Princess and the Gent

At a bus stop with no shade off Route 66 and la Buena Vista sad sat a younger man than I and little girl no more than half a dozen years old. 
The wispy mustache the young fella bore barely covered the many spots he had at his lip and throughout his face and he wore a pristine cap, shoes, t-shirt and black jeans. He looked well pressed and put together. 
She was a sight. Her fingers Hot-Cheeto red from the bag of treats why balanced at her lap. She wore a loosely fitting Cinderella dress with a staged sash. Plastic

In Ma Room

Sometimes I wedge myself in my bedroom where the keyboard lies. I stare at the screen, I ponder, I sip coffee and on occasion I clank at buttons and letter appear on the screen.

I wonder if my children will come to understand why I took time to do this. At lesser minutes I attempt to forecast if the value of what I have written will be worth the time I could have spent with them.

It make sense for me not to carp but continue stealing moments to press the letters and form the sentences. I know not what else to do.

A New Hope

One would think that I have given up on this Blog. I haven’t but I certainly pressed the Pause button on it a while ago.

I have not written much here but that doesn’t meant that I have not put thoughts on line over time. To the contrary. I have expressed much more but in other platforms.

Now with the end of the year coming I’d like to back-fill for posterity some of my favorite thoughts from around the interwebs. Some of these are tied to specific events and I’m afraid that in sharing them on this blog they may come to loose their meaning.  My hope is that in time they’ll be read as my stream of consciousness and someone may one day come to appreciate what the whole of them meant as one work.

With that said. Here we go…

New Starts

Life didn’t really begin at Casa Torres until Nic (my wife) and I kick-started it. 
That’s changing. 
This morning I was awoken to the sounds of a sliding glass door and feet running out to the chicken coop to tend to our egg givers. Then a bit later there was clanking of spoons, dishes and beeps from the microwave as a simple breakfast was being made. As I contemplate getting up I know teeth have been brushed, TV remotes found and there’s been some controversy over what Saturday morning show to watch on their shared TV. 
Guess I should go make myself useful.

Fogged Up

We all get used to seeing the familiar and on occasion we take it for granted. Then something happens and you remember why you fell in love in the first place. As I looked north from my home today, constantly blue skies had been replaced by a blanket of grayness. Every time I walked outside the foothills changed and made the day feel like Fall. Many out there may not understand my excitement and typically overcast skies with cool temps aren’t a thing to write home about. But in this land of a near endless summers some here come to cherish a little break from the blue and to have a chance to throw on another cover on the bed.

Death of a Salesman

At the corner of Harding Avenue and 4th street we had been gathering.

To some degree the events had become routine. Routine to me had become a hassle. Routine to others had hardened into a way of life.

Then eventually the last call required paperwork, awkwardness, quietness and now a perpetual “elephant in the room”.

It’s interesting how after some time in a hospital you become aware of it’s practical floor plan and memorize it’s efficiently laid out bland hallways. The decor is certainly “clinical” but after spending time in a place you recognize the flaws in the space. I am talking about the water fountain spout sporting a significant shade of rust or the wax like floors whose tile patterns take you back to the early 1950s in America.

Hospitals are also noisy places. Polite but unmistakably loud with  every room venting out a constant chime or groan or need or cry. Passersby pretend not to notice but the human ear is attune to recognize the sounds of ailment and the cavernous passageways of these places are perfect amplifiers to our ears.

It is with this sensitivity that I coaxed myself into a room on some level of this hospital and saw the near sunken eyes of my father just a bit more than a decade ago.

There are so many other prolific writers who have described men like my father. Perhaps its telling that I chose the words of others to delineate how I saw him. He was a poet, self made man, adulterer, traveler, fashionista, wife beater and hustler that so many have lauded. I knew him for less than a quarter of his life and he’s become a looming myth that’s hard to shake.

I opine that he inherited his four children (two of them which I call sisters) a sense of defiance, a need for attention and a raw humanity that we hope to not pass on to the next set of tykes.

But it is perhaps these qualities that eventually led to one signature on a winter day.

My father was driven to Beverly Hospital in Montebello, Ca after years of battling the strains of diabetes. We had not spoken in some time and though my mother had begun asking for aid a few months prior, there was still a lot of tension between us all. It took a lot of coaxing to want to engage and when I did it became an exercise in duty.

On the day it occurred I recall near perfect blue skies overhead as I walked into the white edifice. It wasn’t a looming fortress but instead a ho-hum building surrounded by average houses that hosted the life and drama of families with unknowing energy.

My fiancee walked with me. The pace we held together was reassuring and normal. We had walked it together before and would share it again in the future over other pressing matters that begged our attention and stressed our bond. I remember feeling resolved.

Upon arriving at the room I panned over  a living human mummy. My father was covered in near white hospital sheets whose silkiness clung to the emaciated body he had become. The wear and tear of the condition had eaten away at his body and now before rested a husk of the thick powerful man I once feared.

His breathing was beyond shallow. He wore a plastic sheath about his face that pumped air into his torso. To me, the only recognizable characteristic was the thickness of his hair that grew in defiance of creeping death that would come in minutes time.

I whispered to him. What I said is private. It is between him and I. Dialog that belongs to fathers and sons who decide in glances what their legacy together will be. I then called to the Social Worker, signed a form and made sure the carbon paper caught my impression and went to the bathroom.

When I came back. My face was nearly dry and my eyes were still bloodshot. A man I once call “papa” was a corpse in the room.

To this day, I’ve been to his grave site once. On the day we buried him.


I am experiencing an intellectual challenge.

Scratch that….I am troubled by my mind’s inefficiency to process the latest concepts.

What if? What if our reality is the 3D projection of data processed in a two dimensional medium. What if the world of taste, feel, strife and trouble is the interface in our mind’s life hack that helps us interface with a perceived 3D desktop?

These thoughts are beyond me and the exploration to discover passage into different planes of understanding are a challenge.

First and foremost is my lack of technical know how. I am not Fermi, Einstein, Tyson or Hawking but I’ve read and learn enough about them to understand some of the most basic thoughts.

First, they are in disagreement.

The discipline of physics is still evolving is still moving and there are plenty of discussion for a new mind to tackle. This came apparent with the notion disagreeing with Hawking’s belief that data disappeared upon entering a black hole and nearing it’s singularity.   If I understand differing argument, data/information can no disappear but instead some is imprinted as 2D information at the event horizon of a black whole to outside observers.

If this is the case, then the implications may be that much more info can be tacked on two a simple 2D format which propagates about the universe and our mind translates into reality.

This is the part where my mind lacks understanding and requires more study.

The Unboxing

The kids bough a console with their bday gift money that I picked up this morning. I started to unbox it so it’d be set up when they got home after school today. But then I remembered the joy of picking up my first Nintendo Entertainment System from the Montebello Toys R Us and slowly pulling the component parts when I got home. So it now sits in the box…Mario & his pals smiling at me while I wait a few more hours till the lil’ ones get here.