Moon Landing

Sometimes it all hurts but makes sense. Sometimes it captures my soul and tosses it around like a wounded sock puppet amidst a violent wash cycle. Nonsense is my bread and butter. Now and forever more. But beyond it all is a shiny facade. Something akin to a shiny new nickel. A nickel. I wish I lived in the era when a nickel was considered to be a hell of a lot of money. Hell, I wish I lived in an era when one dollar went further than any moon landing. Hope? Wishes? Yes, these are things I desire. These are things I know we all desire. Desires are fickle bastards! Just when you think you’ve done away with them more are born and begin to eat away at your mind. If I were to truly abandon society… would I miss it? Would it miss me? I suppose it wouldn’t really matter; even if I tried to make it matter. I can hear solitude calling out to me on a daily basis. Maybe I’m hearing things but maybe not. Maybe I analyze too much but maybe not. My countenance is mine and no one else’s. I tell nothing that hasn’t been told before by many. I write nothing that hasn’t been written before by many. I suppose I could be called one of the few who chooses not to hide behind metaphors and parables. Most would consider this to be a grave problem or disease. But I do not; not at all. For instance, the other day I was making myself a ham sandwich and became mesmerized by the amount of visible grains in the bread. It was supposed to be one of those “heart smart” loaves of which I believe aren’t as smart as they would have us believe. I mean… grain in bread! Who would have thought we’d see the day? Don’t even get me started on all the lean meats being pushed in the stores these days. What I write here I write it for a specific purpose. A “goal” if you will. Smell it. Taste it. Otherwise someone else will grab it up. My heart and brain is a jumble. You’d think they know enough to know that they must be connected and intertwined with one another but alas they do not. One cosmically ordered scenario cannot and should not take precedence over another. Though, it is quite difficult to imagine this. Because it is inescapable. I wonder how much longer it will be until we finally colonize the Moon. (?)

All words written by Ryan A. Loera
Copyright 2015

Snow Cone

In the middle of January is when I lost my first original love. She had purchased a snow cone from a street vendor who only charged her a smile. Yes, a smile.

As she licked it she was brought back to a time when she was a child of only five. Her mother did not pay her much attention in those days. But usually because she was too inebriated to stand on her own two feet.

My original love she always thought of this when enjoying a snow cone or any other childhood treat. Sometimes she'd cry out loud if only to hear herself lose control.

Then one morning she finally lost complete and utter control. She mouthed off to the snow cone vendor and threw crushed ice at his face.

Some passerby interpreted this as a crime and phoned the local police. When the police arrived at the scene they saw her foaming at the mouth and felt it necessary to taze her.

Unfortunately, the voltage was just a bit too much for her fragile body to handle. Her brain literally imploded from the high voltage. She was buried next to her Mother.

All this happened in the middle of January. I lost my original love. I lost her when she lost herself.

I am reminded of this whenever I see a woman enjoying a snow cone.

Read I Have No Cologne

I'm reading "I Have No Cologne" - http://www.wattpad.com/story/3734555 - on the Wattpad app http://www.wattpad.com/download

Boy With No Face

Here's a short story I wrote:

Some time ago, but not too long ago, there lived a boy with no face. When I say no face I mean just that... no face. He was born without an actual face. He could still talk and eat through a very small hole located beneath his chin. But he had no proper mouth.

He did not have very many friends during the most formative years of his life. You could say he was one of those "late bloomers" but that moniker just would not be accurate. It might be somewhat more accurate to say he was the quintessential loner type. Even though he did not enjoy being a loner he eventually learned to tolerate it.

Please, do not feel sorry for him. For he never really felt sorry for himself. If he had then he probably would not have lived as long as he did.

He was born on a cold December morning in the year of the rat. His parents were not of any particular descent but certainly resembled beings of great cultural significance. They were both very happy when he was born. They did not care that he was born without a face. They loved him and taught him about self-awareness and self-confidence.

