every time you reassure, you make a reass out of u and re

(for g.)

Tonight in one of my classes, my classmate, Daniel, told me he saw me on TV this weekend. Channel 4 News was doing a story on Banksy's "Barely Legal" show here in LA (I will write a little about the show later...maybe). Anyway, according to my classmate, on the news, I was looking at the live, wallpaper-painted elephant in the living room, and talking to my friend--but I don't remember seeing any news camera (luckily, the camera didn't catch me tagging the elephant with my Sharpie).

Later, on my way home after class on the Red Line, I found a half-eaten Perugina gourmet Italian chocolate bar. It was on the floor, but the wrapping covered it and it was in good shape. I pocketed it as the train pulled in to Union Station, and I ate it after my dinner of soba noodles and frijoles. It was really good. But if I die from some kind of poisoning, you'll know what happened.

A few months ago, I looked up my Ex on myspace. I have a number of exes (highschool ex, greencard ex, creepy ex...), but there is always that one who is your "Ex" Ex. You know the one. The one with a capital E, no qualifier, the one you usually mean when you say "My Ex..." Eight-Year Ex. First-Time Ex. First Great Love Ex. That Ex.

Anyway, it's really weird that I looked her up. It's been years, and there was never any real interest on my part to see what she was up to. But I was talking to my sister about Myspace, how stupid I thought it was, and she said she liked it because she was able to find and re-connect with a few old friends, and suggested I do the same. So, that's what gave me the idea to look up old friends.

Only, when I went to enter something in the "search" field, I realized that I couldn't really think of any old friends (that weren't still in my life) that I actually wanted to find, let alone re-connect with. I half-heartedly put a few names in, some old emails. Nothing. Then I put in my Ex's name. Nothing. Then I put in her old email, and there she was.

In a wedding photo.

With a brand new baby and family.

Still looking California, but sounding a little Minnesota.

A flood of feelings, of course, but the first one was something like pure happiness. Sharp, surprised intake of breath—I even said her name out loud—and then just this flood of feeling so happy for her, seeing that she finally got what she'd always wanted, and deserved, and I felt so good for her.

Then the other feelings. Remembering my asshole twenties, my poor treatment of her and of our relationship, my stupid games, my egotism, my seesawing refusal to commit...and the whole time, my longing for some other kind of life, uncomfortable in my own (privileged, güero) skin, the first glimmerings of decolonization, trying with great difficulty to somehow graft this idea of kids, commitment, long-term life sharing, onto these other things that were pulling me somewhere else entirely—art, anarchy, aztlan. "I'm 34 years old," I said to myself, looking at her Myspace picture, "What the hell am I doing with my life? I live with three roommates, going to school, working as part-time as possible, racking up more debt, listening to punk music, wearing long stringy hair, a beard, ratty clothes (old t-shirt, cut-off Dickies, paperthin-soled Chucks), no back seat in my beat-up car (long story), no savings, no equity of any kind, riding my bike everywhere like a fucking chavalito, apparently still unable (unwilling?) to conduct a healthy, lasting, adult relationship..."

And so on.

Roll another cigarette; chain smoke on the fire escape; 1st Street bridge lit up, 3 a.m.; homeless guy poking through dumpster...

Of course, this deficit model ignored all the yeah buts—yeah but, compared to six years ago, when I was a completely colonized and alienated cubicle monkey with no consciousness, no social skills, no friends, no commitment to social justice and community, things look pretty damn good now. Yeah but, I meet and know some of the coolest, most interesting human beings in this city. Yeah but, I hear great music, see great art, experience moments daily that can only be described as little revolutions of everyday life. Yeah but, I've marched, I've organized, I've participated in transformative political and personal events in other people's lives. Yeah but, I've done some good work, and some not so good work, but I've done work—writing, creating art, performing, connecting with people, moving forward, falling back, moving forward again...

I didn't really take seriously the sense of my own failure. It was a momentary thing, one of those small hiccups that suddenly overwhelms you with doubt, fear, regret, one of those waves that are so hard to avoid when the spectacle society is constantly bombarding you with images and roles and the pressure to conform.

Not that I saw my Ex as having conformed—I just saw that she was happy and had got what she always wanted and what I couldn't give her, and I was happy for her, and I couldn't avoid asking myself if I am happy, if I'm getting what I want, if I'm even wanting the right things in the first place, or if I'm missing out on something important—every choice negates another possibility, another path, a whole other set of experiences.

Honestly, I still can't fully answer all these questions.

What I do know, from my internet statistics tracker, is that the U.S. government and military have been looking at my website lately (hi guys! leave me some comments!).

So, at least someone finds my life interesting...

And that's...reassuring...