Voiceover Above(NOT THE VIDEO)

I just wanted to say first, before I start anything, that I genuinely appreciate every single person, place, animal, or thing that has engaged with me on this platform in the past, maybe 4 months or so. I had a tiny feeling of a gigantic dream I thought I knew I’d never achieve, and that was to have an actual audience, primarily cultivated through myself and my work, and on top of that a community that I feel really cares or hopes for the betterment of my being. I still feel strange seeing that 100(PLUS) subscriber number on my profile, and I still feel disbelief that this is actually something that is here because of me. I am right in this disbelief because nothing would have been had it not been for you. Thank you all for this place I can call: where my friends live, and not just an app. Thank you.

Provided in this post are my boxing demo rehearsal speech alongside my outline, a little reminder about my Q&A, and a brief response to a set of prompts from my Ethnic Studies Class, on Representation.

I. Q&A!

Little reminder that next week I’m posting a 100 subscriber special where finally my room tour will debut alongside a Q&A based on YOUR QUESTIONS. These don’t just have to be questions, they can also be ideas for future posts, live readings of some of your work if you’re down for that, or anything! I’m experimenting with what I' want to post here, and whether I should start posting on some other platforms (I’ve really been enjoying these quick speeches in class on random topics like Sonic the Hedgehog x Jungian Psychology, and William Blake’s Madman status). Maybe sooner this year you will start to see more video content, who knows. But what you SHOULD know is that you get to decide what can get posted here. Send me any requests!

II. Boxing demo speech

Here’s the outline for my speech tomorrow. Up above is my demoed rehearsal speech for it. The guidelines for it are it has to be between 5 and 6 minutes long so I just barely made it(yay). Also if you are interested in learning how to box, this is a pretty good introduction if you haven’t already watched a YouTube video on it. ㅇㅅㅇ

Melgar, William – Summer 2026 Demonstration Outline:

Topic: Boxing For Fitness

SP: To demonstrate introductory boxing concepts

Thesis: I will show you some stretches you can do before a boxing workout, and some introductory lessons on boxing for fitness.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 

Intro Strategy: (clap thrice with the mitts)

“Do you want to learn how to box? Do you want to learn how to, throw a punch so good, Mike Tyson might give you a scholarship? Well, I can’t teach you that, but what I can do, is teach you: How to walk!” *Walk in a square like a boxer. *

i. Background:

I took boxing class in the winter; haven’t practiced since. This is also a review for me to get back into it. Disclaimer: I signed a waiver for that class, so anything you learn from me, you did not learn from me.

ii. Stretches: Most stretches shown will be done twice(inward/outward)

A.   Wrist circles

B.    Elbow circles (coach would bounce during this stretch)

C.    Shoulder rolls

D.   Arm circle

E.    Hip Circle (punch with your hip)

F.    Knee circle (acknowledge awkwardity)

G.   Heel-toe taps + explain fist method and maintaining fists up)

H.   Ankle rolls

iii. Movement + More: (put on mitts again)

a.     Foot placement (right angle + analogy with your hands and walk around)

b.     Dominant foot to the side

c.     Non dominant foot facing forward

d.     Stay on the balls of your feet (show analogy with your hand)

e.     Keep your fists level with your face always

f.      Tuck your chin (chins may vary, I used to have more; but I lost a lot of weight so now im poorer)

g.     Keep your shoulders tucked (to help block hits from the side)

h.     Now move using your foot closest to wherever you’re going (forward: left foot; backward: right foot)

i.      Punches: Jab (Used primarily for defensive purposes and creating space.)

Conclusion Strategy: (clap once)

That’s it for today; hope you got something useful or at least funny out of this. If you want to learn more, watch YouTube or join the boxing club at SMC.

III. Discussion Post: On Representation

I was asked these questions: What does representation mean to you, who gets represented, what is misrepresentation, and how have your views changed throughout this course? Here’s my post if you’re interested:

( I really like this class actually; next week I think I have to do an autobiography project for it so maybe that’ll also find its way here too :)

I feel like the more this brief, summer class goes on, the more I’m learning about important things I didn’t think were as important before. I feel that representation is a much larger issue or field of stuff than I had thought at first because I wasn’t entirely aware or conscious of how subtle decision-making in what gets shown can drastically change representation in or of a community. Recently, I watched a YouTube video by Therapy Gecko on his trip to Iraq, and I was completely surprised by how unexpectedly normal, or average, Iraq in real life was, compared to my prior belief and idea of Iraq I had before watching it. In that video, I noticed many similarities in their culture to that of some Latin American cultures, and even many parts of Los Angeles culture. Had I never seen or researched further into Iraq, or had I never questioned my beliefs I held to be fact over that country, I never would’ve known or realized just how similar and yet still uniquely beautiful that country was--and that prior belief of this country was built primarily through the commercial online media representation of the country and culture of Iraq.

I believe representation can easily be classified as misrepresentation if there is no equality of attention displayed and given to the broad culture or state of the community being represented. If you only ever see commercial outlets showing negative aspects of a community or concept, you will likely only have negative associations with that concept and thus be more prone to developing a more negative outlook on that said community. This can deeply hinder and limit the community that’s being misrepresented. This community may experience more socioeconomic hardships like finding work, proper housing, or just living(sans injustice), compared to a more moderate, more holistic, perhaps even predominant community in the same city. And as I said at the beginning, I, for a long time, hadn’t fully taken this issue as seriously as I should have. For this, I feel slightly wrought by my previous blindness, but equally so, I’m quite excited that so much has been changing within me throughout the course of this course. I feel much more patriotic now, for all three international communities I’m a part of (Guatemala, El Salvador, America).

THANK YOUUUU I LOVE YOU 9000 LEBRON YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE! :frogholdingownheartbutcute:

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(this one here is the poem:)

            THE  CIRCLE

I inform myself via epistle:
An homage to Paz//Peace.
—Is he not perhaps excessively young?
Or did it turn true
that the present is perpetual
that there is no present but just reality
of a lone instant
—that of the fullness—?
				            If nothing then
clouds the response
may the breaths of us shine
like the faithful fruit:
			            And in Paz.
let’s remain.