When he first attended elementary school all the kids made fun of him. They would chant things like, "No face! No face! Where's your face?" For the most part he was able to ignore their ignorant chants and jeers. Then one day a cute little girl in his class approached him and asked, "How are you able to see?" "I do not see in the same way that you might. But I can feel the energetic vibrations that everyone and everything emits. It's like a unique form of sonar." The little girl did not understand his answer so she just waved bye and walked back to her group of friends.

The remainder of his elementary career continued in the same fashion. Most of the kids did their best to ignore him but every once in a while one of 'em would approach him and ask a question. Of course, he always answered. It may not have been the answer they were expecting but it was an answer nonetheless.

By the time he reached middle school he was pretty sick and tired of being ignored by his fellow peers. He kept a journal and wrote in it daily. It helped somewhat but not entirely. He practiced karate and learned to break wooden boards with his forehead. It also helped him relieve his frustrations but the effect did not last very long.

In high school he became more involved in the creative arts. In particular, painting and sculpting. He painted a lot of still lifes, portraits and nudes. He sculpted mostly from his own subconscious desires. He once tried sculpting the head of the most popular and beautiful girl in school but it took him longer than expected and so he lost interest.

It wasn't until his senior year that he was invited to numerous parties by some of the popular kids. He didn't attend them initially because he figured they just wanted to have someone strange looking at their parties in order to serve as some kind of entertainment. But he ended up attending one, as a bit of a social experiment.

At this particular party just about everyone was drunk or in the process of becoming drunk. Nobody recognized him because he cleverly disguised himself by donning a very detailed latex mask. He ordered the mask via ebay then repainted it with his own special mix of acrylic paints. As soon as it dried it resembled some sort of androgynous being.

He slipped in between groups and cliques with great ease. A couple of peers asked him who he was; he said his name was Allen. One young lady came onto him in the most peculiar way. She asked him if he had any drugs on him because she wanted to get high and then engage in sexual relations with him. He of course did not have any drugs on him so he politely told her he didn't. She still seemed interested in his company but quickly succumbed to her own inebriation and passed out on an old tattered armchair.

He then sat outside for a while underneath a patio umbrella and watched as his generation spiraled out of control. He witnessed boys throwing up in bushes and girls throwing up in handbags. A part of him wanted to cry and another part of him wanted to laugh. But he maintained his countenance.

Soon he found himself enjoying a hot dog or two and partaking of something called flan. It was tasty but its texture was comparable to a skiddish slug. He also ate a handful of salted pretzels and a bushel of popcorn. He then washed it all down with a diet root beer.

Just as he was about to leave the god forsaken party he noticed someone hiding behind a rose bush. It was a small girl. She was sitting cross-legged with a notepad in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. She looked up at him and smiled. He tried to smile back but of course he could not but he imagined the mask he was wearing formed somewhat of a smile.

"Hello. My name's Caroline. What's yours?" The small girl asked. She appeared to be no more than eight or nine years old. "Nice to meet you, Caroline. My name is Allen." He did his best to make sure he believed himself to be an Allen. Caroline did not seem to buy it. "You're probably wondering why I'm sitting here behind this rose bush." She stood up and dusted her knees. "Why yes I guess I am." "I'm actually just taking notes." "Notes?" "Yes. Notes." "Notes for what?" "Oh just a book idea I've been tinkering with."

He had a hard time believing a little girl could or would want to write a book but he played along nonetheless. "You're writing a book? What is it about?" He asked. "Oh it's just about a girl who hides behind bushes and spies on people and takes notes about what those people do when they are drunk." "Hmm. Sounds familiar." "Yeah I know it does but no one has written anything like it yet. So I figured I could write it." Caroline dusted her knees a little more then slipped her pen into the spiral binding of her notepad. "Do you have a title yet?" He asked. "I think I'm gonna' title it Rose Bush." "Hmm. Not a bad title."

"I should probably get home now. My Mom might be wondering where I am. It was nice meeting you, Allen." "Same here." They shook hands and she skipped out of the backyard then down the street.

As he watched her skip away he couldn't help but feel some sort of affinity for the girl's keen wisdom. He also felt very much like an observer who was in danger of becoming an enabler. An enabler of truth? Perhaps.

