The gardener now comes on Wednesday morning instead of Friday because the Muslim Brotherhood next door said the baby wakes and cries when they come on Friday, we have the same gardener, something I regret when he asked about my gardener and recommended him.
I really don't care what day, but Friday is a good day because the front looked nice for visitors on the weekend. It's a status thing, "Oh, your gardener comes on Friday," because it's hard to get a gardener on Friday, that's when everyone wants the gardener.
Then there is the showing of the baby. Sitting in the backyard with a six foot fence between us, she raises the baby above her head for me to inspect. I don't know why, I find them rubbery and, at times, disgusting. Snot drips from their nose, they demand constant attention and shit at will. But I know what to expect. I'm to ogle the baby. Lavish attention on the bundle of joy. Say things the mother wants to hear like, "What a cute baby!"
Cute is someone eighteen years old in a Speedo, not a rug-rat trussed up in diapers and yet there I am, with this baby's prune face hanging in the air above an unseen mother, as if floating in air. And I'm wondering, 'How long can she keep the kid over her head?' So I keep praising the child to see if the mother will finally drop it in exhaustion.
She doesn't, I'm disappointed and want to go back to getting stoned in the backyard without being interrupted with floating babies.
Really, doesn't a six foot fence tell you something? Does not that, in itself, say this is a private area. You have your private area and I have mine. That is until you start wearing stilts and wave hello while I'm scratching my ass and picking tomatoes.
Stories from living in Los Angeles
Friday, June 21, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Wise Sage Is the Mexican Monkey
I hate to admit it but he gave me some good advice.
"Don't get too personal with people you hire," he said.
He is right. I learned a lesson. One of the problems with Golden Boy is something I created, getting too friendly, wanting to be a friend as well and you can't. It creates to many other problems.
I distance myself from him, not asking him questions about his life or boyfriends, not getting involved. It seems to have work. Today was much better, a much better day. So maybe it will work out. I hope so at least.
I do like the guy, he has flaws but who doesn't. And I would like to see him become more confident in himself without needing the approval he is so desperate for from his peers. It takes time, it certainly did with me and I think I was far more fucked up than he is.
One thing here is, I have no one to talk with. With Wally's dementia, his thoughts are a mystery for the most part. Once in a while something comes out, Some small insight that brightens the room but that's a rare event. In fact so rare that I'm in rapture to here him say something and not focused on what it is he is saying.
Dementia, a stealer of thought and action. So terribly crippling in so many ways. And I'm alone with Wally in this pretty much. Me and Wally hoping for a better day that won't come but that's all we have at this point. Hope for a better day.
"Don't get too personal with people you hire," he said.
He is right. I learned a lesson. One of the problems with Golden Boy is something I created, getting too friendly, wanting to be a friend as well and you can't. It creates to many other problems.
I distance myself from him, not asking him questions about his life or boyfriends, not getting involved. It seems to have work. Today was much better, a much better day. So maybe it will work out. I hope so at least.
I do like the guy, he has flaws but who doesn't. And I would like to see him become more confident in himself without needing the approval he is so desperate for from his peers. It takes time, it certainly did with me and I think I was far more fucked up than he is.
One thing here is, I have no one to talk with. With Wally's dementia, his thoughts are a mystery for the most part. Once in a while something comes out, Some small insight that brightens the room but that's a rare event. In fact so rare that I'm in rapture to here him say something and not focused on what it is he is saying.
Dementia, a stealer of thought and action. So terribly crippling in so many ways. And I'm alone with Wally in this pretty much. Me and Wally hoping for a better day that won't come but that's all we have at this point. Hope for a better day.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Golden Boy Lavished With Chunky Gold Jewelery
His latest squeeze has expensive taste. After all, he comes from a wealthy family. And the rich don't mind buying what they want and the boyfriend wants Golden Boy. A massive gold horoscope sign on a thick gold bracelet. It's like a brick of gold on his wrist.
