WRITE A LETTER, WEAR A JACKET, AND DIE LATER.

Clear Sky, 59°F

Anyone can find the dirt in someone. Be the one who finds gold.

I think of a mirror when a metaphor like that slides into view. I’d like to see the gold in myself, but even more than that I’d love for someone else to find it in me.

I’m by no means perfect. Even more, I don’t pretend to be anything but average. Yes, my mind is sharp and carries a strong filter. But socially I’m just another brown boy in the mix. This isn’t bad exactly. I’ve long stopped viewing the world as a place with good and bad. I thrive in the grey. In an academic world, I’m better than most. Maybe this is one reason why the idea of being a teacher excites me. I mean, in theory, the goal of academia is to make more teachers. Since I’m great at school it’s inevitable that I’ll be a great teacher too.

I’ll stop there. It’s a small post today, just a quick message to remind myself I’m still alive.

I will add this though, that when I find someone that sees the best in me, I hope I can see it in them too.

Few Clouds, 78°F

The air still smells of ash. I’m sitting next to an IN-N-OUT, so the scent changes with the breeze. When the wind is strong, smoke takes center stage and I have to fight the urge to huff tiny breaths. But when the wind settles, all I take in is the smell of Burgers and fries. I don’t know what I’m doing outside. The smart thing would be to stay indoors, except I’ve done that for the past week and now I feel crazy; like I need to go outside even if it’s just to walk around the block. I finally know how my cat feels in the evenings when I come home from studying and she’s clawing at the door begging for me to open it. I thought it was funny that she literally argued at the door as if willing it to open with the threat of sharp claws, only to fall asleep beneath a bush when the door finally gave. After a week of sealed doors and windows, I felt like my cat. I walked around the valley and took a bunch of buses nowhere just because I could. I eventually ended up here, on the patio of a Starbucks adjacent to in-n-out. It’s a busy place called the plant, a site that used to have a giant car manufacturer that left in the eighties. Retail has taken over, the same as most of Los Angeles, transformed into a strip mall. I’m not complaining though. There is a lot of traffic here, both foot and vehicle. My clustered soul feels like it can finally breathe-in freedom even though I still have my nostrils full of ash.

I had a job interview Monday, on the eve of the fires. I thought it went well, but now I doubt I’ll get an answer soon. Why? Because the place I interviewed in is currently being evacuated because of the creek fire. I’ve long stopped trying to change the things I have no control over, so I’m not bummed, just tickled. Is that okay to say? Things tickle me, make me chuckle not at myself or at the world with cynicism, but in general. Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I freak and slap hands away when I’m being tickled, life can tickle me too. It sounds weird and kind of gross, but that’s the only way I can explain my relationship with the world. Good or bad, things just tickle me, pull my attention enough for me to say, well that was something.

I’m going to watch Coco soon. I’m lucky in that there’s a Spanish dubbed screening near me, at the Plant - you know you’re from the valley when people say I’ll meet you at the plant and you understand. I’m meeting up with my parents. There aren’t many movies they can see in theatres because it’s usually better to wait for the DVD or Netflix version with Spanish options. But times, they are changing. I feel like theatres are only just realizing there are so many Spanish speaking people in the valley, enough to carry their own market. The Plant has had Spanish only movies for a few years and is thriving again. Other theatres choose to upgrade, like the Cinemark on Coldwater. They installed wicked new seats the recline. Don’t get me wrong, I love those seats, but upgrading hardware isn’t the only option to improve a product - the software is just as important.

There are parts of Louisiana that speak Creole, so much so that street and freeway signs are both in English and a French patois. Some parts of Maine are the same with plain old french. There are sections of Orange County with Vietnamese lettering everywhere. I’d like to live in the part of California where everything is in Spanish and English, an area all its own known not just for its people and language, but for its success. I don’t know if adding Spanish options will improve the economy, but from my own experience, it seems an untapped medium. I mean, in my home we have ditched all forms of cable because Sling TV has this Spanish only option. Instead of paying $100 plus a year from any of the local providers, we pay $10 for the twenty or so channels my parents like.

I guess I’m just trying to make my community thrive like I see other communities around me do so already. I like pointing to the Armenian community in Glendale. I just read an article in the Atlantic that detailed a beautiful segment of the Armenian culture and community, one where the subjects of the article boast about never needing to learn English because he can survive there just fine speaking only Armenian.

I know I think differently from most Americans. I’m positive a few readers will take this as an affront to English. I speak English, it’s my first language and I have a degree in English too. Yet, it’s because of my intimate understanding of the language that I realize languages are insufficient at conveying meaning, truly. That’s why some things are lost in translation and others murdered. I personally think cities grow, not die, by having more languages spoken. It would be nice to have a section of the city my parents can go to and be understood, more so than the chopped up “Hablamos Espanol.”

Maybe next time I’ll talk about assimilation.

What’s funny is that I meant this post to be about music, but things change once you actually start writing. This is the first post I write on my computer. For some reason, I only feel intimate enough to write personal stuff on my phone. Maybe it’s because my phone lets me lay in bed and type with one hand while the other pets my cat. Maybe it’s the purring of my British shorthaired, a skinny thing that demands attention with claw pokes to the face, that allows me to say what I mean. This post feels a bit more analytical than my other entries. I blame my cat.

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

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