          EL  CIRCULO

Me informo por epístola:
Un homenaje a Paz
—¿Qué no es acaso demasiado joven?
¿O resultó verídico
que el presente es perpetuo?
que no hay presente sino realidad
de un solo instante—
el de la plenitud—?
                                         Si nada entonces
empaña la respuesta
que el aliento nos brille
como la fruta fiel:
                                  Y en Paz
quedemos.

                    

Translator’s Notes + A Brief History of Galindo

This is a tribute poem by David Escobar Galindo. Well, it’s not 100% a tribute poem, but it’s very much a tribute to Octavio Paz and his work, as well as to peace. Paz’s last name literally means peace (like Justice Christopher).

This poem was written and published some time before Octavio Paz actually died. The poem came out in around January 1980(if Google is googling me right), while Paz died in 1998. I think that’s why one of the lines asks whether he is too young to be getting a tribute or something? Another thing weird about this part is that it’s sort of in second person, but also in the third.

¿Qué no es acaso demasiado joven?

This can be read as a question about a certain idea or thing like ‘isn’t it far too, excessively young’, but it can also be seen as, in relation to this being a tribute poem, a question this speaker is asking someone else about Paz (Octavio, but again, Paz means Peace, so double meaning). Lastly, about the second person, in some ways you can ask someone this, ‘aren’t you a little too young’, and it’ll work just fine in Spanish. At least I think it does; I wouldn’t question the grammar of the sentence if someone asked me this in person.

The next part of the poem kind of asks a rhetorical question, but that’s more of a reflection on some of the major themes that Paz explores in his works: one of Paz’s things was that he rejected this idea of linear time and history. I’m butchering that, but it’s basically this idea of perpetuity across time and not just a gradual linear process. A much better explanation of this partly eastern philosophical and Aztec mythological concept is shown in Paz’s Sunstone or Piedra de Sol. It’s a 584-line poem, a number which is the exact length of the synodic period of Venus (the planet) in the Aztec calendar, that blends a lot of memory, time, eroticism, politics, and just human connection overall, in a way that tries to capture Paz’s idea of that cyclical nature of time and the present.

This is where the idea of the circle comes into play in Galindo’s poem, with the idea of the present being perpetual and that all space and time overlap, which is sick. And the idea of breath is also a major theme in Paz’s work, I think; I haven’t read it, but check out The Bow and The Lyre if you’re interested.

Something cool is that Octavio Paz was kind of friends with Galindo. Well, not actually friends, but in the same way that Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy both admired each other’s work, but never actually met up or became real life, irl friends, Paz and Galindo were something closer to intellectual peers, but who still, like the Russians, deeply revered and were influenced by each other’s work.

Fun fact about the Galindo: David Escobar Galindo, a Salvadorean poet, played an extremely crucial role in the negotiations and ultimate signing of The Chapultepec Peace Accords, signed on January 16, 1992, at the Chapultepec Castle in Mexico City. This ‘officially’ ended the 12-year civil war in El Salvador.

Despite this not really changing a whole lot of anything in terms of safety and peace in El Salvador (as Salvadorean immigrants from America were being deported back to the now at peace and docile nation, not exactly too ready for war with guerilla fighters), this treaty, sometimes called The Peace Accords, still marked a turning point in Salvadorean history.

An interview of Galindo’s thoughts on the signing of the Peace Accords on Youtube:

Galindo also served as Salvadorean President Alfredo Cristiani’s personal representative on the government negotiating commission during or around the time of signing the Peace Accords.

So, on top of the tribute to Octavio Paz and Galindo’s general inclination towards peace(something notable about his poetry), this background and history add an extra layer of history and comparative perspective to his poem here. Bro didn’t just write about peace: he actually negotiated and worked toward actual real peace. He did the whole shebang! And he’s a lawyer! (shoutout Goethe and Wallace Stevens).

So yeah. That’s basically it for now. Let me know if you guys have any extra questions and stuff in the comments or dm. Thanks for reading this! See you Sunday!

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Most of this information I was able to grab from this interview transcript in Spanish on the UN digital library, I think. Check it out if you’re interested. I’m not sure if there’s an English translation of this yet, but I’m sure you can Google or find a summary of it online somehow.

Also, a brief biography of Galindo is found here

El Círculo by Galindo: https://www.cervantesvirtual.com/obra/el-circulo-1258804/

more poems by galindo: https://www.scribd.com/document/772343765/El-viaje-circular-David-Escobar-Galindo

interview: https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/503263/usage?ln=fr&v=pdf

biography of Galindo(not the creepypasta) : https://www.scribd.com/document/954746305/Biography-of-David-Escobar-Galindo

Sunstone by Octavio Paz: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/886142/sunstone-by-octavio-paz

I like how, even as we get older, I still cling onto much of what I clung onto as a kid, albeit now as an adult.

As a kid, me being a timid gallant little boy(still pretty timid but no longer ‘gallant’), I’d love to listen to and watch these BabyFirst nighttime programs on cable, or DirecTV. These nighttime programs I would watch were just these collections of simple videos of multiple random things, all in one sort of shuffling playlist. They were often accompanied by music, too. It felt like almost an album or something. I remember I’d record them and save them onto the DirecTV cable thing, and then when I’d go to bed, I’d pick out a specific set list of clips and videos to go to bed to, yeah, like if it were an album or something.

