2006 Journal Notes

2 Jan 06
Santa Monica Beach

The waves are brutal and relentless with their angry pounding against the sands. The years of being beaten by natural and unnatural forces is laid bare for all to see. The winds blow down from the Arctic touching down briefly in Southern California. The air smells of the melting ice cap with its billion year old freshness colliding with contemporary pollution. I have walked to the beach to see the sea, to wave across the Pacific Ocean in a futile gesture that fails to embrace the totality of my desire to touch the many lost precious stones that glow in the distance.

I can hear the siren sing:

Come closer so that I may wet your face
With the salty mist that is my voice
Hear the lyrics that will melt your will
And toss you into the deep

Ignore the white foam
Walk further to the west
Explore the hidden faults
That jut in and out as you sleep

Kiss my lips as they melt away
Into chasms so vast
Continents could disappear
In a silent tear

Hold the hands
Of double-suicides splashing
Refusing to swim
Applauding the violent tide

The strong winds disspiate the voice just in time for me to forget the melody that could have lodged itself into a dream.

I walked several miles along the beach in an attempt to recover memories and thoughts that will be necessary for another year of life on earth.

13 June 06
Venice, CA

Trying not to imagine the horrific possibilities.  Saw a photographic image that confirmed my worse fears.  Cannot explain.  Instead, I'll work to create objects that can barely sustain their own weight.  Objects that have no function whatsoever.   I'll put them into the world in the hopes that they'll do no harm to the sensibilities of viewers.  The sun is shining brightly and the cool winds are blowing the sounds of a distant war towards an unlistening population.  

I cannot speak today.  The words will not come from my mouth.  A strange moaning replaces the music that I'd like to sing.  Odd hisses comprise my vocabulary.  Any verbal statement could attract the most violent creatures.  It is best for me to remain silent.  The ambient sounds will say everything.

Isolation is a considerable luxury.  

The photographic image is of a young man with his M-16.  

19 September 06
Northridge, North Hollywood, Downtown LA, South Pasadena, and Santa Monica, CA

I walked away from the Northridge eatery absorbed in the lingering subtleties of a conversation that carried echoes of a long-lost dialogue and wondered briefly what it would be like to fall deeply into utter blindness. The weather was intensely hot and the winds were blowing traces of smoke from nearby raging fires and soot from the rush hour traffic.  The workday was over but a simple chore (returning a rented DVD) could be easily delayed but somehow the act of getting the object to its destination in South Pasadena challenged my desire to limit perceptual contact with strangers.  The projected 50+ mile trip (utilizing a $3.00 day pass) along public transporation routes of Metro Bus #240, Metro Bus Orange Line, The Metro Subway Red Line, Metro Light Rail Gold Line as well as the Santa Monica Big Blue Bus Freeway #10 (an additional $1.75 fare) would provide an opportunity for me to examine my own responses to language as it is spoken from lips that will forever be foreign.

15 December 06
Los Angeles, CA

The sand has fallen silently onto the ground.  Everything seems to have stopped.  The entire experience of walking, talking, looking, and longing have spilled out unexpectedly to be scattered at my feet as an unrecognizable pattern of insignicant grains of nothingness.

The sand has blown into my face. The deep cuts will surely lead to unfortunate scarring. My eyes have turned to sandstone seeing only the essence of things that evade hard-won logic.

The sand is burying me quickly yet it isn't quicksand (I imagine it is a synthetic polymer that produces the illusion of sand).  My head protrudes absurdly, alone and speechless, on the vast terrain of a magificient desert with massive dunes that stretch beyond the horizon.

The sand contains flickering particles of gold that keep me entertained as I witness the absolute destruction of self.

journal notes
©2006 Harry Gamboa Jr.