He sat back down under the umbrella and had a moment of extreme clarity. His classmates weren't getting drunk because they were weak willed or hollow. It was simply their way of numbing themselves. That's right, they numbed away their emotional pains much like the way a doctor numbs his patient before any serious surgery.

"How could I not see this before?" He asked himself. "It's as if they are all in much greater pain than I am. My entire life has consisted of embracing my own uniqueness and shrugging off whatever insults were hurled my way. But what about them? They've been locked into a perpetual cycle of insults and bullying since kindergarten. Maybe even longer than that. I can see now that someone must break the cycle. It needs to be broken otherwise it will be passed on to their children and their children's children. And so on and so forth."

With that he ran back inside, jumped onto a stool and shouted a message of hope. "My fellow peers! Please heed my words! Stop all of your senseless debauchery! I know you are hurting! I know you feel like no one understands you! Believe me when I tell you that I completely sympathize with you!" A few kids payed attention to him but most kept dancing and drinking.

"I urge you to put down the alcohol and turn on your minds!" They continued to ignore him. Then one peer approached him emphatically and sincerely spoke. "Hey, man. I know what you're talking about and I agree with you for the most part. But it's just easier to ignore all the bullshit in the world and get drunk. I mean... as teenagers we hardly have a say in what goes on around us and most of our parents are too busy with trying to pay the bills to really give a damn about anything else." He handed him a cold can of beer.

The boy with no face reluctantly took the can of beer, stared at it for some time, and popped it open. He squirted the golden alcohol all over his face-mask then spilled the rest on the floor. He felt anew so ran around and shouted. "I am reborn! I am reborn! I am reborn!"

Later that night, he stumbled home with a smile on his face-mask and the phone numbers of seven beautiful girls in his pocket.

Haphazard

"Haphazard" -Original ACEO painting

www.maniacalart.etsy.com

Madness Washer

I am rather proud of these two new abstract paintings I created yesterday. They are both done in acrylics and measure 8 in x 10 in. I also added some extra ephemera for texture such as wood chips and pencil shavings. These are also listed in my online art shop: www.buddhkist.etsy.com

Rotation

Here is an original short story of mine. It is titled Rotation. Please read, comment, share, enjoy. Thank you.

  The earth rotates once more on its axis. The darkened side becomes the sunny side and the sunny side becomes the darkened side. All the while, people are either getting ready for another hum drum day or going to sleep in order to be rested for another hum drum day.

  My day used to be this way but today is different. Today I’ve decided to take a walk. I wake up when my alarm goes off at 8:30 am. I have my usual breakfast of waffles and two sausage links. That’s right, two links. I change into some suitable walking attire. A faded blue t-shirt, black sweat pants and my favorite pair of green converse. 

  After a quick stretching of my joints I walk out the front door and into the luminous morning glow. I look up at the sky and try to breathe in its vibrant blue. I notice a bird fly overhead, looks like it has lagged behind the rest of the formation. I set off on foot down the end of my street. When I get there I turn right and continue in a straight line for two miles or so. I fix my gaze on a palm tree up ahead. Its bark looks rather dry and cracked, like it hasn’t been watered for a while.

  When I reach the palm tree I take a moment to choose a new path. A big, yellow school bus passes by and emits some strong fumes from its exhaust. I plug my nose but I still choke and gag for a second or two. I finally decide to cut through a vacant lot in order to get onto a decent walking path.

  The lot is as vacant as you’d expect a vacant lot to be. I remember when I was about six years old and I first heard the word vacant I thought it was the same thing as bacon. But in this vacant lot there is no bacon. There isn’t even a stove on which to cook bacon. But there is a concrete foundation and a half finished house frame. I try to imagine what the house will look like once it is completed. I hope it doesn’t end up looking like most houses. But it probably will. I try to imagine what kind of family will inhabit the house. I hope they don’t end up being like most families. But they probably will.

