Below are the 4 most recent journal entries recorded in newbook2's LiveJournal:

Wednesday, May 7th, 2008
1:48 am	she said, (excerpt from 'notes from the deep end') “But I don't want to try anymore, it hurts.” I took a long breath because I knew what was coming. She didn't. I asked her if she laughed today. She said, “Yes.” I asked her if she has a family that loves her. She said, “Yes.” I asked her if she still had the ability to make money, to make friends, to run and smile. She said, “Yes, now what the fuck are you getting at?” I asked if she has ever been betrayed, Stabbed in the back, Taken for granted, Abused. She said, “Yes.” I told her that the problem was her. That she didn't even realize that she came complete with the armor she so desperately craved. The answers she desired. The coping mechanisms she cried out for. They were all right in front of her. No, they were in her. On her. They were the magic that kept her feet in motion. I told her that she's been walking through fire all along and never once stopped to look in the mirror and appreciate the glorious woman she had been forged into. That she had been to hell, got kicked in the vagina and came back loving. I told her that I learned a valuable lesson years ago the hard way. That if you weren't dead, you could still put one foot in front of the other and that each step forward was a step further away from the hurt. I told her that not trying was suicide. But breathing in and out, putting one foot in front of the other, smiling, not stopping ... well, that was loving. That was learning to love yourself. (Comment on this)
1:44 am	we were kings (excerpt from 'notes from the deep end') I never knew how to fight. But that was all he knew. He didn’t fit in and he listened to the same bands I did. I knew it from the T-shirts he wore. Our peers scorned us both for our inability to “go with the flow,” so we bonded. Our love for self-loathing was only surpassed by our loathing for the ones who walked the halls looking down their noses. We sneered and made childish generalizations about their status amongst the high school pack of sheep. Together we were solid. A unit. No one thought like we did. We were dethroned kings; waiting for the day we were to regain our title. Because, see then, then the chicks would see that we were more than the flash of leather jackets and Sid Vicious sneers. We would be revered for our individuality and our sense of originality. But until that day, we had to keep our eyes to the ground while we awaited our rightful place. He would spend many evenings at my house eating microwavable burritos and shooting at whatever wildlife mistakenly stumbled into my backyard. Calling girls, watching soft-core porn and listening to Misfits bootleg records. We came together at the perfect time. The planets aligned and we met … and we skated the same ramps, listened to the same music, went to the same shows, and we understood that we were kings. We bonded even more over the similarities of our broken homes. He had an absent father and a mother that didn’t understand. I had an absent father and a mother that didn’t understand as well ... but the problem was, my mother tried to understand. This he resented. When I was inclined to point fingers to those I accused of stealing my rightful place, my mother did her best to diffuse that anger. But no one was there for him, so that anger went into the mirror ... and when you're a teenager and you hate yourself, it’s only a matter of time before that anger is directed outward. I watched as it built. First it was the preps that ruled over our lunchroom. “Those fucking sheep,” he would say under his breath, as they would walk by. “Why do THEY get the hot chicks?” I would frown and nod my head in agreement. Then it was the suburban gangbangers that ruled the halls. “Fucking fakes. Like any of these kids could even point out where Compton is.” I would frown and, again, nod my head. Then it was the blacks. “Fucking blacks, why are they so fucking loud?” That was when it struck me that this might be headed in the wrong direction, but again, I nodded because I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror as well. “Fucking Mexicans, they come over here and steal all of our jobs.” “Whoa dude, I’m Mexican,” I responded. “Yeah man, but you know what I mean. You’re cool because you're not like a ‘real’ Mexican.” This wasn’t the first time I heard this phrase, nor would it be the last. As time went on, rhetoric like this became commonplace. It began as petty as punk vs. what we viewed were conformists, but soon racism, homophobia and bigotry were the excuse and reason for whatever it was that was missing in our lives. And I bought in... To an extent. Because I didn’t fit in. No matter how much I tried, no one ever liked me for me. I was always too skinny, too dumb, too small, too “gay.” There wasn’t a direction for my anger. There was so much that when I dared to look it in the face, I ended up taking a razor blade to my skin, or breaking out the windows of cars, to telling my mother to “shut her face” because that animosity had to go somewhere ... and when you're young, the sights you've been given aren't calibrated for shit. So I aimed, And shot, And hit all the wrong targets. Soon I began to see the holes in his reasoning. The figures and statistics he would throw at us during our skate sessions in the street now ruined our fun and were beginning to wear on us. He blamed blacks for welfare and drugs. He blamed gays for their supposed lack of morals and for AIDS. He blamed Mexicans for the lack of jobs. And he accused the Jews of controlling the media and blamed them for the death of Jesus. He blamed and he blamed. He pointed his finger, accused, tried and convicted everyone that wasn’t like him. Everyone that didn’t live his life. I may have been young, but even then I saw that he had turned into what we hated. What we stood against. What we espoused to never become. I didn’t want it anymore because hate is heavy, and I was too smart to actively seek out such an