snapdragons

The interwebs are buzzing with debates over the legitimacy of Invisible Children and the Koni 2012 video. In less than a week its coverage has increased by over 600,000% in the past seven days on the video sharing site Vimeo. It has been quite effective in evoking some very strong sentiments about the subject and seems to be polarizing people into two categories: those who immediately were galvanized by its message, and the others who quickly questioned its intentions. Among the latter includes a group of scholars and advocates who stress that they have been talking about the issue of child soldiers for quite some time. (Admittedly, I gave a presentation in the 8th grade to my world geography class via the first ever VIRAL POSTERBOARD, but unfortunately it did not receive the same lasting attention.) Charlie Beckett from the London School of Economics takes a clear stance against the video and identifies several grievances with the campaign that accurately capture the frustration and envy of journalists and academics who have been covering the story for years. The Guardian has presented the story from a fairly centrist viewpoint, allowing Invisible Children to respond to their criticism. Regardless whether the video is too “Hollywood,” or its normative dimensions, one thing is certain. Invisible Children’s increased exposure is generating closer scrutiny for itself and the viral response across the Internet seems to indicate that people understand the value of this conversation. It does say a lot about Internet culture and its ability to have a meta-discussion with itself.

 
I walk into the bar and these kids are waiting for me at a corner booth. Roxbox is sipping on her cranberry-vodka and Jayman looks to be drinking a jack and coke. I am holding my moleskine, hoping i can get some work done. I sit down and I notice we are the only ones here. The last time I remember this place getting crazy is when Neon Indian picked up a venue while on the road to Austin. The place was packed with 20-somethings of us and scenesters who also got word of the impromptu show via social networking, online or regular. The blogosphere had been monikering their music as "chill-wave," I guess because they give you the chilis. I danced my heart out at the show and afterwards I caught the band huddled around their van smoking a bowl. They were kind enough to let me chill with them.

The reason Black Market might be so empty is because another dive bar recently opened down the road. It is bigger in bar and patio, as well as supposedly owned by a local celebrity; This bar is known as Hope and Anchor.

I happen to know the bouncer at H&A. I met Sunny through Coco who I think happen to be dating now. He lets us in with no hassle. Jayman points to a Stanley Kubrik portrait on the wall (which is no longer there actually). He used to loves to tell this story:

"I was here the other day with some friends and we noticed that awesome picture. I wanted to know if it was for sale, so I ask the bartender how much they would be willing to sell it for. He replied that the portrait was a gift from Coldplay when Jim was touring with them in Australia."

"Yea, this place is pretty happening," I say before taking a chug of my lager.

I look over at Roxbox and she is already starting to look a little blackout. She often does drink more than us when we aren't looking.

Jayman gets a text from his cousin saying he is back at Hemingway's, another bar just as raunchy as Black Market but with two-dollar specials. Artemus and Jayman are about the same age, only a few days apart. His text sounded urgent so we head over to join our other drinking buddy.

We come in through the back door where the smokers hover under the lights. This place is a lot more laid back and all sorts of types can be found here. I am not so sure why this place is called Hemingway's, but perhaps the owner has an affinity for Modern literature. A bar is a bar is a bar, i guess. There are three paintings of the eponymous author on the walls. He is bullfighting in one, writing on a desk in another, and stoically posing in the last one. Behind the counter there is a Playboy magazine cut-out claiming this place is one of the top 100 college pubs in the country. This next round is on me.

By now, the lights in my head are starting to dim. Artemus' silly, droopy smile reveal the same thing. Tonight his mood is endearing, rather than his usual boyish belligerence. The cheers around the bar are pleasant to hear. Sitting with my friends, we enjoy another evening together. My oldest brother once warned me I would be doing the same thing he did at this age.

I finally stumble back home and land on my bed. I don't even take off my jacket, but I notice that my moleskine ain't with me.

                                      *

texting

Buzz, buzz, buzz, “call me.”

Beep, beep, beep, “sorry stuck in a meeting. what do you need?”