It worked, Golden Boy is willing to sell himself if the price is high enough. He's even said so, Someone wants to pay to feel his body, fine with him. To bad too because he'll never be his own person. He'll never be able to stand on his own legs without help. Crippled for life because of his love for wealth. And it's not a bad thing to want to be rich. But though gold does not corrupt, it does those greedy for it, and Golden Boy is very greedy for wealth.
I'm afraid it isn't working out here in Gaza Strip with Golden Boy. He wants to stay someplace else and come here when he feels like it. He has his Mercedes, his gold, his expensive Italian sunglasses, he has all the trimmings of wealth except a heart of gold. His heart is a dollar sign and for all he talks of Christianity, you would never know it by his deeds.
The cleaning lady has no car, it broke down and she takes whatever cans and bottles she finds to help her make ends meet. He denies her the empty bottles of water I buy for him. He's saving them, or at least says he is for gas money. What he does, usually is throw them in the trash and not the recycling trash but the dumpster trash. So that the cleaning lady can't have them. That's why I detest Christians with their high and mighty bullshit. It won't be long here before I tell him to get the fuck out. He's about an ass-hair away from finding what the other side of the door looks like.
It worked, Golden Boy is willing to sell himself if the price is high enough. He's even said so, Someone wants to pay to feel his body, fine with him. To bad too because he'll never be his own person. He'll never be able to stand on his own legs without help. Crippled for life because of his love for wealth. And it's not a bad thing to want to be rich. But though gold does not corrupt, it does those greedy for it, and Golden Boy is very greedy for wealth.
I'm afraid it isn't working out here in Gaza Strip with Golden Boy. He wants to stay someplace else and come here when he feels like it. He has his Mercedes, his gold, his expensive Italian sunglasses, he has all the trimmings of wealth except a heart of gold. His heart is a dollar sign and for all he talks of Christianity, you would never know it by his deeds.
The cleaning lady has no car, it broke down and she takes whatever cans and bottles she finds to help her make ends meet. He denies her the empty bottles of water I buy for him. He's saving them, or at least says he is for gas money. What he does, usually is throw them in the trash and not the recycling trash but the dumpster trash. So that the cleaning lady can't have them. That's why I detest Christians with their high and mighty bullshit. It won't be long here before I tell him to get the fuck out. He's about an ass-hair away from finding what the other side of the door looks like.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Queer Gaza Plays Host to Golden Boy's Twinks
Everyone loves the garden and right now, with the cool June gloom, and its moderate temperatures, it is a delight to be in. The fountain plays and dabbles water over stones that are green and mossy. The plants are vibrant, colorful with the vegetable garden ripe with cucumbers, garlic, squash, tomatoes and peppers.
There are comfortable cushioned wicker chairs and love seat to sit under a canopy of grapes. You can hear water from the fountain and see most of the gardens from any of the seats. It's very lovely and it's where Golden Boy brings his young friends. Baby-faced bearded boys sporting wisps of hair on jaw and chin. They talk with a good port, fruit and cheese. Golden Boy tells them about his boyfriends. The ones recently found wanting and of course, the woes of finding out what they lack.
It's not like he doesn't have merit in finding their pitfalls. They, so far, have been crazy as all hell. The last one slept all day and stayed up all night. He has insomnia, according to him, but it sounds to me he has bad sleeping habits ladled with poor exercise.
When you're young, you look good no matter what. Sure you can fuck it up, but youth in itself has a beauty. So these poor souls look good now, but wait ten years when they go soft as a spoiled pear. But, in the presence of Golden Boy, listening of the recant from the latest, Romance Gone South, are in rapture to be in his presence. To sip port and bite into soft fragrant cheese while listening to the tales of Golden Boy's forlorn train wrecks.
As they all know, that train wreck was once them.
There are comfortable cushioned wicker chairs and love seat to sit under a canopy of grapes. You can hear water from the fountain and see most of the gardens from any of the seats. It's very lovely and it's where Golden Boy brings his young friends. Baby-faced bearded boys sporting wisps of hair on jaw and chin. They talk with a good port, fruit and cheese. Golden Boy tells them about his boyfriends. The ones recently found wanting and of course, the woes of finding out what they lack.
