2010

The storm down here in Santa Cruz sure does stir up some gnarly waves. At the lighthouse the waves were bouncing off the rocks and making huge waves that crashed into each other. It was pretty epic. This photo doesn’t do it justice.

A little boy runs Through a crowded market place His arms held out As he weaves between all the people A little toy airplane Held tight in his outstretched hand He runs along With a smile plastered on his face Making airplane noises All around him is the sound Of a society Perpetually on the move Haggling, arguing Agreeing, thanking All the mouths moving As they converse amongst each other The boy hears a loud noise He slows as he runs It alone stands out One noise in a world of clatter It rings in his ears Finally he stops As the pounding noise Is right in front of him Looking at the market stall Placed before him A butcher stands A meat cleaver in one hand Humming happily As he chops into the meat Of an animals dead corpse The crack of bones As the metal crushes The animal’s dead body Crack crack crack It echoes in the boys ears As the butcher wedges the knife Out of the cutting board Out of the pile of pulverized meat The butcher wipes the blood On his white apron Laughing as he notices the boy Standing there motionless His arms dangling limp At his sides The butcher brings the cleaver down Again and again The boy flinches each time Following each little movement With eyes wide Hands gripping tightly onto The little toy airplane The butcher spits to the side And looks down his nose At the small innocent boy He snorts again You wanna try kid? It’s fun He holds out the cleaver Stained in blood The little boy drops the toy And steps forward Out of his old world And into a new one As he grabs onto the knife To big for his tiny hands The forgotten toy sits on the ground It is crushed beneath the crowd As it moves forward Always moving The boy doesn’t notice The crack of bones resounds Echoing into a crowd that doesn’t listen And doesn’t care Except for the little crushed airplane toy That lays broken and forgotten As a boy walks away from innocence Into a world of blood As the cleaver falls

I love visiting missions, there is always something magical about them. The feeling of history. Knowing that this place held so much meaning to so many people. There is always a hint of sadness, an emptiness that surrounds them. I have posted some photos of other missions like Mission San Miguel and Mission Hallways. This mission in San Juan Bautista is one of my favorites. Not just because it has a red door, but because I went there as a kid. It was the first mission I ever went to and I still loving going there.

You were so cute, I saw you on the beach playing with your dog. I wonder why you were wearing a bee suit. It doesn’t really matter though you looked amazingly cute in it. You are actually the main reason I came down to the beach. I saw you from up above and knew I had to see you up close. Thank you for being so cute, never loose it 😉

All the things we see around us everyday we start to take for granted after a while. One way I combat this is trying to look at things in a different way. Here is a simple recipe to remind you of the greatness of everyday things (or things you simply become very acquainted with): Look at it from a different angle. Whether it is standing only centimeters away from it so you can see the dust standing on the tip of a needle, or in this cause a cactus, or looking at it upside down. The world can be viewed through a million different angles. Pick one and use it to change your perspective. ...

There is the quiet hum Of a T.V. on silent Sterilized white walls Everything is so quiet Yet so very loud Footsteps echo in the halls Whispers sound like screams As they fall on dying ears Do you know who you are Or why you are here? Who ever knows Who ever will As they roll Another one away Down a long hallway That they never come back from He is the one who remains Locked in by See through curtains That cast shadows around him And thousands of tubes He is always alone No one ever at his side No family No friends No memories in the night To keep him company In the darkest hours of night Where the ghosts are so close And death stands at the foot Of his skinny little bed Telling him to come along It is finally your time There is just a pile of old postcards That he bought for himself What feels like a lifetime ago From all the places he had been And said he would never forget But now he can’t remember Anything at all He forgets where he is And who he is He is separated and detached From reality By what he lacks Waiting all alone In a white washed room With only a T.V. on mute For company And a stack of empty postcards All waiting for the inevitable The one thing he can never forget That death is lingering So very close He can feel its breath Whispering in his ear In a hospital room where Lethe Swept him away from all he knew And ever loved For him there is no future Or a past He is floating in an abyss Stuck between heaven and hell As the monitor beeps Slower and slower The man turns his head And looks at the postcards With old weary eyes He reaches with his weighted hands Shaking and fumbling As he picks one up A little smile on his dried cracked lips I remember He whispers but no one hears As the monitor stops And a lone tear Slips from his eye Staining the postcard As it falls Drifting slowly to the ground Remembered at last