She was sitting on the couch in their living room rubbing her feet on the rug. She seemed jittery and impatient with her phone in her hands. She put it right besides her contemplating the right words to write back, always thinking about the right damn words. She reaches for it again and writes, “i need to leave you.”

He sat at the meeting feeling nervous as fuck, twirling his pen, bouncing his knees. Every time her tiny vibration tugged at his pocket his heart skipped a beat. He was about to break down in front of his colleagues. His fingers fumble to type a response, “wait.”

Bzzz-brrr-bzzz, “i can’t wait another second, Daniel.”

He read her words but heard her voice. She always said his name so kindly. The way she pronounced the diphthong sounded like there was honey on her lips. This made him sad to think he would never hear her gentle little noises ever again.

Ding-ding, ding-ding, “this love is everlasting, even when it’s lacking, or even dying.”

She was a mess. A mess in the bedroom. A mess in the kitchen. A mess in the bathroom. She doubted and doubt is the killer of all love. Since he was always right, she felt she was always wrong. His words were flawless, which gave her little room for error. Her worst, but perhaps best quality was her curtness, “you can’t kiss me thru the phone.”

Not even his prose, which he loved to text her with, could save him now. He didn’t need to be polite anymore and his anger overcame the heartbreak. By now it was obvious and those at the meeting were noticing. They heard him click away, “you are just a talking bird.”


There is something so weak about a man in love. A girl can never appreciate it. She was too young to be so attached. Her dreams weren’t necessarily with him. She didn’t believe in magic anymore. She knew what she had to do.

He felt her helpless distress so he sent another text, “the longer you think, the less you know what to do.”

She made up her mind not to write back. How did it come to this? How could she be so awful? When your mind is made up, there is no use trying to change it. She knew she wouldn’t think of the right words so she didn’t even try to say good-bye. All she did was lock the front door behind her and crossed the street.

He waited for her to respond but the meeting would end and nothing was sent. What was he waiting for? If he left now, he would still catch her. Before anyone could notice, he was already down the office stairwell.

                                     **

thinking

The weather was oftentimes as unpredictable as she was. If she were to wake up unsure of herself that day and look outside her window, then the weather would be equally as unconfident with itself. She might not make it through today and neither might the sunshine. She felt it in her stomach.

 

She showered. She needed cleansing. Whenever she felt this sick, she would stand under the showerhead still as a picture until it went away. The hot water turned her skin red like a cherry tomato. She got out of the tub and walked over to the bedroom and laid there –

wrapped in a towel. If they were meant to be, why were they so apart right now? Where was he?

 

He didn’t understand that she needed him at any given second. You never know when the clouds will begin to gather. If she couldn’t hear the comfort of his voice, then it was as if he never existed. When they were younger, he would talk her to sleep over the phone at nights. Her mind was something she couldn’t battle alone for too long. Being by herself only drove her towards a greater independence. She found strength in her solidarity and what she was about to do.

 

The nausea was more overwhelming now and she could barely put the sweater over her head. She put on the comfiest pair of pants that she had. Her walk downstairs was more than a struggle. She enters to the kitchen to call her mother.

 

“Can you come pick me up now? I am going to go through with it.” She said to her.

 

There was nothing left to do but leave the apartment and disappear. She intended never to see his face again for fear of a fatal heart attack. This was the man she loved, but not the life she wanted. She locked the door behind her and they headed toward the clinic.

                                    ***

crashing

He realized everything was as it always had been: uncontrollable. Never mind the crushing metal at his side, never mind his ear flattened against the asphalt, or his bleeding left eye. Never mind the suffocating smoke, the bits of windshield embedded in his hands, or his missing teeth. The last thing he would ever see were his shattered glasses at arm's reach. The world never felt so far away, but he didn't need to be so farsighted anymore. Images trickled through his mind regardless. What surprised him the most was that his memories were not silent films. They were full of sound and color and special effects. He was experiencing something he had never felt before.