One of these videos was called Sandman. This was one of my favorites. It was of a hand playing with sand over a beige, dark beige, creamy, almost wooden, light screen. All you could see on the TV was the warm glow of the beige and the moving shadow of a hand, likely the sandman’s hand. Whenever this video played, there first came cool, calming music to set the tone, and during this tonesetting, the Sandman’s hand would flush the screen with sand. Once it was poured, the sand would cover the light behind the screen and create this sort of inverted boogie board effect or something. A canvass. Then the sandman would start to draw these animals and pictures all so smoothly and somehow inaudibly. I say inaudibly because whenever I looked at it, I could feel and believe the sound into my mind, and I could feel how the sand would feel under my little pudgy fingertips. How flourlike and yet still grainy it would feel as my thumb thumbed over the board of sand. But aside from that, I would feel so wooed by the lullaby music that eventually I’d forget I was awake, and I’d fall asleep, maybe. I really like and think fondly of this video clip now.

Another video I remember now was of this digital lullaby spinning thing that babies have over their cribs or beds and stuff; it was the ones with dinosaurs and animals and fruits and planets and stuff, and it would spin around above your head. That’s what I saw on the screen, but because it was on the screen, it now reminds me of a carousel. Actually, it was a carousel, but it was also those lullaby things. I’m not sure. It was big, and it looked the size of a carousel, but I’m not entirely sure, though. I can’t remember it that well. Well, I liked that one too, but the sand drawings were better.

Another video in these nighttime program set lists was of these cubes slowly falling in 3-D onto a sparse, empty gray plain, where they’d stack and land on top of or next to each other, slowly building into or becoming either a blank wall or sometimes a picture of something, like a duck, but out of colored blocks. I always felt less sleepy when I saw this one because I wanted to see where the next block would land, and if it would land safely, even though I knew it would always land somewhere safe. I didn’t like this one; it wasn’t really about the pictures, though. It was all about the familiarity of both the lullaby videos I’d see all the time and the order in which I’d see them that night.

Pixies BabyFirst duck.

There were also a few clips of colors like paint, swirling around everywhere over a voidlike white screen. This was also one of my favorites. I’d love seeing the different colors swirl into each other like the way you suddenly, randomly somewhere in the world, after having been thinking about a random memory in the past, are reminded of another memory, somewhat farther down in the past that makes you think of someone you love, simply because you remembered them being alive during the time of that random, often embarrassing memory, and then that thought soon turns into you lamenting your could have been memories with them, and how you wished you could have reached out more or that you should’ve done something else, albeit futile to their terminal fate, still just something to make yourself feel less at fault for now this truth and, and in another world certainly treatable sorrow...and how now you now wish you could just stop thinking about this altogether, and actually start listening to what your teacher was saying about Eureka or Northern California, that in spite of his almost crippling loss of two of his toes, he can still walk and marathon on, and has marathoned on for two real marathons, and then...well yeah. When I think of those swirling colors mixing like oils, transformed, strung out thin and kind of connected, but still not fully mixed as one, like steven universe or something, I think of these chained connected thoughts that randomly resurface whenever just the right amount of something thinks into my mind, and makes me think of another thing, and another thing, and another until I slip into blankly staring at something random at home or at school, and I have to use eyedrops to moisten my eyes again, but because I don’t use eyedrops, I’m left dry-eyed and blinky, looking like someone who needs eyedrops but doesn’t have any because they don’t use them. I like feeling emotions like that, and this specific video clip, for some reason, reminds me of this fact so dearly.

BabyFirst color symphony

I don’t watch these programs anymore, as I either just forget to do so or I just don’t really want to. I don’t want to crack this pearly nostalgia of childhood into reality, but I do sometimes think about it a lot.

My dad would do a similar thing that I used to do, but with the news, or some game, or some other news but in Spanish. It was maybe some four years ago that I remember discovering this. I was maybe 16. He still sometimes does that thing now, but I go to sleep too early now to see it. He works evening shifts, so he needs to stay up later than I do. I used to stay up because I was, well, yeah. Back to babies.

I don’t typically watch these programs now as I’ve transitioned into ASMR and Spotify, but the effects and purposes of this nightly ‘ritual’ haven’t really changed. What I notice most of the time now is that I like to watch something, not so much as to be entertained but more so to have something play in the background while I fall asleep. I know that sounds redundant, but it’s deeper than that. I think that the reason I like this is because it grounds me falsely into the belief that everything is still moving, and I’m not going anywhere when I fall asleep. It’s as if, upon hearing the music, or the ASMR, still playing as I close my eyes, it makes me feel like someone. Maybe my SHADOW like Sonic and Shadow!!! Sonic the Hedgehog is an accurate aesthetic rendering of Jungian Psychology. But yeah, listening to these things makes me feel like someone is saying to me:

hey.

We’re still here.

Everything’s still moving.

You can fall asleep now.

You are still safe.

You are not going anywhere.

You will not die.

And that’s comforting to me, and it’s in some ways what made me love those programs as a kid, especially now. It’s probably in some way what my dad thinks of it. I haven’t asked him yet, but yeah. I just thought that was something interesting I noticed a few months ago. I rarely remember my childhood now that I think of it. My family says, well, mainly my dad and sometimes my sister, but mainly my dad says this because we joke around a lot. My dad says that because I suffered so many drops and falls on the head, often to the back of my head, all of those hits have made me who I am today. And to be honest, that’s even more hilarious now that I type it out. It was already hilarious when he said it. He never actually said it, but he would say:

¡Por tantos golpes que te has dado en la cabeza, ya te estás poniendo como tu hermano! Tú, tu hermano. PUCKK!

It’s a new arc in our personal lore that our fat cat Puck is now part of our family, and that he’s my brother and that, well...I’ll get to it another time. There’s a lot of endearing love that goes into this lore-making by the way. It comes up just on its own, and whenever I explain it to someone, I feel partially convinced of our insanity, and at the same time, I just can’t help but smile to share this with someone. It’s really a form of love. Telling your son, or being told by your dad, that because of all the blows to the back of your head as a child, you are now the way that you are, and that you resemble a fucking cat? I could not ask for anything else today.

