Monday, September 21, 2015

art is subjective

A gallery of faces and not a name to remember.

You place your finger to your lips and look into their countenance.

Your index erect as your thoughts and desires.

Are you working or walking?

You pause, at the pallid and cool spritely expression.

Your gaze wanders to me, and question so much without words.

"How did I never know this?"

A museum of memories and not a future to unfold.

You heave a sigh, and move along.

Just like the other nameless ones.

The gallery is empty.

I never bought a painting after that.



Sunday, August 2, 2015

Friday, May 8, 2015

face

I felt the warmth first, and then as I woke I felt a hand over my mouth.
"Shhh!"
This was a man's voice, and all I could see was the silhouette of his head looming over me.
Hand firmly gripped over my mouth, close to my nose, but not enough that I couldn't breathe..
He was holding me still. It felt like his other hand was on my shoulder and his knee was pressed into my hip.
Frozen.

My eyes looked around him at the ceiling, faintly making sense of the room I was in.
A small amount of light came from the window, but it wasn't enough to let me see his face.
I heard a scratching from somewhere else in the room. Three scrapes against the paint, and that's when I saw the face behind him.

Shadowed. Hollow.

Red eyes looking down upon both of us.

Then the red eyes quickly grew larger and that was when I realized it was coming down on us.


And I woke.


Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Silly

The world used to write secret thoughts in diaries and journals and get upset when people read them. 


Now we write secret thoughts in blogs and online publications and get upset when people don’t read them. 



d

I left you with 
saltwater on my shirt
in a hurried day of which I knew
There would be no turning back
No fixing a little bump or scrape
I was already checked out and cold
My knees were weak, and I just wanted to touch you
The light was fading
Dimming and making me question myself
Squinting at the clouds overhead
wishing it would rain
so you couldn't see the monsoon inside
but you could always feel that part of me
and this is why you gracefully bowed out
why you knew that I was broken
It was never about money
but I welcomed the favors and the mention
I spent today thinking I would see you
I spent yesterday doing the same
I dreamt of nothing, wishing you were there
Open and honest
We were always right
Always sensing what the other would not speak
I cried alone
Days upon days not knowing where I was driving
Listening to the music you gave me
Finding a desire to hear you speak
feeling your lips touch my ear
Putting the phone to my face and putting it down
Never dialing
Giving you space
I wandered the desert
Holding myself against mountains
Remembering your warmth
Kicking up dust and throwing rocks
Escaping to California
Bleeding
I have become a siren
Calling them into my song
Yet more human, because of you
Everything reminds me of you
This city has echoes of us
I find myself walking
in the same route we always did
Sometimes I wish I could find a different one
Sometimes I just don't think about it
I picture you with my guitar
Incense burning
Entertaining someone who deserves you
while I am in North Carolina
Remembering my father
Talking to my mother
standing under a waterfall alone
hiding the waterfall inside
Americano iced
everything but the kitchen sink
sleep
text
call
kiss
goodbye
I love you
see you soon?

Eat your words.

Hi, my name is Zachariah, and I used to think I was an alcoholic…

When you’re born in Florida and you live on an island with wild boars and third cousins on a citrus farm- you might be convinced you’re inbred or adopted.
I always assumed I was part of a human trafficking story. 
Mostly because I moved so many times and could barely keep track of where we were or where we were heading.
My mother and I were gypsies in our own way.. Or we were in witness protection. Who fucking knows?


Sometimes in Florida I also fantasized about being an alien, because we used to be able to see the rockets take off from the Kennedy Launch Pad from the house.
My uncle told me that in january of 86 they saw the challenger explode in the air right in front of their faces.

My heritage is a little bizarre.

On my father’s side we are Cherokee and Irish.
On my mother’s side we are Cherokee, blackfoot, and Irish.

My Godmother is Cuban.
My friends were dominican, korean, and japanese, because my father was a martial artist and stunt trainer for Universal.

We moved from Florida, to Ohio, to Michigan, back to Ohio, and Then finally stayed in Michigan where I finished most of my schooling.

When my mother re-married she had four half puerto rican babies. Their grandmother is from Ecuador.
My uncle married a Filipino woman and had two children.


None of us look related. But we all have a common love for food and drinks

You could never eat enough or drink enough.
If you were skinny, it was because you didn’t eat.
If you were sad, it was because you didn’t eat.
If you were tired, it was because you didn’t eat.

I wanted to strangle abuelita so many times when she tried to force me to eat more rice, beans, platanos, ham, and salad.


My mother’s father and I were especially close.

I took my first steps with him. I played in mud with him and pissed my mom off.
We took road trips. Shot rifles. Climbed trees. Jumped on trampolines.
He was unstoppable. We instigated trouble.

Jim Sutton (my grandfather) was a navy brat and war veteran. He was my favorite person. 

Every time I ran away or needed a place to go during my times of change I would stay with him.