unnecessary and overbearing burden. So I took one of the most important steps in my life. Standing in front of my bathroom mirror with clenched fists and a tear-streaked face, I asked the question "WHY?" over and over. It hurt, and it was scary. It was like picking at a scab, but I knew it was for the best. One evening, in the bathroom, I learned that I can’t control the lives of others, no matter how much I hate. The only control I have is over myself and I wasn’t even doing that well. How could I possibly point fingers, accuse and hate people, cultures and communities I didn’t know when I didn’t even understand the kid who looked back at me in the mirror? I had no right. I at least learned that much that evening, that I had no right. Luckily, what else I learned was that I had an obligation to myself to be as brutally honest as possible because I knew that if I couldn’t be honest with myself, that I would never have the ability to do so with anyone else. And how was I supposed to learn how to love and BE loved if I couldn’t stand naked and alone in an empty room? I was sabotaging my own life by attaching the insecurities of others to my back. That night I promised myself that I wouldn’t live a life that only moved forward to push others down. I never had many role models in my life. No teacher that went the extra mile. No coach that got me through hard times. No tutor who helped me make the grade. No priest who taught me how to love. No godparent that gave me the secrets on how to allow myself to be loved. But that’s fine. I’ve had enough people in my life to show me how NOT to live. And that’s all the guidance I need to learn how to be a king once again. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, May 18th, 2007
12:08 pm	my first hero. (excerpt from 'a life deliberate') The nausea came at once. There was no warning. It was ten at night as she attempted to back the car out of our driveway to go work her second job, I pressed my open hands and hot face against the cold window while kneeling in the orange and brown chair and cried. It wasn't the kind of crying I was familiar with. They weren't the crocodile tears of a child who didn't get his way, or the welling up from seeing blood coming from your knee after a bike accident. This was different. This was the deep down gut-wrenching heaving sobbing that came from the depths of your stomach and left your back muscles sore the next day. The kind that kicked your glands into overdrive and left the whites of your eyes bloodshot red the next morning. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, walking difficult, and your hands tremble. It was the kind of wailing that is left for parents who outlive their children. It was the kind of crying that children shouldn't know about. It was the kind of crying that I learned about that winter. The year before, my brother and grandfather had been in a heart-wrenching, torn-from-the-headlines accident. My grandfather was attempting to cross the street while holding the hand of his two year-old grandson and they were struck by a car. This resulted in extreme trauma, comas, and within the week, two deaths. One week my grandpa was making my brother and I eat gross oatmeal, the next he was lying in a coffin smelling of the cover up and foundation powder used to mask the injuries he had suffered to his face. My brother’s funeral was a few days later. These events threw a monkey wrench to the already shaky machine that was my family. My mother was a textbook caregiver: cooking, cleaning, and working two jobs. I have never seen her sit still or have a moment of peace to herself. She was always a bit high strung, tired, and overworked. Since my mother was sixteen she has had to support a family. She was left to care for her little sister after my grandmother died of a heart attack at the age of forty-four, eventually she and my father produced me out of wedlock. Never has she lived a day of her life selfishly. She was just the right opportunity for my father to exploit. My father was born in the hard streets of Chicago. In gangs throughout his adolescence, he called juvenile correctional facilities home off and on from the age of twelve to eighteen for everything from arson to auto theft, eventually earning himself the nickname Cadillac Charlie. He was loud and brash, and his breath always smelled of alcohol, even in the morning. He smiled more than he yelled, and was always ready with a new racist joke, yet he loved Motown and Richard Pryor more than anyone I have ever known. Somehow during the seventies he managed to pull himself out of the mayhem and addictions that had enveloped his life to become a paramedic and ambulance driver and fool everyone, including himself, that he was a respectable and productive member of society; this was how he met my mother. My mother was working as a nurse at a hospital where my father would transport patients; it was here that he managed to charm her into a date and eventually a pregnancy. I was born into the hands of my mother’s co-workers, not much long after. My unwed parents moved us out to the suburbs two years later to give me a better life. To give me a yard, a chance, and decent public schooling. For a few years, everything seemed to be going fairly well, that was until my father’s drinking, drugs, and womanizing began to rear their ugly heads once again; just in time for the accident. The accident was the bowling ball and we were the pins; each of us went flying into different directions. My mother lost her son and her father, my father lost his son, and I lost everyone. Half of my family was dead, and what remained was a father who, despite all the progress of the years prior, couldn't fight his genetic design and dove head first into the addiction his father and his father before him had passed down through one simple shot of semen. So while my mother surrounded herself with good friends and work, my father was off for days at a time on cocaine and hooker binges. Countless nights I was left alone to sleep in the silent dark of my