Now, that’s pretty much all I wanted to talk about today. I hope you enjoyed this, or at least found a little bit of how I went to sleep as a child, and sometimes now, somewhat or mildly interesting. I hope this didn’t waste your time, but if it did, that’s okay. I am not legally responsible for your suffering.

This is the end now.

The end.

(Thank you so much for being here. You mean more than nothing to me, and nothing means a lot sometimes, so, yeah, go scream at your wall now to that holy knowledge. I can’t wait to hear what you all think. Your thoughts are always so magical to me. Its honestly crazy though, just one more thing, I know I’m sorry I’m dragging, but ever since being on here, I’ve been getting so so much love and generosity by just random strangers for whatever it is that I do, and its been exposing me to handling compliments more and I never thought I had to learn to do that, so thank you so much again for this support. It’s always unreal whenever I look back at everything here.)

Like slight hammered, malleted, jagged

bent pipes were the thick branches of this

one, shedding lacebark elm tree, which stood

center of its decreed round bed between

the small floor of neighboring leaf tattered bricks, and an

elevated wide park square canvas scene, dry,

housed by the welcomed surreal arts,

and the sculptors who now roamed here, was

what we saw.

A yearning leaf, hung low from its let

dragging a thin barked veiny branch down

from the air by its wrist, dangling, offered

me a diamond-like translation, or refinery

of a yellow sunlight: greened and glittery.

It wished to become itself: the ground.

In the foreground,  this quiet leaf, where

behind it was a just vogue green bushlike tree.

Almost a Pine, but with spineclots of leaves, almost like

webbed feet, and the cobwebs hiddenly worn all around.

The bushtree.

It looked almost like if a geiser, a spurting

arterial geiser, was photographically captured,

and netted right as it was gushing out

foamy white burning water, from the

dirt slint ground. A pale spurting still conifer.

ii.

The chirpings and the squeals of our neighbors in

the trees came like occasional constructions

of random buildings, or prisons; and the liveliness

of the voices here made for great life and lungs,

of this here park square;

And the bodiless whines and playful scuttles,

and the distant paired caws, and flaps renewed

our old joys, and innocence.

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thank you for reading 🤍ㅇㅅㅇ🤍

let me know your thoughts in the comments! hope you enjoyed!

bye bye'!

I couldn’t get a post out this week!

I swear i’m not retiring and i’m not deformed

I just need a little bit of time if you will be so kind.

As a recompense for this wet fart post of a post

Ima post TWO, that’s right, TWO new pieces this week!(wow so generous 🫪)

One on Tuesday, maybe a repost of a poem from my notes wasteland on here, and then a journal thing on Sunday.

(Now that I think about it that’s still the same number, I just postponed it but--WHATEVER)

Two post form now on!

I hope you all a can get or got a good nights sleep this Sunday, and I hope you all goood start to your week; and much love from me to you

and all that gobbledy goo!

Bye bye! It’s almost 11pm now and I gotta get some sleep for my finals tmr.

Thank you everyone! Thank you so much for your irreplaceable time spent with me, and good night you wonderful you’s !

Today I got my hair cut.

Last time, the last time I got my hair cut it was maybe about a few weeks or so ago, and I really did feel like I finally found a good hairdo. Part of this was because I actually showed her some reference photos, and part of it was, I had a lot of hair to work with. I had been saving up for this.

When I first left the salon, that first time, I felt excited because a lot of my cut hair was still in my hair, and so when I would shower or even when I fingered through my hair, i could pull out lots and lots of strands, almost like if I had cancer.

And so that's why when my dad picked me up he said 'hey, you look, fresh' so as to be nice to me after getting my haircut. I'm pretty sure you all have known what it's like to get such a laughably terrible haircut before, and the last thing you would want to hear is someone laugh at you. Though now, I honestly might not mind that. I think it'd lighten the mood and make me not worry about it too much. And like. It'll grow back; and if it doesn't, the haircut was never the problem.

But yeah, my dad complimented me in a somewhat vague but always so well and good-intentioned way that I can never ever get mad about. Rarely do things make me mad. Only bitterness can make me bitter; and that's why I never stay too long with bitter people, even if they're cool with me and like me and stuff. It just drains and poisons me. I hate bitterness with the same fervor of a lecturn-camping preacher.

And so when I explained to him, my dad, how she cut me and stuff, and showed him my cancer-cosplaying falling hair, he said "oh goood. Si ahorita ya vamos a la casa pa que te bañes…y pa que te sàques ese pelo de tu jéta! Buen hecho, ratón!" (Digo la parte ‘sá’ de saques con un énfasis sentido cómo cuando se dice zapato, o sangre, cómo 싸캐스)

What he said roughly translating as thus: Yeah let's gonna go home right now so you can shower and STRIPE OFF all of that hair from your KNOGGIN. Good job, rrRAt!

"Buen hecho ratón!" And so we went home, I showered, and when I was showering it felt just like if I had cancer because everytime i pulled and brushed, more hair would come out and it was so cool and crazy and trippy, and almost a little bit scary but not really. When I got out I looked silly because of the wet hair, but when I changed and did all my thing, dried and put some salt spray with some mousse(moose •_•), I thought I looked good, actually, and I was happy. I would've been happy either way, I don't mind a bad cut, and the lady who cuts me is always so...there's just something so vulnerable and intimate about cutting your hair, getting your hair cut by someone else that's always fascinated me so. It's almost like writing. There's a vulnerability when it comes to writing, and sharing your writing to someone else that makes us all wish for that one friend who you can trust will read your work with the same verve and cared attention as you had when writing, editing, reading it over, or thinking about it randomly on your way to the grocery store. You share a piece of yourself of an unweighable vulner that is so much yourself and so much more than anything: precious. You wish the world would see it in the same way as you do, too. And that...that is almost how I feel about the intimacy of getting your hair cut, which is why I feel i wouldn't mind having a bad haircut at the end. The experience alone of having your hair cut by someone you don't fully trust but trust enough to 'trust the process' as they're cutting your hair, is worth any potential downsides to me.

