C.E. Santana's Blog, page 6
March 22, 2015
March 19, 2015
"Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us."
- Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch (via klytemnestre)
"Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you."
- Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch (via klytemnestre)
March 12, 2015
New Short Story: Gratitude
Today is the day I kill myself. Or maybe tomorrow. I don’t know, I’ll decide later on. I’m on Runyon. The sun is out, it’s a beautiful day, like any day in LA. The view is clear. You can see the ocean. I’m not much of a beach person. Nature intimidates me. Reminds me I’m human and I don’t matter. It can easily swallow me up if it wanted to. I’d rather swallow some pills and be in control of my death. Not today, I decide.
Tomorrow is the same. I wake up, I drink some water, I walk to Runyon. I’m living in a studio apartment in Hollywood. I’m the typical person. There’s nothing extraordinary about me. I moved to LA with dreams of making it as an actor. I left my life behind in New York. I was an actor there too. I did plays. I did short films. I did a NYU student short that got an award at the school. I had a girlfriend. Let’s talk about her. There’s always a girl. I moved out here for her. She still lives in New York. We don’t talk. Sometimes I look at the pictures I have of her on my phone. I’m doing this for you, I tell her through my screen. I’m going to prove you lost a great one.
I make it to the top of Runyon and do some stretches. I imagine what it’s like to live in one of the houses below. I have nothing but contempt for those people. Fuck you, I want to scream. I run down Runyon then do some stretches at the bottom. There’s a couple there with their dog. I see them often so I nod and they nod back. Fuck you, I tell them in my head.
2AM is when I really start hating myself. I can’t sleep. I’m tired from my job waiting tables in Beverly Hills. Every night is the same. I’m restless. I want to act. I don’t want to wait tables at the fucking Cheesecake Factory. I want to be in a movie. Or a sitcom. Or a commercial. Anything. But there’s no call backs or castings at 2AM so I act out roles by myself in my apartment.
“Today’s the day I kill myself,” I say facing a tall mirror. “Or maybe tomorrow, I don’t know. I’ll decide later on…”
I grab my prop gun and stick it to my temple. I try to imagine what a real gun feels like. I make a mental note: I need a real gun. I say the line again. “Today is the day I kill myself.” I try to channel Deniro in Taxi Driver but then I stop. I have no imagination. Everything I do is the same as anything anyone else has done.
At 3AM I get weird. I start drinking. I always keep a bottle of whiskey for a special occasion. Turns out every night is a special occasion. An occasion to drown my thoughts. I text my ex. She has me blocked but I still text her. I tell her I miss her. I tell her the times I spent with her were the best times of my life. I tell her I’m miserable without her. I tell her I hate her.
My coke guy lives downstairs and he’s such a good neighbor he already knows to pass by. Like a good neighbor bringing me soup if I’m sick. Like a good neighbor he’s there. I let him inside and he sits on the couch. His name is Henry and he’ll tell you himself he moved out here to sell coke. He set out to do something and he’s doing it. I have nothing but contempt for him. Fuck you, I tell him in my head. He rolls a joint and tells me about his day. About his crazy run ins with the homeless kids by Chick-fil-A on Sunset. They’ve owed him money forever, he tells me. He puts out a line and I snort it. Suddenly, acting out scenes with Henry, I turn into the greatest actor since Hoffman. Henry is a good actor, a natural. I don’t tell him this, though.
Like a sitcom, Melissa enters my apartment next. She’s the girl across the hall from me. She’s pretty but not like star quality. Henry rolls another joint and we smoke. She does a line. She tells us about her day. I won’t bore you. I give Henry the nod and he leaves. I sit on the couch and Melissa puts her head on my shoulder. We talk for a bit. I tell her I like her. I do, I’m not lying. We’d be good together. But I didn’t leave the best girl in New York to settle down with a stripper. We aggressively fuck on the couch and then on the bed. I light a cigarette and then finally fall asleep with Melissa next to me. She’s warm and soft.
*
My younger brother texts me in the morning: Happy Birthday, big bro!
I’m thirty-four today.
By the time I run up Runyon my hangover and shitty attitude are gone. At the top I catch a breather and look out at the Hollywood sign. My audition is today and I feel great. It’s my birthday. Good things are going to happen. The sky is as perfect as a paint card at Home Depot. There’s not the slightest imperfection. Just blue everywhere.
My phone rings while I’m getting dressed for the casting. I did my push-ups when I got back home and I’m admiring the progress I’ve made on my body. I look pretty good, I think. I remember fucking Melissa last night. My abs were looking tight sitting on the couch as she rode me. They used to look like rolls of bread, but they were tight last night.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask my manager.
He catches me off guard. He’s yelling, “Where the fuck are you?” I imagine him sitting in his car in traffic, the call on speaker. He loves talking through the speaker of his BMW. Often, when he’s at a light, and there’s a hot girl in the vicinity, he’ll call someone just to yell at them.
“I’m home, why?”
“You’re home? You’re fucking home? Your audition was an hour ago. You know what the fuck I did to get you in there? I pretty much begged the casting director. I owe her a favor now. No, I owe her a double favor now.”
“Hold up, man. The audition is at 2PM.”
“12PM. 12PM. 12-Fucking-PM.”
“No, you said 2PM.”
“12PM, man. I’m tired of your shit. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.”
“You said 2-Fucking-PM!” I yell. “You fucking sabotaged me. I know it.”
“Are you fucking deranged?”
“Fuck you!”
“No. Fuck you!” My ex-manager yells back. The call dies.