  I quickly wave good-bye to the vacant lot with no bacon and continue walking down a newly cemented sidewalk. After another two miles, I come upon a marching line of red ants. Some of which I accidentally step on and some I try my best to avoid stepping on. I like to think that they are grateful every time someone purposefully avoids stepping on them. I know I’m grateful every time someone avoids stepping on me.

  I try to follow their militant pattern but they are far more devoted to it than I am. I suppose that’s a good thing. A couple of them are carrying what looks like bread crumbs on their backs. Some of the bread crumbs are at least five times bigger than they are. But somehow they manage to carry them all the way to their nest or hive or colony. I think ants live in colonies. Much more structured colonies than us.

  I wave good-bye to the militant ants and hop over some discarded beer bottles. Two have been smashed and four are still intact but empty. They almost look like shiny, gold chalices. But it is the sunlight that is successfully pulling off that illusion. The labels on all of them have been stripped and scraped off. I wonder why someone would scrape a label off a beer bottle. Maybe they weren’t supposed to be drinking. Maybe they were drinking on the sidewalk because they weren’t allowed to drink in their own home. Whatever their reason was they could have at least disposed of them properly. I pick up one of the empty bottles and toss it high up in the air. It lands and smashes six feet in front of me. I can hear a dog barking in the distance.

  My eyes scan the area for some kind of bag to collect the remaining bottles in. I spot a dusty garbage bag stuck to some weeds. It’s pretty big and only has one small tear in it. The only other garbage in it is some torn up fliers for a new techno club. I doubt we need another monotonous techno club taking up valuable space in order to charge twelve bucks for a margarita. One by one I place the three scraped beer bottles in the garbage bag. I tie the top as best as I can and drag it along with me.

  I try to wave good-bye to the broken shards of beer bottles but it just seems a little sad. They continue glistening in the sunlight and I continue walking. As I walk past a stray cat I begin to contemplate what to do with the beer bottles. I could bury them. But a dog or little kid might dig them up and start playing with them. I could just chuck them into a dumpster. But I really would like to find some better use for them. I could recycle them. But that’s practically the same thing as burying them. Or is it?

  While my mind is preoccupied I come upon a busy intersection. Traffic had come to a halt due to the fact that a motorcyclist had slammed into a traffic light. The motorcyclist and his motorcycle didn’t look badly injured. The motorcycle had a few small scrapes. The motorcyclist was shouting at the other motorists for not helping him move his motorcycle sooner.

  An elderly gentleman who was waiting at the bus stop walks up to me and says, “You missed a great show here!” He laughs and coughs and laughs and coughs.

  I wait for the cross walk light to blink on and I cross to the other side as smooth as butter. That’s right. Butter. Who doesn’t like butter? I dare you to say you don’t like butter! The only thing that can compete with butter is bacon. Yes, bacon. Perhaps I’ll start up my own bacon factory and call it Vacant Bacon. Sounds like a good idea.

  The three beer bottles in the garbage bag make a clinking sound with every step I take. It reminds me of a metronome. Every time I hear the word metronome I instantly picture a gnome on a subway train. Short people have a need for transportation too. If gnomes exist then why wouldn’t they use public transportation? It’s just common sense.

  Two joggers jog ahead of me. They are panting and perspiring a lot. One of them is a young woman and the other a young man. They both smile at each other as they jog. They seem pretty fit and full of energy. But they will never know the same kind of joy that I know.

  I approach another intersection but this one is less crowded with vehicles. But not because it isn’t heavily trafficked. It is less crowded because each car is whizzing by at a speed that is unrecognizable to me. I push the button for the crosswalk light. I wait a few seconds. Nothing happens. I push the button for the crosswalk light again. I wait a few more seconds. Nothing happens. I debate with myself on whether I should risk crossing or not. I am unable to come to an agreement with myself.

  Then I get an idea. I untie the garbage bag, reach in and pull out one of the torn fliers for the new overrated techno club. I crinkle it up into a tightly packed ball and place it gently in the street. When I see the next car approaching at a speed that is unrecognizable to me I make sure to pay close attention. The next car whizzes by and I watch as the balled up techno flier rolls away at a speed that is unrecognizable to me.

