I worked at, how I spent my time, et cetera. I relinquished ownership these last ten years.

Stupidly, I have spent most of the summer lamenting those last ten years. But what now? I’m 26 – why does 17 feel like it had so much more potential? So I’m slowly – ever so slowly – trying to reorganize things in the way that will make ME happy. I’m not sure what this is all going to look like yet. But I am committed to living life how I want to – as cliche as that sounds. I’ll be damned if I’m sitting here at 36 feeling the same. That’s one reason I have been distant this summer – from the blog, my friends, even my family – it has been a mix of deep unhappiness, tiredness, and slow renewel. I’m not there yet, it’s going to be a progress. And I’ll keep this blog up to date on this progress.

But damn – I really wonder what my life would look like in even five years if I spent it living how I want to live?

Second Coming

It is those nights when you stayed up well past your bed time, with only the hope of hearing from a friend or seeing something on television that will somehow sooth you – will somehow be a little bit familiar, takes precedence over sleep. You take solace in the fact that your nighttime routine, as late as it is, has become mildly predictable, and it is easy to mistake this predictability – the Mexican man on his nightly walk at 12am, the bespectacled man across the street on his laptop with the blind open on the second story, the shirtless teenagers playing basketball in the street four houses down – for something that offers security. The heat of the night lingers and the humidity of the rainless day refuses to break, and everyone looks at you outside smoking late at night with the same since of security. You feel it is time to disappear; you have become predictable.  

Every morning is so much easier to live with regret from what was not done, the small things and things large, from the day previous. So much to fucking change! So much to improve upon! And you come home and take solace in the memorized programs of television, and begin to think you’re culturing yourself with watching yet another episode of Anthony Bordain while sipping $4 bottle wine from the local market. And you admire the works of others – you watch Bordain’s travels, you read Keruoac’s “On the Road” while on the toilet, you listen with enthusiastic ears when you hear the new song from Brand New that your friend posted on his MySpace. And that MySpace becomes the extent of your individuality.

And the security blankets of a complacent but not content daily routine – something you rallied vivaciously against in your youth – only increase until you are suffocating. Fucking suffocating. And you fail to realize when “it” is not enough, when the job you’ve been working at for three years is dead-end and full of creative-sapping routines and monotony and only the most boring of people, and that it has been a year and a half since you stood in the waves of the coastline you once couldn’t live without.

You fit right in now, lamb; and your youth will rally against you.

Phoenix II

We were all etched in glass. We stood there, sixth-story fading sun piercing through a slate sky into our room at St. Joseph’s Medical Plaza. I am standing there in front of him, watching, not being able to imagine his frail frame being strapped on to the edge of a medical helicopter; our views above Phoenix. So different, so urgent. So now and preasent. There was no waiting. Fuck the ambulances – they were too slow and we needed this, now. We flew over Indian School Steele Park, waiting for the crash. It happened here, once. I haven’t seen the family since Christmas. We discussed my follow-up CT Scan tomorrow morning; we discussed awaiting his neurological tests for the next morning. We call room service for food – they have room service now. His parents are stronger. Much fucking stronger than me. But he is more stubborn then all of us. We sit back, waiting – for nothing – but waiting, being here in this moment, nurses paged every five minutes to different rooms with different levels of urgency. We watch the History Channel. We watch a documentary on Armageddeon. We watch Pastor James Haggy in front of a green screened image of the Western Wall. He tells us the importance of the Holy City.

“Are you the boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

I walk out to Thomas for a cigarette. The hospital is non-smoking. His sister joins me. I call my mom, my dog has been put down. I can’t talk anymore, I hang up. I walk past the chapel then through the doors – it’s a weird feeling knowing exactly where to go so deep in such a large complex.

More meds come and are pumped into an IV. Arrangements are made to move him, since he is immobile. Move his apartment next week. His dad and I will do it. We will pick a humid day. His family around, I kiss his lips goodbye for the night, and I hate myself for having to leave. And the night ends in bed alone, wanting to give anything for the boy who is sick to be here with me tonight. It ends alone, watching CNN and Family Guy, thinking of the jokes he would laugh at if he were here in bed with me tonight.

Tomorrow begins a new day, back at a different hospital, another scan, more meds. Something for the anxiety.

We were etched in glass.

Phoenix

The air was too auspicious around us; something was brewing and frettering in our minds. We swam through the 80 percent nighttime humidity with visits to the grocery and the coffee shop not enough. A towel rack. A fire extingusher. A PS3. An Iced Venti No Water Green Tea sat condinsating in the small gray middle piece seperating the driver and passenger seats, just below the gear shift. Restless arms, legs, heads, bodies. Restless and the wind blew the way wind blows when it is busy announcing an event or subletting the context of an idea or a significance in our minds before we are ready to receive it all.

