(written circa 2010)
This is how you end writers block...
I'm walking and walking down Washington blvd, the sun setting behind me. No time to explain but I have to reach Vermont and then head towards South Central to my left now is the Angelus Rosedal cemetery where both of my grandparents on my mothers side are buried. Both of them born in the country side of Oaxaca, both braceros that traveled the American southwest and decided to make their resting grounds Los Angeles, the reason for me being an Angelino, but there's no time for more detail, I'm pacing faster and faster towards Vermont. Latino christian church after Latino christian church, I dash by them hearing the different hymns coming from these former warehouses turned holy place, I pass by so many of them I begin to think I'm at an outdoor marketplace for salvation, the pastor roaring with the confidence of a man determined to make rent and then some, I hear "hallelujahs!" and "amens!" many are Pentecostal, so I see jumping, dancing, speaking in tongues all coming from behind little mom and pop markets or from bigger more elaborate warehouse spaces. Yet, each congregation keeps to themselves, no time to critically analyze liberation theology or lack there of now, I'm beginning to pant. I pass by a warehouse section that still houses wholesale operations, I pass by a glass company currently tinting a large window, next to him, a tired dark skinned latino man sits in the dark with beer in tow with an ice cream cart beside him, he waits for the ice cream warehouse to open, he is the first to arrive, a quick nod of acknowledgment. I'm on Vermont standing next to the second hand store, I wait for the 754 going south, the sun has already set behind me. The bus arrives, its crowded, I put my change away and hop in through the back door where its not as packed. Someone yells my nickname from another life, it's a little homie, I catch up with the little homie, tells me he graduated high school and is currently coming back from city college, I ask him how his sister is doing (I had a thing for her) tells me she's expecting and is due any day now. The bus ride aside from that is a quiet one, tired souls out of work eager to get home. By the time I say peace to the little homie and exit Exposition it has become completely dark and the street lights have come on, an ambulance rushes west towards Normandie. I cross through the USC campus, I decide to have a cigarette in the dark at the very same spot where I once had a picnic with a failed love interest that needed attention and support as she prepped for the LSAT. I reminisce one last time as I flick the finished cigarette with a deep sigh. I've regained my composure and begin to slow down, I breathe and feel the cool evening breeze. I enter the Denny's and see her, I am quiet and attentive, I give a confident smile, everything will be okay I reassure her. I'm having black coffee, she is sitting directly across from me with a glass of water, the diner is less than half full, we remember old times and by the end of that conversation my coffee has grown cold. I take my notebook out of my backpack, both of us still quiet, I have three false starts. I pick up my pen, she is reading as I attempt to sketch her abstract form out in words. "Por tu maldito amor" blasts in the kitchen. I look up to see the title of her book, its, "El Antiguo Formularion de Yerbas Medicinales." I get another coffee and begin to write.