When I was sixteen he taught me some pretty interesting things that most parents would flip their shit about…

How to roll a joint.- Which I have honestly forgotten how to do.. How to make THC butter. The kind that puts you in a coma.. And how to play roulette & craps.
He taught me how to cook Lasagna, and because of it I would win every time my mother and I would have a contest.

Also, how to make a very tasty margarita.

A Margarita is 7 parts Tequila, 4 parts Cointreau, and 3 parts Lime Juice… Squeeze lime juice on the rim of the glass, and dip the edges in sea salt till it coats the outside. Garnish with a lime wedge.

A budweiser is 5% alcohol and is a pale lager made by Anheiser-busch.

The requirements to drink these are:

  1. Don’t be a piece of shit.
  2. If you’re up and I’m out we simply say,”SinceYewWas!” which is the shortened version of “Since you are up and walking over there, grab me another one please.”

My grandfather grew up quite poor, so he always had interesting ways of turning food into an experience.

When I was very young he would make popcorn on the stove. Oil a pan, place the kernels inside, and keep the burner on until they start to pop rapidly.

Now most people get the popcorn going, put a lid on it, and go about their business. 

We never did that. we had no intention of making popcorn to sit on our ass and watch a movie.
 Once the popcorn was popping- he kept the lid off and we would catch the puffs of corn in our mouths and watch it fly everywhere in the kitchen.
That was our entertainment. 

It was messy and probably had a chance of burning an eyeball or two, but it was so exciting.

smiles everywhere.

Another treat he loved to make was butter sandwiches.

Butter is full of fat and cholesterol so in order to stay satiated and not feel hungry, his parents would feed them butter slapped between two pieces of white bread.
Most of the meals they had were stews and soups with bread and corn. Maybe potatoes. Cheap items.
My great grandfather was a butcher, so sometimes they got lucky and were able to bring home strip steak or flanks. 

I know the gluten/vegan people out there are cringing, but you do what you have to do to survive. 

All of our talks about life, goals, and aspirations were in the kitchen.

Whether we were making margaritas. Singing Karaoke. Dancing. Taking pictures.

Everything revolved around this ugly, 1970’s kitchen table and these bright canary yellow chairs that had wheels on them, and they would swivel.

My grandfather would sit next to the radio and the coffee maker, chain smoke, and I would sit across from him, and we would just talk.

Sometimes we’d pass a joint back and forth. Drink coffee. 

He gave me my first guitar when I was 15 and I learned how to play, “silver wings, shining in the sunlight” by Merle Haggard.

He encouraged me to talk to all types of people.
My grandfather thought I didn’t know, but he was kind of like the halfway house for druggies and alcoholics. 
There would always be someone staying in his extra bedroom or the back house that was made like an insulated barn.

We would have dinner with his friends. My friends. His girlfriends who were always 20 years younger than him. 

I taught a lot of his girlfriends how to slow dance.

They taught me how to kiss and be affectionate.

Sounds weird now saying that out loud, but at the time it just made sense.



During one conversation with my grandfather when I was 20- I looked at him sipping his coffee and smoking his cigarette.

He looked at me and said,”What’s up Zachy?” 

I told him with a blank face that “you’re going to die at this table one day.”

He laughed and said,”Maybe you’re right!”

Then we talked about his cancer and alternative therapies he was trying.

Accupuncture. Herbal remedies. Nicotene patches. 

On Tuesday October 16th, 2007 I was right.

My grandfather died at his kitchen table at home by himself while he was having his morning coffee and a cigarette.

That table has since been removed.

The house was renovated.

His belongings went to myself and my brothers and then to charity.

My uncles stole a lot of things out of selfishness.

My mother and my siblings live in his old house that was built by my great grandfather.

It was a sad time. It is still hard, but we have all grown.

I think when people die you either try to forget them or as my grandfather would prefer to say,”You keep the dream alive.”

So when we finished renovating the house I started doing a lot of the things my grandfather would do.

I let people stay with me if they needed to get away from an abusive situation.

We always cooked enough food for guests to come over and join us.

My mother and I would make margaritas and play music loudly in the kitchen and dance around.

Even when I wasn’t home, I would find myself in the kitchen of someone else’s home.

Cooking, talking, or just doing their dishes for them while having conversation.

I would bring my guitar with me and we would sing songs together or make up funny renditions of songs we hated.

We subconsciously celebrated my grandfather's life and the magical things he taught me.

And of course, the pivotal moment in my life and something that made me feel even closer to my little brothers and even closer to my grandfather...

Was making popcorn on the stove and seeing them laugh and catch the popped kernels as they flew all over the kitchen off of the stove.

As they’ve grown older, I have witnessed them do it on their own accord, and now there are three generations of young men who learned how to let go and have fun.

Something so simple becomes so magical. 

     My name is zachariah and I realize I’m not an alcoholic.

I’m not a foodie. Or a drug abuser. I’m not an alien. I’m not a kidnapped victim.

I just learned from a very important man who traveled the world that life is too short to sit still and never laugh or dance.