house, or to be awoken in the middle of the night by my drunken father. Somewhere in the next year he managed to give my mother a daughter; a daughter he fought to name Erika. -My dead brothers name was Eric. It took years for my passive mother to work up the strength to throw my father out. I gave her my blessing. Now it was just us. In a matter of just a couple of years, my family went through a hostile takeover and I was left in a position I was not qualified for: Man of the House. The weight and pressure to help maintain a house, baby-sit, and order my own food while my mom was working one of her two jobs was overwhelming. I was responsible for going to bed at a reasonable hour in a dark and lonely house, waking myself up for school the next morning, and trying and do my best to somehow find my way in the unforgiving world of elementary school. In addition to all of this, I was a kid who had recently lost most of his family. I didn't understand my role. The confusion tore at my brain, and at night, the tears would choke me to sleep and I would pray to God to keep my mother safe. All I ever wanted was my mother to stay alive. To keep breathing and driving and laughing and caring. I put all my eggs in one basket. Whether she knew it or not, she held my faith and belief in all that was good in her hands because she was the only true representation of honesty, goodness, and sincerity I had ever known. She was fair, even when she punished me. She loved me, even and especially when I made it nearly impossible. She sacrificed her happiness so that my sister and I would not have to endure a life of poverty, as she did when she was young. My nights were punctuated with the fear that if I woke up and didn't pray to God to keep her safe before I fell back asleep, she would be the victim of a terrible car accident, or she would be robbed or kidnapped and I would be to blame because I knew God wanted me to ask to keep her safe and if for some reason she left this planet, I knew it would be my fault for missing the opportunity to keep her guarded and preserved and away from harm. I prayed seven times a day because I thought that seven was a "holy" number. I prayed seven times because six was evil and eight was my favorite number and if I prayed eight times God would know that it was my favorite number and that would be seen as selfish. So seven times a day, usually before bed, I would say the Lord’s Prayer and follow it with, "And God bless Mommy and keep her safe from all evil and harm and please watch over her." I would then say please three times afterward to a fade out. PLEASE. Please. Pleeeeease. I would clutch my hands so tightly together that I could see the white in my knuckles, because if God could see that, He could see how much conviction was in my words, and if He could see that, then maybe He would realize just how serious I was about how much I loved my mother and maybe, just maybe, He would give me one more day with her on this planet. And if I could clench my eyes together hard enough to squeeze tears in the corners of my eyes, God would see that at that second no one loved their mother as much as I loved my mother. If I could make tears roll down my cheek I just knew God would personally keep watch over her. So, when my mother left the house under any circumstances, I would pray. If she left and people were around I would loosely bring together my right and left hands intertwining at the finger tips and silently mouth the Lord’s Prayer and send the desperate words to a God I knew was listening closely for the slightest inkling of insincerity so He could strike down my mommy with cancer...and I would be guilty, and God would punish me for the rest of my days with a long life and an unforgettable and overwhelming guilt that I would never have the ability to pray away. If I could feel God watching me closely enough I would excuse myself to my room to “grab something I forgot” so I could rush to my bed, lie down, and give the appropriate attention to the words that would keep my mother alive. Alive so she could keep the house, so she could accomplish her goal of going back to school, so she could be my beacon of honor and virtue, and most importantly, to tell me she loved me via phone call and set my heart at ease before I fell asleep that night. Looking out of the window in that orange chair, I sobbed so hard that I began to heave. With the sleeve of my blue thermal pajamas, I wiped the tears from my neck and the snot from my nose. I saw that my mother couldn't make it through the snow and out of the driveway. Rolling down the window, my mother waved to me to come outside. Was she going to tell me that she wasn't leaving? Was this the time she would tell me that I would never have to leave her side? I ran to the post that held my fuzzy hooded winter coat, put it on, shoved my little feet in my moon boots and ran outside. "What did you need?" I asked, panting, out of breath from running through the snow. "Can you shovel the snow out from behind me?" She asked. My bright eyes fell to the snow and I lost all sense of urgency. My hope vanished and I slowly walked back to the garage and grabbed a snow shovel. I returned and began heaving clumps of fresh and wet snow off of our driveway and into the neighbor’s yard. I worked slowly because the snow was damp and heavy like a giant snow-cone...but really I worked slowly because I knew the moment I let her go in that weather, she would be out of my protected sight and God would take her and end her life. He would kill her because I wasn't a good enough son, because I didn't protect her from the danger. He would see it, and I would pay. I looked through the rear window and I could see her face illuminated by the dome light above her. She was applying blush. I could see her straining to see her reflection in the small visor vanity mirror. She brushed and waited for me. I took longer than I should have. I pushed that shovel with a lump in my throat and watery eyes, but I was old enough to know that if I had screamed, "Mom, please don't