High Maintenance is the best HBO show since The Sopranos and I am still upset because how are we going to explain to future generations why we were collectively obsessed with such a trashy piece of media like Game of Thrones right during the golden era of TV.

Last night I watched a movie and tried to go to bed early, which was an 11 pm effort turned into a 1:30 execution. I needed to wake up at 4 am, at least two hours before dawn to see the asteroid shower. By 5:00, I was aslowly driving up the mountain staring at the night sky, unsure of the questions I thought the stars could answer. (Like I truly have no fuck what I was thinking about, that’s why I have postponing taking shrooms — there’s no use if there are no established questions before the trip). The mountains may make you think the city lights are not a distraction while star gazing, but they have their own secrets. About four years ago, I found the perfect spot to do nothing but stare at the sky for hours: the guest balcony at the apartments for richer people down the street. I layed on my back and did my own thinking, until eight bright stars, perfectly lined up and lonely caught my eye. I was mesmerized by it, the perfect geometry that my astronomy professor talked about finally made sense. Until I noticed the same spot on the sky with sunlight a few days later and saw a huge anthena from Ft. Bliss with eight bright lights.

Earlier this morning, I parked close to a walking trail and climbed up to my car’s roof. With only a journal, my headphones and a spliff I stared at the night sky waiting to find awe in it. A Joni Mitchell album and less than four The Doors songs went by and nothing outside of the norm had happened. The stars were where they usually belong, but nothing else. When the clouds started to turn pink, I drove home, made breakfast and went to buy a tire around 9 am.

One of my closest and friends is going through a difficult, petty and dramatic break up. When she called me to tell me the news about three or four weeks ago, we laughed at how stupidly young we used to be in our teenage years by thinking petty relationship drama would be gone in our 20s. I do not know why we ever believed that, but I am sure it’s a common situation. It is probably even worse now! With real-life implications! And you have way more important shit to worry about to then add an extra layer of romantic problems! In the middle of a pandemic!

When I came back from buying the tire, I took a nap and my friend’s texts woke me up. She was venting about how he now has blocked her from everything, which I encouraged her to do last weekend when we ate fried vegetables and rice and drank a 12-pack of Modelo but did not smoke any weed (but she had come CBD!) because our guy did not text us back. We stayed like 600 feet apart from each other the whole time because El Paso is going through its worst health crisis ever but sometimes we do need human interaction. My point is that I told her to block him because he posted b a i t on his feed and it is so annoying to still be dealing with this in your twenties while you are unemployed in a two-bedroom apartment that you had just leased three months prior with your now-ex. The thing is that before her texts woke me up, I was dreaming we were sitting in her previous apartment while we ranted about our so-similar relationship issues. I am so happy we both are completely single again, we have more fun that way. And I never liked her ex.

Everything seemed so normal inside my dream, like a continuation of our conversation last Friday. She was telling me about how she has decided to move on but is still angry, which yes of course I am too. How delightful it is to not have to wander through the world’s first rodeo without a sidekick. But why the fuck am I dreaming about this? Why did her texts describing my dream woke me up? She of course did not believe me.

The rest of my day was uneventful until later in the evening. I do not know what prompted this crisis I had, but I have been thinking about how I am not doing anything. I am afraid of the future but only because I am so not ready for it. I will have to start some sort of job in the next four weeks and what a ridiculous idea! One of my earliest memories is from me crying in the first day of kindergarten, not because I missed my mom but because the idea of this school exercise being permanent and replacing my days watching cartoons and annoying my mom while she ran errands TERRIFIED me. I feel the exact same way now. I am in no way built for the ol’ regular life we are expected to be excited about. Especially not after living the life of a quarantined wannabe beatnik vanilla hippie for the last seven months. It has been so delightful to be this way. I know grad school would at least have nurtured and challenged my soul, so I would not mind a trade off. Dr. Rohrleitner made me feel alive for the first time in my life and to be her pupil again is nothing short of a privilege. She has been in my mind since the last time we spoke in person and I am sure it will be this way forever. Her teachings truly changed my life by making my hunger for the unknown and everything larger than mankind feel seen and not intense. She is the first and only person to see right through my bullshit and inspire me to be the better version of me, instead of projecting her own insecurities unto mine. She inspired me to find my writing voice and do something with it. During a heated conversation, she said the best advice she could give me was to stop being amazed at how smart I am. Spring 2019 changed the rest of my life.