I throw my phone in frustration and it smashes in the mirror, breaking all types of glass. I pick up my phone and look at it. It’s completely shattered, so is the mirror. I look at the hundreds of reflections of my face. None of them look happy. I punch the mirror and finish the job. My fist is covered in blood.
I grab a new bottle of whiskey from the stash and open it. I take a big chug and immediately the voice in my head appears.
I hate everything at this point: my life, this town, my job, my relationships, the Sun, the birds chirping outside, the hummingbird floating by my window, the puppy next door barking, the palm trees. My head is throbbing. The voice gets deeper, more menacing. I’ve never heard it get like this. I must have hit a switch. A chemical reaction must have gone haywire in my brain. I keep drinking. I light a joint. The voice gets sharper. It’s all I hear. The voice transforms from a voice into an actual thing. It’s sitting in front of me. He’s wearing an expensive pinstripe suit. His face is bony. He somewhat resembles John Waters minus the mustache. He sits there, legs crossed, sipping whiskey.
"Let’s make this quick," he says. His voice isn’t as menacing once it’s out of my head. It now has the tone and rhythm of sarcasm. "You want something to numb the pain?"
I nod.
He pulls out a gold pill case from his inside suit pocket and takes out four pills of various shapes and colors. “Take these,” he says. I do as told.
I black out.
*
It’s night when I come to. I’m at the Hollywood sign. I’ve never been so close to it. How did I get up here? I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. A few hours? A day? A week? Was I wandering Hollywood Blvd, mumbling on and on to myself, stars floating around my head like a delusional cartoon character? Was I yelling obscenities on Highland and Santa Monica, ranting about the Devil and the earthquake that’s going to sink LA and begging for change to buy cigarettes? Maybe, since I check and don’t have my wallet. Did I buy a Map of Movie Star Homes and stalk a young starlet? Did I slept in the streets like the other 50,000 homeless people of LA, basking in the Sun during the day, fighting for territory at night? Anything is possible in Los Angeles.
Below me the city sprawls for miles and miles. The voice in my head is fastening a noose to the O of the Hollywood sign. I start to whimper.
"This is for the best. No more pain. No more torment. Best for both of us, actually. You think I like to constantly remind you how shitty your existence is? I don’t. I have better stuff to do. At least this way, you’ll finally become what you’ve always wanted to be: famous. I find it pathetic. But to each it’s own, I guess. I tried with you. I tried reminding you every day to do better. To get up earlier; to work harder; to progress; to stop being jealous of what others have. But you insist on making it hard. Life isn’t that hard. Some people have it all figured it out. Shit happens and you accept it. The people that really make it hard, the people like you, can’t be satisfied with anything. Always victimizing themselves. Blaming others for their misery. Well, let’s just end this now. What’s the point, right? Even if you do make it, which I doubt, then what? You’re still going to be miserable. No woman is going to love you. Money and fame won’t change anything, it’ll only make it worse. There’s going to be more drugs, more hookers, more shady coke dealers disguised as friends. And me? Well, shit, I’m only going to get louder. To the point all you hear is me. Even on the sunniest days in LA, I’m going to be the thunderstorm in your head. You really want that? I’m going to make you wish you never became famous. Not until you start doing some things that actually matter. How about you call your brother once in a while? He looks up to you. I like the kid. He’s stable, unlike you. He doesn’t ask for anything. He works hard at his job, doesn’t bother anyone. Not even you, and you’re the only one he has left. You can’t take that pressure. You’re sobbing like a little bitch. Oh, God, let’s just get this over with. Imagine the coverage on the news. You may make it on TMZ! Good for you, I’m proud. I even went ahead and called your P.R. They’re getting ready a press release. This way, at least, you won’t get a chance to ruin it. We both know you will. You finally made it to the top. Congrats.”
*
I wake up at sunrise in the bushes covered in dirt. The voice in my head is nowhere to be found. I look to the O and see the noose. I let out a groan. Other than a headache and my swollen hand, I’m not in physical pain, just exhausted. Epic exhaustion. The type of exhaustion that occurs after you push your mind through the caves of madness and you make it out alive. I think I’m grateful, I don’t know. Gratitude — I haven’t felt that word in a long time.
March 11, 2015
npr:
nprbooks:itscolossal:WATCH: Weapons of Mass Instruction: A...
npr:
WATCH: Weapons of Mass Instruction: A 1979 Ford Falcon Converted into a Tank Armored with 900 Free Books (video)
I’m thinking our books give-away cart could use a few upgrades …
— Intern Malika
+1 -Emily
March 5, 2015
nevver:
Sucking in the Seventies, News From Home
"new york,
unlike some places i’ve been
i don’t ever wonder what people see in you.
even the pigeons..."
new york,
unlike some places i’ve been
i don’t ever wonder what people see in you.
even the pigeons know your magic.
whether we’re struggling,
or floating along,
there you are
ready to pick us up again
when you please, of course.
everyone gossips about you
how you’re the loud one of the group
but frequently i inhabit silent trains
full of people: reading, sleeping, pondering
their sleepy heads falling through their hands when they start to slumber too deep
or playing games on their phone
or moving to the music inside their ears.
i think often how i can’t believe i’m here.
it brings my smile to the surface,
pulling into another station on my way home, thinking,
the commute from manhattan to brooklyn isn’t so bad,
though any new yorker would tell you
it depends on what train you’re on and how far you have to go into either borough.
there’s magic in the struggle.
there also is none.
if you’re resilient enough
to ride the rushing waves,
new york will pat you on the back and say,
‘i knew you had it in you.’
- srj (via spindrift)