leave or God will kill you!" She would have chuckled and told me that I was too old to be acting so unreasonable. Like a passenger with a bad feeling before a doomed flight, I breathed in wet and stinging air that got caught in my ribs and made my heart beat through my shirt. "Are you almost done back there, slow poke?" She said with a smile as she manually rolled down the window of the rusted Datsun 260Z that she was so proud of. "Yeah." "Okay, come here and give Mommy a kiss." I walked to the window and put my right arm around her neck and gave her a kiss on the cheek. I could smell her favorite perfume, Ninja, coming from her neck. It smelled terrible, but it was what I could afford to buy her from the local department stores for every holiday from Easter to Christmas. She wore it every day because I bought it for her, and it made me smile every time I saw her spray it because I saw her smile back at me. I think she knew it made me happy because I couldn't hide my big toothy grin whenever I caught wind of it. I hugged her longer than normal that night. I’m sure she didn't notice, but I did. I felt safe with the smell of her perfume, the warmth of the dashboard heat, and my arm around her. "Honey, I have to go." She said breaking our embrace. "Um, Mom," I said, desperately trying to hide my quivering bottom lip. "Please be careful." “I’ll see you in the morning," she replied. I could see her left arm cranking the window up and hear the grinding of the car’s transmission as it shifted into reverse. The car moved slowly and carefully backward, as I stood in front of it on the driveway that had already been covered in a fresh layer of glistening snow. As she fell away from me, the headlights innocently turned each snowflake into a tiny flicker of light so that the moment seemed surreal. And the car was moving away from me. "Mom," I said, while taking a slow step forward. "God...please...please, don't do this God." The car backed out on to the street. I heard the grinding noise of first gear, a rev of the engine, and then it moved forward. "Please..." As the car gained momentum, I could still see my mother inside glowing underneath the overhead light as she waved goodbye. Everything in my being told me it would be the last time I would see her. I walked towards the retreating car with the shovel gripped loosely in my right hand, dragging and scraping it along the blacktop of the driveway. "MOM!" I screamed, "NO!" Then I ran. I sprinted behind the car. Blinded by guilt, fear, watery eyes, God’s wrath, and the insecurities of a 10 year-old boy. I ran with teeth clenched, jawbones protruding, chin up, and the motivation of saving my mother’s life. I ran and the car got smaller. I yelled louder. And the car got smaller. I screamed for mercy to an unforgiving God. And the car disappeared into the black and white of a suburban nighttime snowstorm. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the street, wailing and pounding my gloved fists into the snow as if she was already dead. I was far too old for this behavior, but my lungs and my heart and my eyes and the trembling of my knees knew differently. I cried for my brother who God took just as he was becoming my best friend. I cried for my grandfather who was my light, my teacher, mentor, and God incarnate. And I screamed to the heavens for taking the last shred of substance left in my life. I screamed out love until my voice cracked and my tear ducts pulsated; I screamed for my mother. I picked myself up out of the snow and began walking home. I picked up my shovel and walked up the driveway towards the front door of the house, and as I walked I promised myself that despite what plans were in the stars, I would never let God know I loved another living soul. If those words came out of my mouth, He would know what was most important to me and He would add that name to his ever-amassing arsenal of ways to stab at my heart. And as my boots carried the Titanic of distrust on my shoulders back home that night, I swore I would never let Him touch my heart again. I was a child, dragging a shovel, burning with hate, under God’s mocking winter night. I looked up into the darkness and knew He was watching. I screamed at the pepper sky, "You will not win!" The next morning I was woken up by the sound of my mother’s keys opening the front door. As she walked into the kitchen, I could smell the donuts and coffee she had brought for breakfast. I ran downstairs with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, and I hugged her around her waist. "Whoa, well good morning to you too," she said, smiling, trying not to drop the coffee she was holding. I looked up at her and opened my mouth but nothing came out. I couldn't say it. I wanted to. I wanted her to know how grateful I was that she was in my life. I wanted her to know that my heart did not yet possess the ability to stand on its own. I wanted to tell her how she was my world, my motivation, and my perfection. But while I may have forgotten about the pact I had made the night before with the black sky, my heart and my moouth, driven by self-preservation, had not. That morning, I sat at our cheap and outdated yellow and white kitchen table and as I shoved donuts into my mouth I thought about how that day was the first day of my life I had not told my mother I loved her when I should have. While my love for her beamed from my eyes, ears, and fingers, I knew that her existence was more important than the trite words of a selfish child. The next day, when it was bedtime, my mother hugged me and said, "I love you, Chrissy-poo.” I turned my head and gave a simple, "Night, Mom," and walked away. I walked in my room and laid face down in the bed, crying. I felt like I was betraying the one person left in this world that actually deserved and appreciated my love, the one person who, after losing all that was dear to her in the last year, NEEDED to hear those words. Each night after that, I could see my mom’s face wilt just a bit after my curt dismissal of her words. Each night after