It is nearing midnight. We are not tired. We are tired, again – our perennial lust – of being changed, challenged, drained. Too much. Hospitals, sick dogs, work, the haz mat team that closed down my boyfriend’s coffee shop to clean up his blood, which had leaked – no, oozed – profously, onto the floor and the corner cabinet where he hit his head when he collapsed. Ambulance rides gave way to the same ER I was in not even a week prior, and hugs were exchanged with a different family. We drive past this, beyond all of this. We set out on the 202 and are sidelined by wind momentarily; the egg-like car acting as a sail for catching drifting winds with force, blowing us about the lane in highway turbulance. Older, more solid pieces of steal pass us by with ease and fury. I struggle in fifth.

We pretend we are in Paris when we breeze through the long tunnel, the yellow lights casting a metallic gold shine on my car blanketed by spots of gray every fifth of a second; more if I speed faster. Speed, damnit, speed. A lit cigarette keeps us company, stories of love and questions of love and life and local and purpose and arrangement and ‘what if?’ wander into our minds to distract us from the reality that no – we did not pursue one avenue ten years ago and hath then spent near a decade fondling our life to form well with the wishes of others.

News stories break on the radio to remind us that roads are flooded. Urgent news, it is raining. Urgent news, this is the highlight of Phoenix.

It is almost 1am, we are still driving westward on the interstate, the skyscrapers of our poor, Houston-esque city no longer visible but more visible now is the state prison up ahead. Even that fades. They remain, stagnant, in their own cubes that they have chosen. We get time off for good behavior but are no more free for the moment.

The windows are down and menthol is being inhaled and exhaled and fuck fuck fuck we are listening to music too loud and Coldplay mourns of when he once ruled the world, and we once felt there too, but we are with him – success often is nothing but modern-day failure if not kept up, not maintained, not kept in to the limelight, not used to full potential. I am a sliver, nothing more, of what could have been, nothing fucking more.

Maybe, just fucking maybe, the next 10 years could be different. But where does it start is a mystery. How. Why. The rain hits inside the car, we keep driving, breathing, there is nowhere to fucking stop. We don’t want to. We continue driving, past Palo Verde, and stop in the desert. In the silence of the night, we smoke, in the silence of the night, we simply fucking imagine.

Another

I pluck my belongings from various parts of the living room, harvest them like a selective gathering of things. I do this so I can add yet more to my ever-crowding 8×9 room, and so Arica and Juan can have free reign to continue packing, cleaning, arranging, stacking. I take my iced quad grande breve vanilla latte first, followed by my cell phone in my pocket, further followed by my Jesse James dvd, my Kingdom of Heaven dvd, my There Will Be Blood dvd. I take the triangular stand for my papers. I take an unedited, discarded printed book manuscript. A newer unedited version sits in the back of my new car, under the hatchback of my 2008 Hyundai Accent. A second trip to the living room and I gather my digital camera, the camera cord, my briefcase containing no less than three various book manuscripts and a day planner and medical documents and loan paperwork and co-pay receipts and attorney contracts, an old philosophy text, a collection of atheist philosophical writings, a copy of GQ, and a smaller black hard-metal box containing my Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulation unit prescribed to me by my doctor, and dispensed at a Walgreens. I used it for the first time last night, and came to the conclusion that it was of poor judgement for me to actually move around with four electrodes of pulsating electricity strapped to my back, just to have a cigarette, because one of the pads came off of my Arizona-sweat induced skin, and I tried to put it back on, and burned my finger with a high concentration of juice. So it goes.

A step in my room would reveal a dismissal of the current state of affairs. The rest of the house is boxed, bare. My pictures still adorn my walls, my Ikea lamp hangs from the ceiling, a portrait of Justin has not moved from my printer atop my dresser, my black leather curtains still are blown by my floor fan. DVD’s are still stacked, as are hangers, and my hookah from Jerusalem still sits in the corner unused, next to my Buddha from China, shot glass from Vegas, shot glass from Portland, shot glass from San Diego. I am refusing to pack, but by day’s end I will be done, a testimony to the small space and minuscule accumulations that have not made their way to my current residence. It doesn’t feel like I’ve been here a year. But it has been a year since I sat in a cold and empty two-bedroom apartment, the last resident out of four. The last resident after my boyfriend and I broke up and he moved (months later) and Amanda and Ben had headed for some place new.

But now that boy and I are back together, and I am still with my friends and roommates of the last year, and I move yet again on the terms of another. But not back in with the boyfriend yet. Some day. Ideally. Soon. Not yet. Maybe the long-awaited conclusion of the moving-every-year storyline will come to a happy reality. I want it to be with my boyfriend of almost three years, I want it to be in Portland. That is ideal. But 2008, like the years before, have not always yielded dreams and goals to complete fruition, but more like tastes, like crumbs, and I am hungry for the whole fucking pie. I am tired of the crumbs. Maybe I have to make the pie myself. Still figuring that one out.

But I will wrap my life into some boxes once again. I will, once again, stack my car full of crap and put books on religion, the Middle East, travel, into boxes. And I will once again drive but a few miles to remove such boxes. Always sticking to the fucking desert in summer moves, always sticking — forcefully — by sweat, and never loving every minute, but waiting patiently. Oh so fucking patiently.