“Ruminations” is a much-needed writing outlet for me. I write constantly my own philosophies, comments on politics, etc. My only intention is to share my point of view and inspire thoughtfulness to whoever is reading.


The Sheep, The Dreamers, and The Soul  | |  October 2018

To be submissive is to already be dead. Those who safely walk with patient submission die in longing— the somnambulists sleep with fear, for to open their eyes is to wake the soul. But it is not the dreamers who die winning: they reach for heaven so furiously that they ache for an inch of the clouds. To be longing for the unattainable is to be tortured slowly. These idealists reach for imaginary heights (ones they could only describe by an expression like an orgasm and by throwing back the arms in murderous pleasure); they draw souls into their breath like sweet intoxicating smoke. Too often the breath out chemicals and realize after the high there is nothing left. But to never choke on the carcinogens of your lived royalty leaves behind nothing to come down from. It is climbing back up that makes the truly hypnotized baptized in a reality as fake as a dream. Yet, God willing, when one resides within the empathy of humanity and the Light, the dream is not in pieces and reality is not succumbed to sleep— the Soul is alive.


MADRID, SPAIN  | |  JUNE 2018

THE GARDEN ROOM

As I sat in the “Garden Room” of my boss’ Madrid apartment, I realized that for two weeks I had the place I had been searching in my mind for all along. The “garden room” was my studio; my residency in the sunlit vertical room facing miles of trees and brick balconies. I did not have a balcony. It all made sense— this was my place of work. I realized all this talk of needing space to work is ironic since I didn’t have a job. I didn’t even have a home. I couldn’t even begin to call a city my city. And there I was in Madrid, working on the future.

It’s hard to be lonely when you have a partner. Whenever you get lonely, you can call them at all hours of the day crying or complaining.

The night before I set up the Garden Room, I had a dream about Sean and I opening up a crowd on stage with mics in our hands. He joked around loud and exuberantly, energizing the crowd with his lucid charm. I stood speechless and went off stage, watching a young celebrity try to woo him off with her for drinks. I stood casually by. I wouldn’t have cared if he fucked her. He’s my partner.

My future is inseparably tied to my idealizations. I never understood why people refer to them as “dreams,” because my dreams are never what I would wish for and often are more resembling of the chaos of real life. Idealizations are the worst kind of OCD because you can repeat, repeat, repeat those actions but the result will never satisfy. I have achieved near perfection many times, which is why I have no ideal life anymore— only dreams.

I was only 22 years old sitting in the Madrid apartment completely alone. Not even Wifi to call home nor a friend around the block to have lunch with, but I had a place to work. I overheard the passing conversation of Spaniards coming home from work to go into their apartments with balconies to take a sip of café and maybe a nap. Perhaps a sandwich and cigarette after a long day’s work. It was not perfect, not the ideal spot by any means, but I had a place to work. I was sitting in 2018 smoking a vape filled with CBD and Nicotine and drinking an ice-cold Kratom tea. I had everything necessary.

The room had a strange concoction of objects that made me feel like I was smoking in a preschool or temporary housing. There were bookshelves, a tall furniture pieces with eight drawers, my desk, a half-bed covered in blue and white striped slipcover, and a large installed closet with tall-mirrored doors. There were Lizzy Maguire stickers on one of the white doors, badly damaged. Some of the characters lost their heads: lifeless 2000s Disney bodies posed ridiculously inside red borders immortalized stuck to white doors. A wicker chair with a round wooden frame sat in the corner. The seat was broken inward, weaved wicker pushed downward fraying and cracking. in a quite symmetrical broken form. I couldn’t figure out who’s ass could have possibly fit in the small round wooden frame while also have been heavy enough to break it.

The entire far wall was filled in with glass windows, the kind that opens towards you but only to a point where they stop in an uncomfortable diagonal position because the next one is in the way. Under the doors was a wrap-around shelving unit low to the ground decorated with more half-removed playful stickers. An empty bowl lay on the windowsill as if a cat used to reside in the Garden Room—if only. Every drawer was open. There was a burglary a month ago but no one was sure if they ended up taking anything. They left the place a mess: every cabinet and drawer and basket and bookshelf emptied onto the floor. This room was no exception. To my luck, one object left behind was a briefcase filled with colored pencils, pastel, and acrylic paints. This was my studio.

I set up my MacBook on the desk so I could look to the left through a three-quarter opened window at these massive trees that were so messy and green with branches shooting out every direction. It was impossible to tell how many trees were out there, they all blended like an impressionist painting hanging over the thin street that wrapped around our building lined with little European cars. They weren’t even the mini cars, but they are still small in comparison to the American SUVs, which wouldn’t stand a chance of turning down the narrow streets of Madrid.

The dead quiet in the living room was completely isolating. That’s why I was in the Garden Room. I could have been in the kitchen, but one is always in the kitchen. I was so alone that I didn’t even have to close the bathroom door to pee after drinking my morning beer. I had bread and meat but no hunger. Finally, I had the hunger to create.

Signatures are Obsolete || October 2018

I love my friend Richelle. One day she was buying something, at some store… every day shit. She signed for her card at the register with a smiley face. I looked at her as if she spit on the flag. She looked at me with a quaint smile. We walked out of the store as if nothing extraordinary happened.

A few days later at SuperFoods, a food store in Manhattan known for its high prices, I signed with a smiley face. Expecting a rush, I was disappointed. I felt redundant and uncreative. How droll was I. Walking down the block with my grocery bags, I thought about all the signatures an artist could create; but the next day I went back to signing a scribble. How droll.

Today, months later, I remembered this story. Sitting in bed, I wondered, why the fuck do I sign things? So I read this article: https://www.npr.org/sections/money/2014/09/08/345820789/why-do-we-sign-for-things-a-rabbi-a-lawyer-and-a-mastercard-exec-explain

Yet again I was left with no satisfaction. Sure, signatures seem to have become a silly task, but I want to know if they can be scientifically proven as one’s identity. Because if a signature cannot prove an identity, each document written in history has required everyone from the greatest leaders to the everyday citizen shopping at SuperFoods to perform the meaningless yet seemingly vital task of the signature.

I don’t want to sign things with my fingerprint. I just don’t want to sign things at the food store. I no longer want to perform this absurd task.

Not everyone has to. To my amazement, I found out there are signing machines! For instance, Obama used the “Autopen” to sign some legislation while on vacation. When the papers are stacked up high, the president can choose to sit back and relax while a machine signs everything for them. What’s the point?

Signatures are obsolete. Why is it that at a nice restaurant when you pay the bill with a credit card you must sign, but when someone goes through the drive thru at Dunkin Donuts a signature is unnecessary?

I have used a family member’s card many times to take out food, and unsure of whether or not I have to forge her signature, I simply write a quick squiggle so no one would even be able to tell. Most of the time cashiers don’t even check your ID to see if it matches your credit card, and I have never seen anyone check my signature to see if its genuine. This writer, and apparently many card companies, agrees: https://twocents.lifehacker.com/you-dont-have-to-sign-your-credit-card-receipts-anymore-1824208980

The practice of signing only seems valid to me if the process is notarized. And that is because there is a witness proving one’s identity with valid forms of ID. This process clearly is not practical, not logical, and completely an old-fashioned way of thinking.

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