It's not like he doesn't have merit in finding their pitfalls. They, so far, have been crazy as all hell. The last one slept all day and stayed up all night. He has insomnia, according to him, but it sounds to me he has bad sleeping habits ladled with poor exercise.
When you're young, you look good no matter what. Sure you can fuck it up, but youth in itself has a beauty. So these poor souls look good now, but wait ten years when they go soft as a spoiled pear. But, in the presence of Golden Boy, listening of the recant from the latest, Romance Gone South, are in rapture to be in his presence. To sip port and bite into soft fragrant cheese while listening to the tales of Golden Boy's forlorn train wrecks.
As they all know, that train wreck was once them.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Ghosts In The Garden
Funny thing about the vegetable garden, it is a host to my ghosts. I see them, relatives, friends, even pets roaming among the lettuce and cucumbers. In the morning, early morning while the earth is cold and wet before the birds sing, my grandmother, with her great rear jutting up among the blades of garlic is there poking around in the soil.
When broad daylight hits, before the heat of the day comes, is Ajax the wonder dog. My dear old friend, Ajax who saved kittens, watched over old people and befriended everyone he met runs by on the path between the lemon and the kumquat trees.
Then there are the friends that pass by as if they walked through a door and into another room and I can see them for just a moment when the door opens and closes.
All of them seem happy, seem to be relaxed and content. Kind of like cats after their afternoon nap when they wake up and walk about. Of course seeing dead people is suppose to be a bit weird. Perhaps, but nonetheless, I'm use to it now. It's a comfort really, especially Ajax and grandma. Strange too, because granny pickled and canned everything. Watermelon rinds, eggs, peaches, you name it, she had it stored in a Bell jar on a pantry shelf. And it was good too, at Thanksgiving there would be pickled peaches, with cloves stuck in them, in a liquor heavy with spice and a bit of brandy.
I've been pickling myself and making jam. It's fun really, I'm getting so many pickling cucumbers and with them, have made dill and bread and butter pickles by the jars. Blueberry jam and strawberry with a vanilla bean added to the boiling fruit and sugar, a little lemon rind and juice helps put a nice finish to the jam. Trouble is, I can't buy store-bought any more. No taste to it.
Maybe I see ghosts because Wally and I spend so much time at home. We have our garden, and everyone seems to enjoy it. It's our world made the best we can make it. It could be ghosts like it too. Why not?
When broad daylight hits, before the heat of the day comes, is Ajax the wonder dog. My dear old friend, Ajax who saved kittens, watched over old people and befriended everyone he met runs by on the path between the lemon and the kumquat trees.
Then there are the friends that pass by as if they walked through a door and into another room and I can see them for just a moment when the door opens and closes.
All of them seem happy, seem to be relaxed and content. Kind of like cats after their afternoon nap when they wake up and walk about. Of course seeing dead people is suppose to be a bit weird. Perhaps, but nonetheless, I'm use to it now. It's a comfort really, especially Ajax and grandma. Strange too, because granny pickled and canned everything. Watermelon rinds, eggs, peaches, you name it, she had it stored in a Bell jar on a pantry shelf. And it was good too, at Thanksgiving there would be pickled peaches, with cloves stuck in them, in a liquor heavy with spice and a bit of brandy.
I've been pickling myself and making jam. It's fun really, I'm getting so many pickling cucumbers and with them, have made dill and bread and butter pickles by the jars. Blueberry jam and strawberry with a vanilla bean added to the boiling fruit and sugar, a little lemon rind and juice helps put a nice finish to the jam. Trouble is, I can't buy store-bought any more. No taste to it.
Maybe I see ghosts because Wally and I spend so much time at home. We have our garden, and everyone seems to enjoy it. It's our world made the best we can make it. It could be ghosts like it too. Why not?
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