It’s also just so calming. I love my salon lady. She specifically only ever uses scissors and the quietest machine thing electric cutting razor or whatever it's called, to cut my hair because she knows I get a little nervous with the loud ones. I never even told her that, either. She just noticed it and started using the quieter razor and...and it's just those things, you know? Being in that salon, it’s just those little feelings like:

bbzzzzzz...bzzzz....Bzzzzz,

Snip, brushhhh; snip, brussshhhh

VroooooooooooOoom…

car engines going and whirring outside

Starting and stopping, letting out fuse-like whooshes

Little random whispers from the air, passing through the newly-dusted dusty street roads and sidewalk,

The quiet, present sun lighting everything in motion, even with 8 minute ping

And all of the little noises and unproducable collections of sounds that made up the experience of getting your hair cut in that little local salon, run by a spanish speaking mother. The warmth of it all.

That's why I just couldn't help but feel even more buzzed with emotion when I saw myself in the mirror at home and said "hey. :)" And even more so when my dad saw me and said he was extremely surprised, going off a little more in Spanish about how he didn't think much at first but after all of the hair fell out it was almost like a sculpture, that she sculpted my head. "hhh-eyyy, si se te mire bien. Cuando primero te lo mire pensé que otra ves te lo cortaron un poquito medio, per ahorita si! Mannnnn! No. No ella si se le méreso sus $30 por su trabajo. Por eso siempre digo que es bueno para dar les un tip bueno, así cómo de $5 para que cuando te miren la próxima ves, ya van a saber que 'o si este sapito si me va dar más. Tengo que dejar le bien así y así.'"

And yeah. I just really like my hair salon lady. When I went there today, a similar thing happened to where, she did her thing, and she didn't really talk as much (like I tend to do sometimes) and she just let the shiny muted clippers and scissors and sounds all make for the absent, but not necessary, music.

When I got home, I showered, and not a lot of hair fell out, but when I dried and everything, it all came together like a good Beatles intro, and I felt I looked good!

“Eyy como ese hairy styles cuando estaba en el won direction! sapíto!”

Thank you all so so so so SO much for listening to me talk about some random stuff that's been on my mind, and for always, ALWAYS being so kind and so generous with your time to me. There are few places I can go to and feel comfortable freely sharing my work to, and though I prefer always to share my work in person, I'm just too shy to do that as often just yet, even though I'm in LA.

And thank you so much for 67 subscribers!!!

I love you, and oh! I also love you!

Happy Sunday!

Dark Mode:

Thank you so much for reading me! I hope you got something nice or enjoyed some of your time here. Please let me know what you think in the comments or messages! ❤️🦭

Pedro Paramo is the seminal work of Mr. Sir Juan Rulfo that follows two storylines simultaneously throughout the book. Juan Rulfo, his name, kind of pronounced like 황, but 환, like Huang (who ahhhng [like when they tell you say ahh: who ahhh ng {but not actually that one Asian word ng, just the ng like in jerking it: who ahh ng...oh but there no ng so scratch that: just: who, ahh, nnn…}]).

Pedro Paramo is his second to last novel before he unofficially retired, I think, and redirected his focus into screenwriting and photography, which is honestly not surprising, given his characteristically cinematic, almost photographic style of writing.

Calle de Mitla, Oaxaca, México. Juan Rulfo. 1955

https://journals.openedition.org/amerika/19207

Photo Accessed 5/17/26

In many of the passages in Pedro paramo(a story of a son Juan Preciado, and in a butchered translation meaning precious or esteemed and prized Juan or John), Juan Preciado goes over to this one city called Comala that translates almost to skillet, or frying pan, or actually a griddle, like for smash burgers; but actually the word is more so a simile that is comparing the city to a hot griddle. Comala. Juan Preciado goes to Comala and he encounters a ruined ghost town like town or village that is apparently abandoned but in reality(reality?) is filled with life through all these ghosts and visages and apparitions of the dead, and he goes on this almost wacky journey from sleeping in someone’s bed who was actually a ghost to being stepped on I think by a ghost girl, to laying down in the dirt with an old lady before apparently dying or something lol.

And so that is one of the story lines in this 144-page Book. There are only two. The other storyline, and I forgot to mention, the Juan Preciado story is told in seemingly first person, and is interjected almost randomly by a third-person tragic tale of the life of Sir Pedro Paramo, Juan Preciado’s father, and the reason why he came to this ghost town in the first place. The Pedro Paramo storyline is a sad one filled with sad and visceral, real stuff that, I believe, depicts a more real side and image of the state of Jalisco, Mexico, at the time. And what makes this story so crazy to me, and personally awesome, is the cinematic screenplay-like style that Rulfo uses to portray many of the scenes in the story.

Juan Rulfo uses lively, real, nice, good dialogue and polyphonic, or just screenlike dialogue throughout the story, both for the Juan Preciado storyline and the Pedro Paramo one, which comes much before the Juan Preciado story, but as mentioned before, is told simultaneously alongside it. And yeah, it’s honestly the style that made this book just super fun and exciting to read each time...every time I picked up the book to read the next part of it... but actually no because I didn’t read the physical copy of it, I just listened to the audiobook on Spotify(Use the free hours you get for audiobooks on Spotify!), as I bought the book online on Amazon when it was on sale, but I accidentally bought the Spanish version, and I’m not very literately well versed in reading Spanish, even though I speak it to my dad and mom all the time.

I actually read the first page or so to my dad in the car on our way to go somewhere, and after one specific line in the page he started laughing out loud and I asked him what it was and he said it was something about the book and it was funny...but yeah I can’t really understand it all too well reading it right now so I just listened to the audiobook on Spotify and had a jam. I really do recommend that you read it with an audiobook, because there are not really many dialogue tags in the book; again, it reads much more like a play, or like one of the short stories in Dubliners, so, so yeah. So, by listening to the audiobook, you may get lucky like me and have a Juan Rulfo super fan who makes very nice and cool voices for all the different characters to help you stay focused or on the right path while reading it. I really liked the Thom Rivera one; he reminded me of Andy Serkis, who did an audiobook reading of The Hobbit, and he goes crazy with the voices, and he made the book super enjoyable for me. What was I saying?