I do not believe he would be able to tell you the exact moment when he realized what was happening. He closed his eyes and remembered seeing a bright flash but I don’t think he saw her. He could dream about the past or let it go away. What was keeping him alive? Was it the love or was it all the pain? And in the driver's seat, where he knew his heart should be, was now all over the place. All over the streets. All over the car. He found himself in a position he had never been before and he laid on the ground, while the whole world was upside down.

When you are dying each moment seems to last forever. You are absorbed with a life that is ending, but forget that it leaves off somewhere. Life's last instants count down from one-hundred, just like before a surgery. But eventually, he remembered. He saw he had a wife and she was beautiful and had the most fecund face. No wonder her timeless magnetism brought him blazing down the avenue. He remembered the incredible urgency that brought him to his death. It was an attempt to save a life, or possibly three of them. But this whole day had been a failure and no one would survive.

She realized everything was as it always had been: tragic. Never mind her limbs losing feeling, never mind her body pinned, or her broken bones and collapsed lungs. Never mind the surrounding crowd, or the turbulent sirens of ambulances and fire trucks. The rain washed away their sins that evening. Fate found a way to bring the lovers to each other. The last thing she would ever see was her husband somehow smiling and holding her hand. A romantic accident.

I ran with my apron over my head. The weather had just turned into bullshit. I didn’t want to get soaked for my first day at work. The bus stop dropped me off four blocks away from Bistro, so I sprinted the whole way there, avoiding puddles and dodging erratic traffic conditions. When I open the bar door, I immediately see the face of our cute hostess, but I don’t know her name yet. I am sure she was impressed with my shy hi. The barkeep calls my name as I fumble to tie my smocking together.

 

“The weather’s pretty lousy eh?” he asks with a hand and towel inside a glass.

 

I meander my way through the tables I will be waiting today and quickly wipe the rain off my palms before our handshake. He is a man in his sixties, all white beard and thick white hair past his ears. The best part of his look are his oval, tinted focals. He reminds me of Tommy Chong but I think his name is Dwight.

 

“Which side of the room do I get?” as I squint to see around the dim lit restaurant.

 

“Let’s start you off with that round table in the corner, eh rookie? Look, Mary is about to sit those soldiers,” pointing back to the entrance.

 

“Washington, party of five,” Mary says.

 

So her name is Mary. I’ll need to remember that. As the members of our Armed Services take a seat, I begin walking to their table closely trying to read the nametags on their fatigues. Washington sits in the middle. Jackson and Grant to his left and Hayes and Eisenhower to his right.

 

“Good afternoon officers, how can I serve y’all today?”

 

“We’ll have a round of Budweisers,” Washington speaking with calm assertion.

 

“Alright,” I said. “ I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

 

“Excuse me son,” Jackson interjected. “You wouldn’t happen to be a military brat would ya?” sounding a little less refined than his commanding officer.

 

“Yes sir, my father served in Vietnam, my grandpa fought in the Pacific during the last world war. And my great-grandfather went to fight the Chinese revolution.”

 

“I knew it. You practically saluted us after seeing our lapels just now,” said the lieutenant. “We’re catching the next flight to Afghanistan, but this darn storm is holding up our regiment.”

 

“I’m sure your boys must getting anxious then,” trying to make conversation with a regular Stonewall here. “How long are y’all supposed to be gone for?”

 

“Who knows?” adds Hayes. “ ‘till we get the job done.”

 

Hayes was another lieutenant. Grant and Eisenhower must have been Captains. I could tell by the two silver bars on their collars. Washington wore three silver stars. I walk back to bar and pick up their Buds. The men chat as they wait for their dinner order: five bacon cheeseburgers. They were truly All-American. I bring them their check. This town offers military discounts for everything. They argue shortly about who will pick up the tab, but everyone shuts up as Washington takes out his wallet.

 

 When I return to take their cash, Eisenhower who had been mostly quiet the whole time asks me, “So why aren’t you enlisted son? I’m sure your folks could have gotten you into Woopoo.”

 

“I can’t. They won’t let me in. My darn ankle has a steel plate with nine screws in it. I broke it during baseball season last year,” I reply with my eyes looking at my feet.

