Sharing dirt with a city

Perhaps it is me. The city looks like anger and dispair. Freaks look me in the eye and faggots avoid me. The air smells like cigarette smoke, farts, and unrequited threesomes. There is no sense of hope, just a vague suggestion of the lack of salvation.

Denver will save me, unlike any other city. There is no room for regret. Love, taste, divinity, these are my modus, I have yet to find my operandi.

Sharing the street in Denver or, what to do in Denver when you're alone [dead]

The tourists here are extremely distinguishable. Denver types are so healthy and go dashing about in running gear or hiking books, with gym bags for brief cases. Or maybe it's just Saturday. The tourists, on the other hand, look like the people who trapped me on the connecting flight from Spokane yesterday: overweight, impatient, stressed-out, red-in-the-face, slightly angry.

I'm trying to strike a balance. I brought every piece of requisite health-nut three piece suit, running shoes, shorts, and a thin, ratty t-shirt, iPod instead of cufflinks and sweat band instead of tie. Not appropriate unless I should be spotted actually running. I couldn't look unhealthy if I tried, owing to the beginnings of a summer tan and my general cardiovascular well-being. Perhaps if I had the money for it I could carry an arm-full or two of shopping bags signaling an unhealthy addiction to credit or poor taste.

Whatever I would have to do to blend in here, I'm not willing to do it: it serves as further evidence that I do not belong in Colorado. I deserve the choice to blend in or stand out. I'm willing to claim this as a right.

[In a somewhat related note which needs less than a full blog-post of exploration, a friend with whom I am often spotted out decided that we need great disguises. We are far too popular to have a relaxed, uninterrupted evening.]

Sharing good-byes

Farewell, James Guzman.

You were undoubtedly the proudest Indian I ever met. You always had something to say, which was neither wise nor made sense, but was usually miraculously uplifting. Whenever I though I had a hard row to hoe, James, you came in and talked about drug addiction and shitty people and disappointment with a sort of cheery tone that made me forget that I was upset in the first place.

I also realize that you never complained. Ever. Things happen. People disappoint. Shit happens. It is the relentless flow of life that keeps coming, and there are two major choices: the bank or the swim upstream. James, you have chosen the swim, and I have extreme admiration for you.

With you gone, I'll have to learn to complain less, love more, and just learn from my frustration, otherwise your absence will be hard felt.

Sharing disappointment

"Michael was fun - until he stopped drinking!"

Laughter.

And that's how I feel. Except I didn't stop drinking, and no one said that.

But the first Saturday night out without occasional smoke breaks was a nightmare. Everything was otherwise the same. We sang the same songs, drank the same drinks, were surprised, saw all types, table sang - even Rex was there, perhaps the most fun person ever.

Something was missing, like I had otherwise been taking a bubble bath that this week was drained.

The whole day was like this, really. I got plenty of sleep, came to orgasm with a man in my bed around 10:30, and was not hungover or dehydrated or malnourished. Well, I take it back. I could have been dehydrated.

I really need to find someone that enjoys having me around without smoke breaks. As it is, my friends don't notice, probably because they were so used to me before. This struggle is inside. Maybe I need another stupid haircut.

Kimberly said, "You can have one."

I was better at fitting in when I smoked. I was sexier. I was happy then.

Sharing technology

This week, as a preemptive award for smoking cessation, I treated myself to a much needed new Macbook. This is my first Mac with a built in camera, which at first I thought would be a useless accessory.

That was until I got the idea to video chat with my family. My mom has a similar laptop, and it is the natural destination of our technological journey. In the school year of '02-'03, I relied heavily on a calling card, a series of 20 some numbers, then the phone number, every time I wanted to call anywhere out of the county. Two years later, I had my own cell phone, but lacked texting capability. In July of '08, we all got iPhones and I recieved the first text from my dad and shortly after, from my mom.

Today, at 8:50am, my computer indicated that DonnieEspinoza (the AIM username I had created for them) had requested an audio chat. (I had to quickly get off the toilet to respond). My dad had figured out how to use audio chat from their iMac. After I told him to try the his laptop (the one with the camera), I waited ten minutes and I was suddenly speaking face-to-face with my dad. I had always assumed that video chat would be a mere novelty, but it turned out that speaking to my father after all these months was a little emotional. I took the laptop around the apartment for a quick tour, and when I sat back down at the kitchen table my dad was sitting with my grandmother, Tortilla Grandma.

I was aware that she had just been recovering from surgery, but did not anticipate that she would be using oxygen (strangely, a not uncommon sight for that side of the family). Grandma was thrilled. I imagine that in her impoverished, hard-working life, she could never have dreampt that she would talk to her grandson hundreds of miles away, looking at his face, on a device with no wires that weighs no more than 4lbs. We waved as though it was from a distance, but that felt awkward. The experience was intimate enough to evoke the impulse to hug.

I can't wait to talk to my mom and everyone else in the family, especially Grandpa. They'll love it.

Sharing the fight

I made a commitment to myself today to quit smoking. So far so good. I was able to overcome the craving, with the aid of gum, when I had a beer. I'm a little worried, but the fear will soon subside.