Oh yeah, his style. I really do think Rulfo’s style is what makes this book and this fragmented double story so good and amazing. And as I said before, he has a very photogenic, cinematic way of describing certain scenes, especially at the end, where a character describes this visceral picture of what it’s like to be actively alive and buried under ground and diet and having worms in your...ugh, it’s so visceral and clear the way he describes it, and you can see and feel everything! It’s so lovely! And what I learned from a buddy of mine who read it in Spanish was that many of these scenes, a lot of the scenes in Spanish, often the particularly visceral ones, are almost told through a funny lens that gives you a real sense of how a lot of Latin American cultures often view death and the perceived ‘unnatural.’ It is very eye-opening for those who are not used to or aware of the culture, and it is something that highly motivates me to read the text in the original Spanish soon.

But yeah, there’s also a lot of subtle social commentary sprinkled and seasoned throughout the book with comments and dialogue bites of people interacting with each other (your lucky he raped your daughter: now you might be blessed with a Lightskin grandchild[extremely mutilated, likely wrong paraphrasing of a scene…but you get the idea, right?]), and yeah there’s just so many layers to this shit like an onion that, once you finish the novel you’ll almost feel begged by your inner child to read this shit over again and figure out what everything means and stuff.

I swear, if not anything else, you will surely gain something out of this book. I please implore you: lobotomize yourself with me…. Ba bye.

https://serpentstail.com/work/pedro-pramo/

Serpent’s Tail – imprint of Profile Books

“Juan Rulfo (1917-1986) is the author of what is probably the most important novel in Mexican literature. Pedro Páramo was published in 1955 and went on to be translated into over forty languages, sell over a million copies in English alone and initiate an entire literary movement. Rulfo’s other literary works are The Burning Plain and The Golden Cockerel. He also worked as an anthropologist and photographer.”

“Dude, what the ffuck are you doing?! Baha…”

Jane was in the middle of putting on her rice milk face mask, and as she was strutting over, towards the mirror and sink, in some worn, Toy Story 4 pajamas, she saw Byrd making kissy faces and heart emojis with his hands to to his phone facing the mirror. His phone leanig against the wall and shelf was recording him on his ‘live’ and immediately, Jane burst out wheezing.—fix n clear up

Her second reflection, through his phone, disfigures itself into something blurry, punch-worthy, and curb-stompable. He freezes for a bit, then mashes his knuckles straight into the wall in a brash attempt to turn off his stream. He slips on a Shein towel and falls to the floor, hitting his bad knee.

Byrd groans and moans on the ground like a fat cat who’d just got hit with no seconds after his second lunch. Getting up with toothpaste burning his half-bitten tongue, looking over at Jane by the doorway of the corridor, he finds her dying of laughter by the dirty drywall.

After barely taking a blurry photo of him, of which you could only see a black and green blob of peach on the floor, Jane then starts to churn out her buckling chainsaw laughter while Byrd struggles to get up, even with Jane’s genuine help.

Heaving his latent regret and shame, Byrd looks up at her with his melting face, and points at the undamaged wall with his ugly little chicken finger, and cries:

“Get a damn job, Jmoney!”

—Oooh, that was her first name! (Dramatic Kai Cenat sound [jmoney, pronounced: Jay-Monet; Monet, a French surname{and painter—great painter by the way, I'd personally check out Sunset On The Seine by Claude Monet, 1875. Monet. Claud Monet, the one that one poet loves a lot, not the bussy one, but I do loove that song.}, likely coming from Denver, pronounced: Moe-Nay, like M’nay, but with a sneaky o before the nay…by the way.)—

Byrd pushes past her through the trashy elbow hallway and stumbles out of their studio apartment door like a cholo, faded, with way too many cards in his pocket, trying desperately to look out for flying tampons at Ralph’s, his head ducking and bobbing.

While waiting for the elevator, Byrd kept his head tucked down at the ground as Jane followed him out the studio flat as she was smacking him with rolled-up Vanity Fair magazines.  As the old elevator made its way to the third floor, Byrd dodged and limped away from her in a circle. When it finally did come, Jane was cornering Byrd by the elevator doors, and when the doors opened, she ushered him inside.

 “Look  at  me  when I'm talking to you, Byrd!  Hey!  You can’t talk to me like that, you know. Byrd Watterson—you know that's not my name anymore—. And don't think that you can just talk like that to me here, telling me to go get a job and all that when you're out here, when you're out here living in my apartment, eating my own food, knowing damn well you can’t venpay me gas money!—And the only reason I don't got a job right now is because you literally told me to quit my last job and file for unemployment!”

Trying his best not to talk back to her, Byrd chooses to get off at the lobby. He then hops out through the glass door and starts to walk himself to the hospital…only for a couple minutes, until she arrests him.

Jane screams out from her car window to where he’s limping and crawling along the sidewalk in their sleepless Mid-Wilshire neighborhood to get his ‘sorry ass back in the car’ before someone stabs him in place for a junkie-turned-burglar-suddenly-after-Master-Chef.

“’Get a damn job already’ Headass! Get a damn job yourself, Bitch!—no no, a real job. Something that’s actually gonna get us some actual real daddy-fuckin money and food on that moldy little table! Oh, don't start now, with all your little ‘bits’, and all your ‘flowers’, and all your—oh-oh, I’m so so sorry, your ‘precious Roses!’ Byrd Brain…are you seriously crying right now?”

While under the purple street lights, Byrd had got up from the floor and after trudging along the wet grass curb he opened the door to Jane’s mini Cooper, but when he took his next step, he slipped on some mud and, as he stumbled into the passenger’s seat, he clipped the doorframe with his broccoli head. This mad him bite his tongue again, on that same now metalic fleshy spot. He was now wincing and trying not to cry as Jane was watched all this play out, apparently yet to be aware of his bruised head and raw tongue.