 

“Sorry to hear that son,” all eyes on me.

 

The soldiers begin to exit and the rain still pounding down.  I nod them goodbye. Back at the table, my first tip. One hundred-dollar Benjamin.

 

sentí el zeitgeist de sitges abrazándome sobre la vista de la ciudad. lo sentí recorriendo por todos sus pasillos y callejones. me persiguió su fantasma y me llevó a una parroquia con doble patrón. la iglesia de sant bartomeu i santa tecla se ubica arriba de una pared marina donde se puede ver todo el mar y sol español. también se encuentra un cañon puntando hacia el amanecer que protege la villa de cualquier invasión. enseguida de esta pieza de artillería hay una poesía escrita sobre porcelana. me imagino que las familias ancestrales fueron sin duda de las islas de atlantis.  aquí todavía existe la antigüedad. aragón esta a mi oeste y el mediterráneo enfrente de mí.  viendo esto me da un intenso sentimiento de anhelo, pero extrañamente yo pertenezco aquí. las campanas suenan y sé la hora exacta, pero no te puedo decir si estoy soñando o estoy despierto. siento gotas frías bajando sobre mis mejillas, pero no te puedo contar si es la neblina empañando mi rostro o tus lagrimas que me empapan, y como las dos son un poco saladas, tampoco pruebo la diferencia. aquí se celebrara una boda, como ninguna otra. allá lejos flotando en la lontananza, se verá un matrimonio en el mar. ahí sobre una piedra al fin de un malecón, solos y náufragos en la costa cataluña. la congregación mira desde donde yo estoy hoy, viendo hacia abajo, parados arriba de esta fortaleza litoral. el agua brilla resplandeciente con la luz del sol y su reflexión parpadea con cada ondulación. la pareja baja las escaleras a la orilla de la playa enfrente de la iglesia juntos de mano y sus pies dejan huellas pequeñas en la arena. ellos amblan por un embarcadero, acompañados al mismo destino. cuando por fin llegan enfrente del sacerdote parado al fin de la marina, se casan sobre rocas y olas chocando, lejos de todo los demás, solos en el espejismo que sera el matrimonio.    

I figured something out when I saw the sitges seascape. I saw it as I turned the corner, walking along the city seawall where from a cliff a perching parish overlooks the spanish shore and sun. a single cannon stands pointing towards the sunrise, protecting the inland from invasion. you will find a poem scribed in porcelain next to this piece of artillery jubilee. the city’s founding families were no doubt etruscan in origin, but I also suspected something atlantean. aragon was to the west and the mediterranean was right in front of me. there was a feeeling of intense longing, but I oddly belonged here. church bells chime and I know the exact time, but i can’t tell you if I am dreaming or living. I feel drops run down my cool cheeks, but i can’t tell if it is mist or from the glands in my body, and both being slightly saline, I don’t taste the difference. a wedding would take place here, unlike any other. out there in the offing of the sea, where two lovers will be joined in matrimony.  there, on the rock stretching at the end of the pier, like castaways on the catalonian coast. the congregation watches from where I stand today, looking down from above this seaboard fortress. the water is shining and brilliant with the sun. a couple walks down the shorey steps onto the beach holding hands and their barefeet leave tiny footprints in the sand. they amble to the boardwalk, escorting each other down the isle, like they are walking a pirate’s plank. when they finally meet the priest standing at the end of their lonely journey, he weds them over boulders and crashing water, away from everything else, alone in the mirage that is their marriage.

the past ten years were filled with intense migration. much of the maturity took place overseas or over skies. as one brother moved further away, the rest would follow. visitations doubled in distance but grew exponentially more important. what we were, there is no name for.

i knew I could find the sort of inner verse i was looking for if i duly studied and at twenty years old for a whole year, I rhymed without reason and left behind a loose collection of romance that won't be too relevant to the story you are really reading. however, a tour to the most romantic place on earth would definitely bring it all back. all it took was a roman holiday for a tragic anniversary. a typical tovar experience.