that I would stay up late thinking how I was destroying my resolve and melting away at my very soul by allowing my heart to fall away from my protector and the very star I wished upon. I knew that telling your mother that you love her shouldn't be difficult, especially if she's not only your hero, but your champion and living reminder of the good that was left in the world. I adored her, but after years of NOT telling her, finding the right words and the right time seemed to be obscured by the damage that time takes on a coward. Fifteen years later, I drove my car into the city to wish her a happy birthday. I parked and my palms held intermission on the steering wheel. Why was this so difficult? Why was there even a hint of hesitation when all I wanted to do was be completely honest and grant a reprieve to my heart’s fifteen-year sentence. I opened the door and stepped out to a blistery and rainy fall evening. I walked to the wooden steps of her home, my uneasy legs taking one step at a time. I hesitated, took a deep breath and rang her doorbell. She answered like she always did, wearing her mom sweatshirt and a smile, and she gave a great big hug to her undeserving son. "Well, its about time you got here," she said, taking my coat. "Happy birthday, Mom," I said, extending a card. "Oh honey, we'll do gifts after dinner." "No. Um, Mom. Can you open this one now?" "Um, okay. Sure." She said. She opened the card and I watched her eyes read from left to right, starting high then gradually going lower until the smile left her face and I saw the beginnings of tears well in the bottom of her eyes. She closed the card, looked at it then looked at me. We were suspended in time. Slowly, carefully, and deliberately, she smiled the familiar comforting smile I had so desperately craved since the night I had dragged that shovel back up the driveway. She leaned in and hugged me. The combination of her arms around my waist while she held the card in her hands and her head on my shoulder released every ounce of hate and distrust I had screamed into that night sky. She held me and I felt weightless, and she hugged me like she was proud. She hugged me good and strong, like she never wanted to let me go, because she knew it took everything in me to write the words: I LOVE YOU. She hugged me hard and rocked me back and forth for a long time like I was a child, and I didn't stop her. Because I didn't want her to stop. In a whisper she said, "Thank you, honey." As we rocked back and forth, I cleared the lump from my throat and spoke the words that had been held captive behind clenched teeth for too many years, "I love you, Mom." I felt her smile grow on my shoulder, "I know, honey. I know." (24 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, July 12th, 2006
10:43 am	pamplona. i hunched down to tie my shoes laces in double knots. i didnt come all the way out here to have something as ridiculous as a shoe falling off be responsible for what could possibly cost me my life. i touched the uneven cobblestone streets that have been host to this event for hundreds of years coated with a thin and wet layer of fresh wine and i wished myself good luck. you could smell the sweet aroma of years worth of grapes if you got close enough. i stood up and looked up at the clock on the ancient building behind me, it read 7:30 a.m. i heard someone speaking english along side of me. "did you hear about what happened yesterday?" "yeah, it was insane. i saw him get hit. i dont think he saw it coming." "the papers this morning said he was paralyzed from the waist down." i turned and looked over my shoulder, "hey, where are you guys from?" a wide-eyed dark haired kid looks at me and with a smile that distinctly said he was excited to speak to a fellow american, answered, "texas. and you?" "chicago." i said. "so you saw the guy go down?" "yeah dude, it was sick. he was in the ring and didnt even see the bull coming, got him right from behind. he flew up in the air like 3 feet and the bull smashed him again on his way down then he landed on his head. he hit so hard everyone in the stands knew he was fucked." "so you didnt do the run yesterday?" "nah, we wanted to watch it first." the dark haired kid said as he thumbed over his shoulder at his friend with the baseball hat and obnoxious sideburns. "dude, im so fucking nervous right now." sideburns says to me with a trembling smile. i didnt have the heart to say to agree but to say that i was nervous would have been a massive understatement. the day before i had taken two trains, two metro trains and a nail biting hour long bus ride along the steep cliffs of the pyrenees mountains just get to the plaza in northern spain where my feet now stood. all alone, i navigated the foreign lands of western europe in order to throw my life in front of a dozen wild and angry full sized bulls and play the odds. just like ernest hemmingway had done 80 years before me. i had watched a documentary on the festival of san fermin on the history channel almost a decade earlier. i used their wild and exhilarating tales of drunken machismo and the elation of staring death in the face and living to tell about it to motivate me to hop on a plane and embark to what would be my mecca. it that 'celebration of life in the midst of possible death' that drew me in. the program also told the stories of those who did not make it, the ones trampled or gored by the sharp bulls horns that spilled their guts on to the stone streets of pamplona. it was after that i knew i had to go. immediately following the program, i turned off the television, pulled out a small rectangle of paper, grabbed a pen a began to write my "things to do before i die" list. a list comprised of goals that i felt i was put on this earth to accomplish. no matter how insignificant to unachievable, i wrote everything down, folded the paper in half and have kept it in my wallet as inspiration ever since. today was the day i was hoping to cross off what held the number one spot, or die trying. i turned to my new texas friends and