“Look at you! You got me out here…looking at you…limping…just like GiGi!” After having given him a packet of Tylenol from her pink Prada bag, and pink strawberry kiwi Gatorade that she keeps in the car just for him, Jane, soon starts to cool down…and then immediately bursts into uncontrollable hysterics again, like when she first saw him making out with himself to the camera with his pre-raptured hands…just minutes ago.

“…And then you just started crawling on the grass…cuz you couldn’t walk no more!” Jane.

If only he could’ve at least gotten a quiet ride home. But even at the hospital…She just couldn’t stop wheezing.

***

“-And-then-he-just pounded his fist into the wall, like if he was some power ranger! Can you believe it mom? Hold up let me call you back, I need to tell Gigi.” 

            Clutching his pearly little finger cast, with snot covering his neon jersey green shirt, Byrd tomatoes, and furrows his bushy brown brows at Jane. He looks at her, menacingly(!), for just a moment, as she smiles down at her phone. Soon he lets out a vwoosh breath out his nose as he listens to music on his shitty broken AirPods that only play well on one side. Chubby body, no hair don't care.

 He now looks at her, just looking.

—Still, Jane isn’t: the black and frizzy wet curls jingle while covering her faerie ears, her ‘pink diamonds’: glossy pink powder on her nails, almond nails, tapping tapping broken sticky glass: typing, and mistyping messages to her grandmother(gigi), mid breaths as she feels her laughter soothen down into an almost awkward glee, while she sits on the cheap plastic chair in the coffin emergency room at two A.M. Still, Byrd is: somehow finding a little Burgundy, muted joy, behind his shaming cheeks, and elephantine lobes.—

After sending her the news, Jane’s grandma slams down three angled crying laughing emojis, and Catholic blessings to Jane, and Jane starts to laugh again. She shows Byrd, laying down on the medical blue bedding, the text from her grandma. He doesn't laugh…at least, not vidibly.

Huffing through his oxygen mask, that he especially had poor Gaia, the wet nurse on overtime, wheel out per his repeated requests to the timid, skeptically Christian doctor, Byrd scowls:

“Pfft…Teapot.”

“What did you say? Exactly keep breathing through your little tube. Put yourself away. Pfft..Popeye….Popeye!—You’re literally just like Popeye you little spinach gobbler! Dr. House, can you believe this man? He literally-“

***

The Dusk After

Dr.  house could not believe her. After calling security, Sir Lee House stood stowed away behind little Gaia as she tried to absorb the collective discord

“Lee, c’mon! You don't have to behave like this. You're a grown man you have two kids! Cmon, Dr. Lee…I'm sorry about that misunderstanding, Miss uh…

“Jmo-“

“Jane Farwell,” Jane stabbed Byrd’s tense forearm and pierced a bit of burly skin off with her nail, leaving a little curly arm hair fallen and cut, like an umbilical cord, on one of the holes in his crocs. Byrd squealed underneath her palm as she said her name to the now slightly concerned nurse. Nurse Gaia.

“Oh, well…Miss Farwell, I'm sure you and, Byrd, must be very tired (and possibly even a little inebriated-“

“I am not drunk!”

“I am extremely sorry for even considering that idea Miss-“

“Damn right you are.”

“I hope you don't mind our doctor’s behavior right now, he's just a little excitable-“

“-Someone call the bomb squad?”

“Y-y-yess, her.” The terrified Dr. House angles his shaky hooked finger at Jane on the chair next to Byrd and Gaia. The fully armed firing squad mistakenly jumped at Gaia instead of Jane and ushered her out the pod-like room. The platoon did not apologize and soon escorted Jane and Byrd out the hospital, with gentleness and care, likely fueled by the latent remorse of tackling poor Gaia, who was left on the muddy floor of the closet-sized cramped, and emotionally exhausted, break room. She held a melting ice pack to her dewy face.

…

Thank You

“Did you see how they mangled the nurse back there? She was completely clueless! I feel bad.”

“Dude, they fucking jumped her like the bald guy with the drummer yesterday.”

“Yeah! all you needed more was just a chair being thrown at her and it would’ve been perfect!”

“One two three four

*SLAP*

one two three four

*SLAP*”

Byrd was slapping himself each time he mimicked the Whiplash’s Judge Holden of a teacher’s classical conditioning of the main character in the movie. Fully aware of how stupid he looked, Byrd continued slapping himself until Jane started talking again.

Don’t think that just because you got your little cast and everything, and that now we can get handicap parking, that you’re all good and shit. That we’re all buddy buddy, Byrd.

..I’m sorry for calling you by your first name, Jane.

…

“And, I’m sorry for telling you to go get a job…when it was my idea for you to lose it.”

“…sorry, for laughing at you, when I saw you making your livestream thing. it was just that…I just didn’t ever think you would be actually doing something like that!”

“Shut up! Its good money! “

“-But when you’re doing all your little kissy faces and all…”

“Its called success! Look at the spiderman guy!”

“The spiderman guy…oh could you do that one thing he does? It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

..*sniffs*”thanks! Roses! *snorts up his finger particles* mmmm!-c- *starts coughing on the floor*

Jane trips on something on the sidewalk, and falls over wheezing.

Byrd smiles and coughs and dies and blushes and curls over like a limp fent walker. He tries to lift jane up on the floor, his cheeks sore from all the smiling, and then he slips onto the grass with her, inaudibly laughing while she quacks her gooselike wheeze.

Still smiling, Byrd lays down on the grass of the sidewalk, a few blocks from where they got out of the hospital, and still some more blocks and a park away from where they parked the car.

“…-ohhh man, Byrd. You really did it! Ahahaha…”

“that’s still just crazy to me.” Byrd looking back over his shoulder to the skyscraper parking complex.