“tovar, what time is it?" - i asked my oldest brother.

"3:33," responding in suprisingly good italian.

"talking here is amazing isn't it?”  as i sped up to his pace. 

“so is walking,” he answered strolling down the palatine.

you had to be careful with him sometimes. he was always looking to trip you up. even walking up palace steps, i was still vulnerable. he wore a dark blue hoodie and even bluer jeans. our clothes were as interchangeable as our names. most people would often confuse us for the other, especially our grandmother. maybe it was our grey-green eyes, or our soft brown hair, or the blonde scruff on our chin. all our features down to the glass frames were identical, but his face was a little different now. some say men never age, perpetually traveling on cloud.  

i did think a lot about vapour in rome. vapourization. tiny drops of liquid suspended in air. floating orbs shining in reflective light. two-times timeless was the air there. the only place in the world that could make you feel like audrey hepburn and a gladiator.

and his new son was the topic of much discussion. little was known about the father my brother would be. i was excited and he was excited. everyone was very excited.

separating from the rest, we reconvened our speech.

“do you think he will remember any of this?”

“ya, there are plenty of pics”

six hundred twenty three to be exact, or so flickr claimed. who knew what other dotcom he had managed to infiltrate by now. he googled, tweeted, and texted all by age one. international phenom out of brussels. the little gilley.

“remember when you came to new york to visit me,” he asked.

“and I got you fired from the associated press,” I laughed back.

there was a hilarious moment once when the ap no longer required of my brother's employment. he was dating his boss and over a nice bistro dinner I had him fired, unintentionally of course. a teenager at the time, I made an inappropriate comment about their relationship. she didn't take it so well, but he simply shrugged it off and we still joked about it. 

“what was her name again,” I asked. I begged.

“mafalda,” he lied. he laughed.

the hills were beautiful that early morning in rome. the eternal city shining like it has been. I still seemed to orbit around him, but he kept distancing himself from the rest of the galaxy. that is how he brought me here, by expanding the universe like the higgs boson. it was unbelievable looking down from such great heights at the original beverley hills. we were guests in nero's gardens. his playpen was ours. a crib like hugh hefner's.

I wanted to teleport across the forum and into the colliseum. I wanted to vapourize before his eyes. implode into nothing and move all matter elsewhere; to another time or another place. rome was an ancient rock from the past. a rock you could pick up and put in your pocket. everyone could steal a piece. it seemed like we were jumping from continent to continent like flashes of a memory, holding conversations in our predestined destinations.

“time here has stopped,” I mentioned. 

“it will never stop for you though.” he was right. his white beard had grown out like a tiger's.

“I feel like i've been here before,” assuring my seriousness.

“we have...,” after pausing for a moment.

I learned there were metal detectors at the gates of heaven. the plate around my ankle would surely set it off but they had been expecting us at st. peter's late that afternoon and we walked on through without alarm. like a pilgrimage fulfilled, we had to change clothes and skin. the coronation was about to begin and while all eyes were on me, I couldn't help but stare at the frozen bronze bees on the gatekeeper's baldaquin.

“why are relationships so situational?” I whispered to my brother aside while inside the impressive temple, surrounded by the giants of another time.

“so you hold on to people for as long as you can,” my brother, sounding more like a father.

leaving vatican city there were cameras and reporters already waiting. over the years my brother had gotten better at avoiding the media, especially when he was with the family. I understood the commitments certain responsibilities are attached with, but I was hoping that during the holidays, life could return to normal. I knew it would have been hard for the whole day to remain undiscovered. my brother left to meet them but i ditched it and got in a taxi.

“how is the tovar family doing in rome this holiday season?” - checked one female reporter with a heavy accent. 

“we can see you are visiting with your brother. does he have a few words he wants to say?” - an even better question as i stepped inside the vehicle.

and of course someone asked, “how is the new son?”.

“everyone is great. thanks for asking,” - firmly smirking for the people snapshooting.

he looked back towards the cab before finishing his reply to the press to make sure i had not left him.