  I decide not to cross. I re-tie the garbage bag and sling it over my shoulder. I then turn around and walk in the opposite direction. After walking a good four miles, I come upon a street vendor. He is selling a variety of snacks and beverages. I flag him down and examine his selection. He does not know much English but he is able to recommend a bacon wrapped hotdog with mustard and relish. I call him a genius and pat him on the back. I also select a Diet Pepsi to wash down his magnificent masterpiece. I give him a five dollar bill and tell him to keep the change. He then tells me I’m fifty cents short. I offer him one of the empty beer bottles instead and he reluctantly accepts it. He wishes it wasn’t empty but knows that he can get a few cents by recycling it.

  I wave good-bye to the bacon-wrapped hotdog genius and walk on. The harsh sun begins to take its toll on me after another three miles. Where am I going? I ask myself out loud. I pass a couple of shops and restaurants and stop walking as soon as I see a lovely plant-filled park. I drop the garbage bag on the moist grass and plop down under a shady tree. I’m not sure what kind of tree it is. Maybe some kind of oak or maple.

  A group of skateboarders are attempting a series of complicated maneuvers on the green painted tennis court. Two little girls are fighting over the “good swing” and two teenage lovers are caressing each other on a grassy knoll. This is what life should be like every day. I lean back against the shady tree and rest my eyes for a spell.

  I am awakened some minutes later by a loud scream. I stand up and look around for the source of the scream. Apparently one of the little girls punched the other one in the nose and they were now locked in a death grip of sorts. They start rolling around in the sand and shouting incoherent phrases at each other. Finally, their mothers run to them and pull them apart.

  I glance over at the two teenage lovers on the grassy knoll. I walk over to them and hand them one of the torn up techno fliers. Apparently the monotonous techno club allows the under twenty-one crowd in once a week. They both look ecstatic when I hand them the torn flier. The teenage girl looks up at me and says, “Thanks! We’ve been wanting to go to something like this for a while!” The teenage boy half smiles.

  I then walk over to the group of skateboarders on the green painted tennis court. I watch them try to pull off some flashy tricks and jumps. “I wish we had something to jump over besides this lame tennis net.” One of the skateboarders says. I then reply with, “Would you like to jump over some beer bottles?” All the skateboarders stare at me in a confused manner. I take out the two remaining empty beer bottles and place them in the center of the green painted tennis court.

  “If you can jump over these bottles I’ll give you whatever is left in this garbage bag.” I say to the skateboarders. They still have a confused look on their faces but they are also intrigued by what the garbage bag may or may not be carrying. We shake hands to seal our deal and they all line up like militant ants.

  One by one they jump over the empty beer bottles with their skateboards. Some of them fall but they all jump clear over the bottles. I congratulate them then hand them the garbage bag. As they all peer into it I wave good-bye and continue walking.

  I walk for another mile and a half then decide to sit down on one of the bus stop benches. I still have no idea where I am going but I am glad I have no idea where I am going. I kneel down to re-tie my right green converse. “Are you taking the bus too?” I look up and am greeted with a beautiful face that belongs to a beautiful girl. “I might take the bus but I’m not sure.” I reply. “Oh. I’m taking the bus to school today. It’s my first year in college.” She sits down next to me and fiddles with a textbook. Her perfume smells like a bouquet of roses. “Your first year of college? That sounds exciting.” I respond. “Yeah. I guess.” She looks at me and smiles.

  Her blonde hair hangs down in curls just above her shoulders. She is wearing a light blue long-sleeved blouse and tight fitting blue jeans. It appears she has written something on her pink sneakers. “What is that you have written on your sneakers?” I ask her. “This? Oh it’s just the bus schedule. I wrote it on my sneakers in permanent marker so I wouldn’t forget which buses go where. I’m no good at keeping a paper schedule.” She blushes a little. “Oh I see. That is quite ingenious. You wouldn’t happen to like bacon… do you?”

  She stares at me in a confused manner but then quickly smiles and laughs. “I love it! The only thing that can compete with bacon is butter!”