“$15 an hour for a compact little square?! Uuuuh. Nuh uh.!”

The two twenty somethings, getting up from the grass, cover their wet backs with nothing and just start walking with the damp stains free like old tattoos. familiar.

On their way they chat and walk under the silver mirror of the sun, almost thirty minutes away walking, just because of scalping prices for parking near the hospital.

 Passing by passers by, some homeless people, and eventually slipping down into a suburban street to get to their car parked still time away.

“…And its not even a good spot either”

“I know right? Its still like,” Thinking in her head how long they’d still have to take to get from the parking lot skyscraper down to the hospital…trying to convince herself that it wasn’t even that much of a difference to park where they did.

“It still would’ve taken us like, at least fifteen minutes to get down from there, if we like parked at the top floor.”

“The elevator wait time.”

“Yes and, what if there’s like, a wheelchair person. A wheelchair in a person, or no wait, ha-ha, sorry, no what if there was a person in a wheelchair and what if it didn’t fit, and-

“the elevator looked small too”

“Yeah, and they’d have to take it apart, the wheelchair, and then fit it all in with the person.”

“And you’d have to carry or take the person with you too.”

“Yeah and what if its only you and the person too, how could you even do that?”

“Have the cripple carry it and carry the cripple”

“Byrd don’t say-h that.. but. yeah.?”

“What if its smelly in there too?”

“Oh you’re right, and then you’d just get trapped in there for like an hour cuz you parked all the way on...how many floors is it?”

“I saw like it said about 35 floors-“

“Thirty five floors! And what if it gets stuck?”

“Youd get hotboxed in there”

“Hotboxed!...yeah. we made the right choice parking here.”

After walking and talking their way back to the car, Byrd stares at the spot where jane had helped her out of the car, and half carried him by the arm all the way to the hospital. He lightly thought about his weight, and rubbed his small belly.

Jane smiles like a prostitute off duty (or just a normal person[?]), getting into the driver’s seat and checking mirrors, pushing the little button to extend them both, and drives her and Byrd home, maybe.

…

End for now.

Thank you for reading through this story! Thank you so fuckign much too for all my fifteen subscribers and even more followers!

I fuckign love you!

sound and speed.

Now when I see it roll back and forth and back, from time to time, I can only really feel a pang or twang of shame, by how easily, this bolt, paled my soul so suddenly,

and without warning!

It was that same sharpness and mono-tonality of state

that's lended to this one carnival game. The one where you swing and hail down the big red hammer onto the big Red Cross, and you see the iron steel puck fly up up up, and blast off,—blast away, all the way to the top of the bar in less than a second, and all you hear is that harmonic ding of metal subduing metal.

From the dust collected on the hammer and the cross flying everywhere at the moment of impact, to the click-boom sweet sound of the puck ringing out the dented steel, shooting straight pleasure into your veins when you hear all of the screams and all of the music and all of the congratulations—all of it, captured or...contained!

—Yes, contained!—

All of it, is contained and bottled up within half a second!

And so with that same speed and no lube lack of warning, this puny, entitled bolt, left me hoarish with sweaty palms and icy fingertips.

For what would've been to me, another few forgotten stops, I actually thought that what I saw, the live blurry Image of it, was a roach! —a vile disgusting pestering languid roach!—a fossil!... But now it's just a dead bolt, and an overstayed, Far too dragged out memory...

—I’m sorry, I just can't.

—All this time and this harmless,
brainless bolt still waited for me. Sixty-six weeks and it was still there!

And to find me on the same seat too! Just for a chance to readmit me into its dread asylum of cuckoo!

I doubt you can show me true love, if it can't possibly not be this!

Thank you for reading!

thank you guys so so much for all the love. Thirteen subscribers and twelve more following me!? I’m still wary of the legitimacy of this site but I know that you all are real. (You’re real to me.)

good day everyone

And ride that D

bye bye!

press for fucking nothing.

so much ugly as it was the type of sweater,

you’d wear in winter, or on a lazy day, for

when you just want to feel cozy in…

—something, like you're in bed but

at work. 

She wore it on the bus seaward, on Wilshire,—

Yet another cold and dreary hot spring awaiting. She—

and it was quite oversized, weighing her down.

tired she looked a bit just clasping the railing

waiting to leave off. She stood in front of me.

i was sat. The Sun’s final blade slicing my face—and his

Illuminating late Lyre spewing whole Saffron Bloodnotes—;

It was an unforgettable bright pink, woven in

with white and pale mauve blends of

thread; and it was almost grid-like:

as if, at each intersecting weave of

fabric, both mazing and unending,

You could divine        homes        in LA

So tiny

yet,

Rich.

And on the linings from her sleeves to her

chest, you could stitch together the dis-

jointed, and overly ambitious map of

our city; our city, its map, as if,

as if desperately trying to pull itself apart.

our great city...

how heavy.

and what a cornucopic concentrate color.

Pink.

then the generator,

then the shoes;

the pigeons, and the pebble

skidding across the Silver Pavement,

and the train in the background;

and then the rhythmic churns of

engines as lights flip on and

off, from green to red to green

again;

then the motor bikes:

the bullwhip-like rumbling, Scattling,

—cracking the free earth;

then the bicycles:

the dimmed, glittering jingles of

gears on drivetrains spiraling;

then the little girl marco poloing:

—hi,

—bye,

—hi;

And the continued purr of the

propane fountain of alimentation.

The air’s whistling and bush pushing  

singing, to the little dragonfly buzzing; and the

scratching of your hair, and your oiled

nails; and your breathing, and your

drum  heart  beating.

Then the big Wall of Sound, from whalish,

CDL-manned trucks; and the somehow

ringing glare of the billboard reflecting

the sun to your face; and the horn of the

Once Golden Line, and its wheels on light rails.

And the unintelligible making

people…

Finally your ride is here;

Only 40 minutes late.

Time for some Panda!