“i am sure one of you must know that my birthday is this coming christmas eve...as it always is. we all decided it would be quite pleasurable to return a visit to our mediterrenean neighbors, so we are so fortunate that roma would have us for the season's festivities. i am sorry, wish I had more time with you all but I must be going now. my son he is doing fine. he is a joy,” the perfect response, and like houdini, we managed to slip through their fingers.

the vapour I had been feeling finally settled into fog. it moved with the flow of automobiles and vespas. traffic here was like the schools of fish in the sea with no direction in mind except for the collective current of individuals. I kept my head close to the car window and through the condensation and haze I could see him coming back to me.

“are we going to make it to dinner with gilley?”  sensing a change in the wind.

“yeah, he is waiting with his mother at the hotel,” but i wasn't so sure that was true anymore. 

they weren't at the hotel that evening. instead of the rendezvous, tovar told our morrocan cabby to head for the airport. i was glued to the window the whole ride out. i loved to see the city light fall away like that and the incandescent vapor glowing around like a halo. I didn't ask him any questions and sat silently watching the invisible city. he never said a word either; I think transfixed on the same thing. outside the atmosphere somewhere, two chondrites vaporized before our eyes. they scorched across the ambit sky and their trails were so visible and undeniable. we each got a shooting star that night.

“they weren't supposed to know we were here. sorry about that,” he said whole heartedly.

“it's gonna happen. don't worry about it,” I felt myself starting to get drowsy.

ten years ago the night would have ended differently. after the bistro in new york we took a cab back to his tiny brooklyn apartment. the bridge stood over still black water and I couldn't tell a star from a streetlight reflecting back at me. I was happy to have cleared tomorrow's schedule, my brother freshly unemployed then. ten years ago the night would have been dark, empty, and asleep. no paparazzi following us home. 

“when are you going to call them?” I asked while attempting to recline my air france cabin seat.

“as soon as we're home,” he reaffirmed, closing his eyes next to me.

I didn't know where home was anymore. I came to love so many places and so many people. I fell in love with every stranger I met. strange lands became home to me and the seas were more like puddles. we weren't nationals of anywhere but  cosmopolitans and cosmonauts. flying over the mediterrenean, I sunk into a shallow sleep. 

! won thgir thghiarts oot ees t'nac !         
                              my puddly pupils leaking ink
                                                      our eyes swimming in
                                               pools, drowning in a dram of
                                                       dreams i can't type well                                                                distracted thumbs
                                                              attempting to spell
                                                          finger fumbling fare -
                                               - wells one pixel per minute
                                                    on lines of best fit i can't
                                                      think or speak right this
                                                    doesn't make much sense
                                             how much mush is too much                                                 mush? why are you reading
                                             this on the moon? do you
                              put your thoughts there too
? ecaf yelsiaq sih ees uoy nac ?   

tarnished and reddening

pretty girls like lying
cute pathetic little things
to keep their eyes from crying
their words mean anything

what hurts most is waiting

no one knows this avenue
the way you know i do
no one saw foamy neptune
drowning near the moon
and they won't see the mercury
sinking in our sea

a road full of constellations
a firmament on land
a lane of inspiration
only you will understand

no one knows this avenue
the way you know i do
no on knew that leo
was hiding in the zoo
whoever saw our comet?
how long is it overdue?

i dream i drive this every day
the gateway is my milky way
within the ambit of the skies
light years pass before sunrise

no one knows this avenue
the way you know i do
no one feels the polaris
pulling me from the west
they don't know every eclipse
brings me closer to your lips

in the city, you are the stars
lamplights beaming heaven bright
in the dark, riding shiny cars
piloting the fervent night

but no one knows this avenue
the way you know i do
no one hears the echo
the voice my ears pursue
they don't sense the magnetic
power of this rhetoric

in my last ascension, past the devil's tower
climbing up a mountain, into your exclusive bower
the highest house in texas, the brightest star i know
untouchable beauty, above the city's glow

you love everything i write