This lately heart has been working like trying to fuck on whisky and misplaced insecurity.
And that doesn’t fly. Not now. Not ever.
…
I just bought a one way to Paris. Though, it’s not entirely impulsive. I’m not out for 2 months. I don’t know when or from where I’ll return to the states, but I will. Los Angeles is my home. It’s what I’ll miss when I go. This sweet, dirty little tramp of a city.
…
I need to be cracked, built, hurt, chipped, swooned, broken. I miss it hard and need it again. A million and one things I've yet to imagine. A million and one things that aren’t here for me all of a sudden.
This life has grown comfortable. It’s become safe and reliable. I’m content and it’s beginning to shake my skull. Why? Because honest, goodness…
I’d rather be miserable. I’d prefer being hung from my ankles, spun on my face.
Somewhere along the way, that’s what I became. When you think like that and mean it, really mean it…you have nothing to lose.
…
vag-a-bond
a: of, relating to, or characteristic of a wanderer.
b: leading an unsettled, irresponsible, or disreputable life.
What can I say? I’m a motherfucking Toys R’ Us kid.
June 26, 2006
June 13, 2006
So Felix Died...
I never woke to sirens. There wasn’t an emergency call in the middle of the night. Paramedics never stormed our shared stairs. Instead, he slipped away in the same fashion he lived…tucked in the quiet corners of Cedars-Sinai, buried under the forgetting covers of a forgetting hospital bed. I imagine.
Yes, I’m guilty of stretching slivers of fact into epic dramatic rants. When I spoke of Felix in the past, though, know every word ran authentic. This man was a walking corpse.
So it didn’t surprise me when the apartment manager spoke the news. Truth, I took it in stride…at least to a certain extent.
By now, you better fucking know I’m not heartless…
Stay on Felix.
He was alone. All and completely. He died, and that was it. The manager accepted the responsibility of cremation. And inside his door, mere feet from where I’m sitting, remains proof of a man who borrowed time on this little blue pearl called Earth.
Word on the corner of Holloway/Hancock (me, the manager, his quasi wife) has determined that there will be no family coming to rummage through clutter or to scatter his memories. There will be no friends to issue lasting tributes or to give closure.
He just, died. I’m finding it difficult, wrapping mind around someone leaving without so much as a whisper. So for Felix’ sake, for our sake, we’ll do what I always do…
Slip into the magical land of Truth and Reality Very Optional. For you, I’ll also pretend this place is not my permastomps.
…
I’m at the podium, standing tall above the thousands of joyous eyes here to celebrate the man, the legend…Felix. The cliffs in Malibu overlooking the Pacific seem appropriate for a soul who lived and died through our world’s great natural treasures. This is sentiment I dish to break ice as the sun bends itself around golden clouds.
Felix was a good man. I was fresh in the city of angels with boxes yet unpacked when we first met. I remember my initial impression quite vividly. It went something like…so you’re not a 19-year-old Georgia transplant beauty queen concurrently suffering from a deep sweetness of the heart and a middle of the night no strings attached nymph rage complex?
We got along as well as neighbors do. Every month or so, we would exchange words and smiles. The infrequency fit the mold of our city. We’d often swap meteorological observations or discuss Los Angeles’ glaring lack of a respectable mass transit system. As time went on, his features began to deteriorate…
Though his smile, of the pre-blinding white teeth craze era, never did.
…
If you’ve been following, Felix was a big Sunday LA Times buff. The only problem was that he wouldn’t actually read it until the news had grown stale. It would sit outside his door until Thursday…Friday…Saturday.
I imagine in his times of health and youth, he consumed every word…burdened by the impatience of living in a world constantly spinning. But I imagine he read it on time. On Sunday.
Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s a little sad…life as a newspaper.
…
Happy travels, Felix…
I’m stealing your paper.
Yes, I’m guilty of stretching slivers of fact into epic dramatic rants. When I spoke of Felix in the past, though, know every word ran authentic. This man was a walking corpse.
So it didn’t surprise me when the apartment manager spoke the news. Truth, I took it in stride…at least to a certain extent.
By now, you better fucking know I’m not heartless…
Stay on Felix.
He was alone. All and completely. He died, and that was it. The manager accepted the responsibility of cremation. And inside his door, mere feet from where I’m sitting, remains proof of a man who borrowed time on this little blue pearl called Earth.
Word on the corner of Holloway/Hancock (me, the manager, his quasi wife) has determined that there will be no family coming to rummage through clutter or to scatter his memories. There will be no friends to issue lasting tributes or to give closure.
He just, died. I’m finding it difficult, wrapping mind around someone leaving without so much as a whisper. So for Felix’ sake, for our sake, we’ll do what I always do…
Slip into the magical land of Truth and Reality Very Optional. For you, I’ll also pretend this place is not my permastomps.
…
I’m at the podium, standing tall above the thousands of joyous eyes here to celebrate the man, the legend…Felix. The cliffs in Malibu overlooking the Pacific seem appropriate for a soul who lived and died through our world’s great natural treasures. This is sentiment I dish to break ice as the sun bends itself around golden clouds.
Felix was a good man. I was fresh in the city of angels with boxes yet unpacked when we first met. I remember my initial impression quite vividly. It went something like…so you’re not a 19-year-old Georgia transplant beauty queen concurrently suffering from a deep sweetness of the heart and a middle of the night no strings attached nymph rage complex?
We got along as well as neighbors do. Every month or so, we would exchange words and smiles. The infrequency fit the mold of our city. We’d often swap meteorological observations or discuss Los Angeles’ glaring lack of a respectable mass transit system. As time went on, his features began to deteriorate…
Though his smile, of the pre-blinding white teeth craze era, never did.
…
If you’ve been following, Felix was a big Sunday LA Times buff. The only problem was that he wouldn’t actually read it until the news had grown stale. It would sit outside his door until Thursday…Friday…Saturday.
I imagine in his times of health and youth, he consumed every word…burdened by the impatience of living in a world constantly spinning. But I imagine he read it on time. On Sunday.
Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s a little sad…life as a newspaper.
…
Happy travels, Felix…
I’m stealing your paper.
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