said, "ok, i wont lie. im so nervous my teeth are chatttering." sideburns says, "YO, me too. are your hands cold and clammy?" without a word, i take my hands and grab his arm, "ew dude, theyre so slimy." we laugh in nervous agreement. "once you hear the first burst of the firework in the sky, that signifies that they have opened the gate to allow the bulls on to the street." the dark haired kid said. "the second burst means they're actually ON the street. yesterday it happened so quickly we didnt even hear the second burst so just keep an eye on the movement of the crowd." this was useful information due to the fact that we were surrounded by thousands of people jammed into the 15 feet wide streets of pamplona, all built before the invention of cars, but today were jammed with thousands of drunken men from all over the world, here to test their fate. with the amount of people and the tight corners of the run, i figured we wouldnt even be able to see the bulls until they were practically on top of us and even then, i couldnt imagine how i was going to actually 'run' anywhere without trampling everyone within my path. i looked up and saw the clock read 7:45, i thought, "well, ill have answers to all of these questions in 15 minutes." "is it me or is this the longest 15 minutes of all time?" sideburns asks. the dark haired kid and i laugh and agree "so are you going to stay in the ring?" sideburns asks. "what are you talking about? "well, the run ends in the ring with everyone pouring inside. there they corral the bulls then release two at a time to charge back in after everyone left in the ring." "but can i get out of the ring?" i ask. "yeah, you just have to jump the barricade on the sides, but traditionally its looked down upon. they see it as not having done the complete run and is seen as showing a 'lack of man-hood'." shit. not only was i going to have to run with the bulls, i was going to be held captive for who knows how long in a ring with a bunch of confused two ton animals with foot long horns. "yo, get to the sides, here come the cops," sideburns says as a group of cranky policemen come charging through the center of the crowd. "they're pushing the bulk of the people forward in order to thin out the crowd." "fuck, this is getting intense." i say as im tripping over the men surrounding me. "dude, five more minutes." i look back up at the clock and it reads 7:57. the crowd begins to be overcome with an electric intensity. you can feel it in the air, like the moments before you know a fight is going to break out. the chants become louder, "ole', ole'ole' oleee'." the mass of spectators along the wooden fence barrier begins clapping and waving red flags, the crowd begins to sway back and forth, knocking people to the ground as if we're all front row at a sold out concert. i look to my texas friends and scream over the mass hysteria, "hey man, it was nice meeting you...good luck." i say with a friendly pat on the back." swaying along and trying to hold his footing, sideburns yells, "yeah man, ill see you in the ring. remember, if you fall, STAY DOWN and keep your head covered, better to be trampled than be gored." laughing i can see him fall back into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of white and red. then it hit me, the icy cold shallow breaths. they overtake my lungs and for a moment the right side of my brain beings to scream at me, "dude, what the fuck are you doing?!? you could DIE here, this is totally avoidable." out loud i yell, "fuck you, i didnt spend thousands of dollars and travel half way across the planet to NOT do this. you hold your ground you pussy." luckily, the sound of thousands of drunk people at 8am cant make out a word of my frantic english. BOOM. fuck. was that the first...? BOOM. oh fuck, the bulls are on the street. my positioning and the surge of the crowd have pushed me a few blocks up into the course and i know that i have less than a minute before the bulls are right beside me. before i can think, the mass begins to push me forward. uncontrollably, i am forced to begin running or be trampled by thousands. my legs are barely touching the ground, i am kept upright by the surge of people shoving me forward. i begin to push and shove my way to the side of the street in order to get my baring. with my body tilted sideways and following the flow, i maneuver through the rushing stream of white and red and grab ahold of the ledge on the corner of a building. i flatten my body up against the wall so to make myself as flat as possible in order to make room for the flood of the rushing crowd. i look to the building across from where im standing and it reads 'p. ghutuyi'. "oh fuck." i scream. im at whats known as 'dead mans corner'. this is the corner known for where the bulls all collide in to the wall unable to make such a tight right turn. from legend, it is unwise to stand here because when the bulls slide and smash into the wooden corner, they become disorientated and seperate from the herd, making them nervous and agitated. they then get back up and attempt to trample the people standing closest to them. which at this very second, would be me. i turn to my right as to run and there is a virtual wall of people not moving, just as i begin to panic there is a surge in the crowd. one like ive never seen. people are sprinting so fast in front of my face i cant make out shapes. it looks like a waterfall of red and white. the mass is rushing so quickly jumping in and going with the flow isnt an option. in the distance i hear it, "clop clop clop." my eyes widen and my mouth goes dry. i feel the blood leave my face and my head and shoulders go cold. the flow of people slow to a trickle minus a few sprinters looking backwards over their shoulders, neck creening back and eyes wide as saucers. as i turn my head to my left, i make out the image of a black bull running at what must have been twice as fast as ive ever run in my entire life. my breathing ceases. never has fear ever been so personified in me at that very second. i froze. "BAM!" i