I remembered a discussion we once had about failure being the way to success — not in the shark tank entrepreneur capitalist i-did-not-get-the-wolf-of-wall-street corporate catholic way. We had to read Hartman’s Lose Your Mother, a failed academic investigation turned into an autobiography about looking for identity in your birthplace. Without this failure, we would not have this wonderful book and who knows if she would’ve found the blackness she was looking for. This notion of the silver lining in failure tends to make its way into my mind whenever I see all the financially successful people whom I have shared a word with. I would never, ever trade places with them. I could write some hurtful things right now, But I will save myself the trouble and be petty instead.

I am more than happy being this soulful lost wanderer rather than a Monopoly figurine who traded self-awareness in the name of winning the systemic game. Oh but how I suffer too. The pain that comes with wanting to pursue the path to the natural, uncontaminated truths is plagued with failure. Of everyone saying you look good because you’ve lost weight when the only reason you’ve done so is because you cannot afford babylonic pleasures anymore and there are sometimes when your depression hides the food away. Of condescension from your macro surroundings because you reek of lack of ambition in their eyes but in reality your ambitions are too big to be understood without taking a few steps back from the bolt cutters. Of uncertainty.

But at least I am alive, and I see those close to my heart crying tears of desperation after realizing their so-called ambitions mean nothing when all your life you have been told to chase them without having the right tools to survive the human condition. Because what good did it make you to mostly consume movies and tv shows and books and music that was designed to numb you down? If your soul has truly never been moved by art that has not been reaffirming of the beliefs your parents passed down to you? Tell me who your masters are and I will tell you how they own you. Is it really moving to be moved by the designs of our chains? My 12-year old cousin was so excited the other day because he read Elon Musk is developing technology to transplant our consciousness into a computer and this fucking terrified me all around. I see some of my friends trying to balance their artistic ambitions with the price of staying alive and I wonder what they would trade to give up the latter and break themselves from the chains of what we think of today as art. I saw this movie the other night about a museum guard and a woman in distress finding mutual aid in walking down the art galleries and discussing how it mirrors their lives. How the fuck are we supposed to feel alive if our lives are dedicated to the anti-thesis of this movie? And I am more than happy to console my friends when this existentialist situation arises and to crack a narcissistic smile when they tell me that I am the only person who has a single clue of what they are talking about when they complain about the nothingness in their life. Because it tells me that my friends are alive too, that I and therefore them too are not alone in these fumbling days. That money and claim from the dead has not corrupted them and probably will never do so. But then what? I feel like there’s a complacent side of mine that tells me that these past few months have been enough training to sell a small part of my soul to the devil, while still having my feet in the painful ground of life. My sister likes to call this complacent side “mature”, but as a proud democrat and the accountant at the biggest accounting firm in the continent she has no always been the wisest. And what if we both are right?

She shared her HBO Max account with me a few weeks ago and I finally used it today. After browsing the whole catalogue for about an hour, I stumbled upon High Fidelity and let me fucking tell you how much I used to love it. I binge watched the first two seasons early 2019 and watching the third season every sunday of the spring made everything fall into place. I was going through several awakenings at the time and this show kept me humble. Analisse once told me that of course I would love a show about a weed guy in New York but it’s not really about that. He’s only in the background and what connects the stories, but the true main character here is the beauty of the mundane. Of how every life is a fucking universe and we are still so tangled up in our own. I cannot wait to watch the new season right now, it feels poignant. I also cannot wait to write to Marisa about it.

I watched the last two episodes of season 3 to refresh my memory and what a beautiful show it is. It moved me a lot. I had a small breakdown afterwards because it made me think I have not done anything with my life. What if I am just a drifter who’s gotten lucky in the past? My writing voice recently sounds so somber and I am dying to change that. I sound 56 instead of 24, I think. Did I lose the key to my stream of consciousness? I started reading some Kerouac and Ginsberg and Keegan as they are my go-to’s when my creativity suffers and I could not find any answers. Baldwin and music did not help at all. So I just sat in my balcony and stared at the stars, just like I did earlier this morning. Because I can plan ahead of steroid showers or just walk outside when it’s dark enough and have the same result.

The answers are in the everyday life, no? I will never forget this day, where a dream came true, the stars meant nothing and I re-discovered my love for the storytelling that intersects only with the aspects of the mundane that linger after everything bigger than life made their way through our paths.

Do not be afraid of the restlessness in your spirit. It is a symptom, not a disease.



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bird held by fox’s teeth

bird held by fox’s teeth


every night i go outside to my little balcony with the hopes of seeing a shooting star and sometimes i do.