  My heart starts beating a thousand miles per second. I gradually slide closer to her on the bench. “You are fascinating. Please tell me your name.”

  “Cindy. My name is Cindy. Cindy Simon. Well, my full name is Cinnamon Sable Simon but I prefer just Cindy.” She blushes a little more.

  “It is a great honor to meet you, Cinnamon. I mean Cindy. My name is Van. Well, my full name is Van Confucius Schwartz.” I extend my hand to hers, she pauses and then slowly grips and shakes.

  “It’s an honor to meet you too, Van. My bus is approaching so I’m afraid we have to cut our conversation short. Unless you’ve decided to take the bus after all?” Her eyes display a large amount of passion.

  “Maybe I will.” The bus comes to a strong halt as she tries to coax me on.

  “Oh and I happen to have brought some bacon with me to snack on.” She whips out a plastic baggie stuffed with bacon.

  “Okay, we shall ride the bus!” We both laugh out loud as we hop onto the bus.

  All this happened while the earth rotated on its axis once more. And the sunny side became the darkened side and the darkened side became the sunny side.

  This is what life can be. This is what life should be.

 

 

Sofa That Ate Everyone (excerpt)

Here is an excerpt from an original story of mine titled 'The Sofa That Ate Everyone.'

It was a boring Saturday afternoon and I was sitting on the living room floor reading a comic book. The only reason I was sitting on the floor was because my parents had ordered a new sofa a few days earlier and gave away our old sofa. Don’t ask me why. I guess they grew tired of sitting on the same brown sofa every day. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that our dog, Wally, loved to chew on it.

  “Hey, Billy! Check out the cool claws that Dad bought me at the mall!” My little brother, Logan, burst through the front door. He was only seven years old but he was smarter than most seven year olds. Oh and yes he was named after a certain comic book hero. I won’t say which one but you can probably guess.

  “I kind of wish they were real claws instead of plastic but they’re still pretty cool.” He ran up to me and formed a super hero pose by flexing his scrawny biceps.

  “Yeah, those look awesome, Loggy!” I liked calling him Loggy.

  “Billy! Would you mind giving us a hand here?”

  Mom and Dad were trying to shove the new sofa through the doorway. Mom had insisted on paying extra for delivery but Dad was convinced he knew what he was doing. Just like always.

  Two summers ago there was a huge beehive hanging from the oak tree in our backyard and Dad took it upon himself to get rid of it. He armed himself with nothing more than a hockey mask, oven mitts and a rake. Oh and he also had me and Logan standing by with the water hose. He counted to three and then struck the beehive with the rake. It fell to the ground and a swarm of bees quickly followed! Dad then ran towards us shouting, “Turn on the hose! Turn on the hose!”

  Unfortunately, we were both in too much shock at the sight of that many bees. We couldn’t believe our eyes! There must have been over a thousand of them! The only thing we could do was stand and watch Dad get stung multiple times by some pretty angry bees. Logan and I never got stung for some reason. Probably because the bees didn’t see us as a threat.

  I once saw this show where some guy covered his entire body with millions of bees! He allowed the bees to crawl all over him for a full twenty four hours. A few of them crawled into his ears and nostrils. Afterwards, he said that the bees didn’t sting him because he remained perfectly calm and didn’t panic. The bees had no reason to sting him because they did not see him as a threat. Too bad Dad didn’t see the same show.

  He flailed his arms around and swatted at them until he could swat no more. Luckily, I was able to break out of my initial shock induced trance and turn on the water hose full blast. By the time I had soaked Dad from head to toe the bees had finally given up. Mom came home from work early that day and helped him pluck out all the stingers. That was also the day that Dad found out he was allergic to bee stings. His face and arms were swollen for a whole week! He kind of looked like a scarecrow that had been overstuffed with hay.

  I still laugh about it sometimes whenever I see a beehive.

My Self-Portrait

This self-portrait turned out pretty nice. I figured since a lot of artists have drawn/painted themselves then I should give it a try. It does make for an interesting piece. :-)

Original Drawings

Here are some original drawings of mine. Some I've already sold, some not yet. Enjoy. :-)