watched as the bull, the size of a small car crashes into the wooden wall. immediately following him were two others of the same size and stature. the first bull attempts to stand when two larger brown and tan bulls collide with him knocking the first bull on its side. im frozen. the world is slow and silent. i see the faces scream past my face and i cant take my eyes off off the muscles on the back of the black bull. i can see every muscle striation, how the hair lays on its back, the gouges in the horns and the glassy eyeballs of this massive creature. my brain yells, "RUN! you stupid motherfucker." but i cant. i am so entranced with the sheer magnitude of power on display in front of me, i cant even think to exhale. i cant shake my eyes, like the moments before a car crash or a punch to the face, the trance is pure and visceral terror. as if all at once, all five bulls stand and look my way. i am no more than eight feet from terrified and crazed bulls that want to stab, gore and kill everything within their path...and i am standing directly in front of them. i shake my face back and forth to wake myself from the daze and the childlike panic fills my heart and my legs with adrenaline and i begin to run too fast for my body, like a scooby-doo cartoon. instantly i fall to my hands and my knees. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!" i scream, looking over my shoulder to the left as i see the faces of three bulls disappear and are now replaced with six foot long ivory horns. its in these precise seconds when the seriousness of the situation dawn upon me. this IS my life. there are very few moments when each and every emotion and action are pure and uncalculated and made strictly upon survival. this was one of those moments. the moment where i was literally inches away from possible death. "GET THE FUCK OFF ME!" i scream as i shove the people falling on top of me to the sides. my feet push off of something solid yet soft and i look between my legs and notice a layer grown men face down on the street, people are using them to get their footing and push off. i included. for a moment a wave of empathy overtakes me and i think about how in the face of this mayhem and chaos i should help out these people in need. as im looking at their faces of agony, i see over their shoulders the horns of the three bulls charging directly at us. the screams of terror that emanate from my lungs are woman-like and shrill. the kind of blood-curtiling scream that comes from your backbone and rattles your throat. i shove forward, using my adrenaline induced power to throw men like bean bags, i slip and fall again, in teeth clenched horror i claw at the shirts of some balding men in front of me, throw them to the ground and power sprint my way through the carnage right down the middle of the street. i am in full on sprint now with very few people around me. as i look over my shoulder to locate the bulls i see a man make a desperate attempt to jump through the fence that seperates the runners and bulls from the spectators but only to be shoved, face first back into the fleeing drunken and bloody mass by none other than a poilceman. this is no longer fun. im not thinking about 'a list' or an awesome tale to tell my friends back home, the fear that now grips me is making my teeth chatter and my heart beat so hard my eyeballs feel like they're going to burst. before i get the chance to let the tears of fright fall i feel a hot wind pass my face. standing shoulder to shoulder with me are the three black bulls. only two feet away are their horns jutting forward like sabers, searching to impale the next person who makes the mistake of being too close. like a spring, i launch off the street and onto the sidewalk. the combination of early morning air, adrenaline, terror and sprinting have now turned my lungs to salt vapor and i am now desperately looking for a recessed doorway to hide in. each one i pass is filled with at least three people. while the three black bulls have passed me, i am certain the two brown bulls have not passed by me yet. its not knowing where they are that powers my strides. i find a doorway with one middle aged greek man. i leap in the foot deep recession and i make my body flat against the door. "oh shit, here they come." i yell to the man. here, i have a vantage point. i am on top of the incline of the street and i can see the hot breath of the huffing bulls as they run directly up the center of the street. i dont have time to pray, i think, "please please do not see me and stab me in the guts with your horns." with a 'whoosh' they pass. i take a deep breath, smile and say, "well shit, you're not gonna live forever. get in the game and make this worth it." and i jump in right behind the bulls, chasing them in the direction of the ring. following them up the street i can see the massive hooves clomp and slip on the slippery stones beneath them, the people in front of them jump like terrified rabbits, leaping against buildings and behind one another and i follow the bulls up the street. the bulls run faster than i ever could and they lose me, but i still continue to run because i know there are still more bulls behind me somewhere. we round the last curve and i look to my left and see the statue of Hemmingway and i say, "just like you, old man." following the crowd around the turn we make our way down the street and into the dark corridor that leads into the stadium. i am quickly approaching a piles of about fifty bodies, some limp, some bloody, most struggling to stand but with the rush of thousands of drunken men running full speed and twelve startled bulls, they dont stand a chance. using my small stature to my advantage, i bob and weave my way through the unlucky and run through the archway. when i emerge through the other side i am immediately blinded by the light that was blocked by the narrow alleyway. i hear the roar of the spectators in the stands. i put my hand up to my face to shield the morning sun and i see every seat in the stadium is filled and standing and is cheering us on. i stop running, look down and note that i am now standing in sand. i wipe the sweat from my brow and say, "dude, you did it and you lived." i do a quick body check to make sure everything is where it should be. other than a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, i seem to be fine. but my celebratory mood is short lived as i hear the slam of the stadium gates locking us into the center of the arena. many people panic and scramble to the sides and jump the five foot wooden ledge and i remember, shit, this isnt over just yet. the remainder of bulls are corralled by handlers with long green sticks into a pen area and a cheer comes from the spectators, all of us runners look to one another and smile hug each other, congratulate one another on surviving this far and wish each other good luck. the mood on the inside of the arena is tense but calm as we await the two bulls to be unleashed upon us. a small group of runners has amassed at the opening of the corral where they sit, indian style waiting. i look to a guy i hear speak with an australian accent and say, "what are they doing?" "man, those guys are crazy." he says hands on his knees panting, "they sit and wait there for the bull to come out. its like theyre playing a game of chicken." "shut the fuck up, are you serious?" i say just as the doors fly open and two bulls literally fly out of the pen, leaping four hooves in the air over the maniacs sitting. "OLE'" the arena roars as the bulls go running wildly. some of the men are trampled immediately. i rush to the side as the stampede rushes in all directions. while there is a significant decrease in runners, the arena is still packed, so much so that we cant see over each other and where it wouldnt be so much of a problem before in the streets because the bulls want to get from point A to point B, the bulls now have no where to go nor are they with the herd, they are panic-stricken and nervous. runners surround the bulls and taunt them with red shirts or rolled up newpapers. the bulls make quick turns and run after the daring. most people are quick enough to avoid the sharp horns, some are not. i see a middle aged spanish man get cocky and slap the bull on its hind quarter. the bull snaps into action and drives directly into the mans knees, sending him toppling forward and onto the bull. the bull then throws the man upward into the air about six feet, as he comes down the bull thrashes its head upward once again, smashing its massive head and horns into the mans mid-section. he falls limp in the sand. the bull then begins grinding its horns into the unconscious mans back and sides. its an out of body experience. to see a man get smashed and gored and wasted in front of thousands of spectators whos bloodlust cheers this on is overwhelming. this is not fun anymore. this is not a sport. this is danger and horror. and i want out but my head keeps telling me, "see, this is what you wanted, now finish it." so i stay. they corral the bulls and release two more bulls. these two are far more intense and agitated and quickly begin running circles around the ring. no one can keep an eye on where they are. there is so much confusion within the crowd people are shoving and yelling at one another. anarchy sets in and people fall and get smashed from behind when they lose sight of the bulls. i stand trembling in the middle of the ring surrounded by the drunken mass. everyone is on guard, arms stretched out at our sides, ready to jump left or right like offensive linemen. i only know the bull is coming when the person in front of me does and the person in front of him and so forth. its nerve-wracking, like when you're in a pitch dark haunted house and you know someone is going to come and jump out to scare you but its the anticipation kills you. this was what it was like for 35 minutes. coming inches from death and injury. full sized animals with the capability of ending your life running circles around you for pure entertainment. my nerves couldnt take it anymore. then i hear it. the final explosion of fireworks, signifying the end of the run for the day. a long and extended cheer roars through the stands and my dirt and blood covered brothers. a relief and happiness rushes over me that one can only get when he knows he is out of harms way. i turn and i hug a stranger. then another and another. we out of breath and we smell but we were in it together. all of us. experiencing real visceral emotion. it was an test of pride, perseverance, stamina and heart peppered with mayhem and stupidity. but it was real and pure and it was an adventure that was mine forever. i smiled at the crowd and raised my arms to the sun. the dust was still settling on my face and sticking to my sweat. i breathed it in. the sweat. the stench of animal. the dusty arena. the hearts of thousands of fools. i wanted to remember this. this moment. this very second that i made this absurd dream a reality. i thought about what it took to get me to that very spot. to that sandcovered floor in spain. by myself. by my own accord. about how life takes its shots and sends its armies of discouragment and procrastination to attack our lives so that we live safe and mundane. about how those armies win most of the time. about how responsibilities and death and cancer and insurmountable odds prevent us from living with the vigor we so rightfully deserve. because this world is ours for the taking and most people live comfortable and discreet lives that dont make much noise or kick up much dirt and about how this was one of the few opportunities that those armies turned their backs on and let me win. i dropped down to one knee. i looked around at the faces i knew i would never see again and i grabbed a handful of sand and shoved it into my pocket. i couldnt stop smiling as i walked out of the arena that day because i knew i had a handful of memories that no one could take away from me in my right pocket. and a list that now had an open spot in my left. 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