suddenly, jake.

Jim James & Calexico – Goin’ To Acapulco
OST I’m Not There (2007)

With each wave of night and day I feel more awake, prepared for time’s constant the same way astronomers await each night for our planet’s elapsed transition. I can’t say the retrospect was a natural occurrence or gradual until I brushed too close with consequence and learned the boundaries innate with age; I was arrested because I argued with the officer for an underage drinking citation. It was my first ever charge and in my absurd state of mind thought it my best course of action to argue and insult. And of course it was humiliating but the lesson was well enunciated with every syllable ringing still.
            Until then my record was pristine; great student, scholarship(s) recipient, the markings of great accomplishments, so after the incident, without any explanation in their regard I ceased all relations with the friends from my old neighborhood. And I don’t regret it. Their lives were impeded with youthful angst and I wanted something more, simple as that.
            The point of this brings me the Salt Lake City downtown area not a few days ago. I was walking, more like treading the streets toward the Trax end-of-the-line station after watching Terrence Malick’s new film Tree of Life and ruminating over the themes, which are indicative of Malick’s films. The streets were painted wet and as I crossed the street to a building adjacent to the city’s Greyhound station, I heard the rev of an engine and looked: a car skid past a red light and hit the incline of a cement guard between the Trax line and road. The car seemed to levitate, the crud from underneath the car sparked to a stop and stood there several minutes before a woman stumbled out, falling to the ground oblivious of the relation of the car. Four taxi cab drivers loitering outside the station were under the same transfixion of the scene. The woman was hysterical, she screamed and ranted at the car and said to the audience watching her My ex-boyfriend is stalkin’ me! He’s tryin’ to kill me! Help me, please! I went to her aid, and the others followed like some civil impulse. I looked around for her alleged stalker, but saw no one, only the stern street silent. She slurred Can you guys help me put my car back on the road? I really need to get out of here. He’s tryin’ to kill me! It was a hopeless task but we persisted like it were possible. But she snuck back in the car and put it in reverse with us in its trajectory. We end our good will and went back to our initial responses. And soon a police patrol pulled up next to her and to her frantic story reiterated.
            I went my way back home, and was reminded of the friends I used to have and the good times, the blithe of being young; and looked back one last time and saw the officer handcuff her. She screamed and fitted They’re hurting me. Everyone, look! I have witnesses! You’re fuckin’ screwed, Mr. Scrooge! I laughed, regained my next step and went on my across Utah.

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Between The Buried And Me - Colorblind (Cover)
Dead and Dreaming (2004)

This song and today prompted me to write this:

Before I Realised

I remember when the weather would melt
the buildings like plastic and the streets were glass;
too weak to walk on. And the stone in her concern,
my mother’d always say don’t cross or you’ll drown!
but I was an awful child and loved the water.
After night I’d creep around her sight
to an ash splintering dark aloofly
in the desolate road,
and rested my head against the glass
and could stare at nothing except the stars elapsed
but underneath I heard reeling thunder;
and had finally dreamt—I soused my brain;
and realised it was cold out.

By Jake Reategui

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Death Cab for Cutie – Your Heart is an Empty Room
Plans (2005)

I saw her, the woman I’m going to marry, again, standing so defiantly against the aisle of the library, but then at a glance, she disappeared. It pains me not to at least watch her walk through those exiting automatic doors. I know this may sound like a creepy confessional, but to reassure those who are readers who’ve actually read the whole thing, I’ve always taken notice of the insignificant, the subtle unpretentious ways humans interact with one another.
            Anyways, the last time we encountered, I was reading Of the Farm by John Updike, enjoying the fecund descriptions of an uncultivated farm and the strength of the mother residing over it; and the impression of my own mother assumed my reading – her uneducated wit and sensibility, the broad way she carries herself, and her recent deteriorating health – suddenly, obstructing depressing thoughts, she sat across from me reading what it looked like to Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying, but I can’t be sure. I don’t mean this figuratively, but her face was like a flower, succinctly pure; her blond curls overhang, concealing her blue robust eyes, like enveloping petals do in spring. Frequently she looked up from her interest in the book and gave me a sultry smile as our eyes met when I did the same. The experience I’ve undertaken in the study of women, limps when approaching and seducing; rarely in my youth I ever made the definitive “first move”, usually the girls did and I took momentum from it, but things change considerably when you’re out of high school. The image of her imploring flame burned brightly throughout the night, I could not sleep regretting the reluctance I had in striking a conversation. In the morning there was only the resin that I’d never see her again, or at least not in the same circumstance.
            About two weeks later, today, I was working on a rosy screenplay, barely distracted from the ephemeral catharsis, and I notice after several minutes she was browsing for a good read almost as she was intentionally waiting for me to recognize and resume our rousing interest. Like I said earlier I have no skill in being a predator, I wasn’t sure how to proceed and I think if human existence strictly revolved around survival of the masculine, my kin and the ladder of my ancestors would invariably be cut short; in the end I anticipated her to sit and read as she did last time.
            When I realized she left, on the nearest exit my eyes fixated as if the only closure on a final departure and spotted the only source of illumination in the tall natural lit room; the power went out prior and the sun through the window glinted across the room, enticing me for one last chance. I quickly, without concise thought, gathered the many fixtures of my portable office and took stride. There, I sort of winced around; she was gone with no indication of her direction. She must’ve left earlier or never left and obscure by some literary presence. I thought I did enough of going out of my way and beside the exit was the reserved section, and so I skimmed for my name, as I often have, and picked up a French/Polish film called Three Colors: White by Krzysztof Kieslowski that I’ve seen countless times. And then went on my way to pick up my mother from the airport.

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Radiohead – Subterranean Homesick Alien
OK Computer (1997)

I consider OK Computer among the best modern albums and arguably so by many critics, writers, musicians, and fellow music lovers around the world. I myself regard it as Radiohead’s best album; better than Pablo Honey (1993), better than Kid A (2002), and even better than In Rainbows (2007). The consummation of the themes and sound within each song and their arrangement in the album conceptively achieve the same stimulation in a book, a film, or any form of art might have; it moved me so succinctly and immensely, bringing satisfying tears.
            This is my theory: music is the most deceptive in the broad umbrella of art, transcending all boarders, arising even in primitive cultures, essentially there is no qualification of maturity, of language, or of knowledge to limit any individual from appreciating even most the complex rhythms; it takes advantage of the most ambient of our sense, but emerges time after time, more prevalent and, perhaps, more sacred than words, images, scents or tastes. I believe it was developed even before language, as prehistoric man would have to construct their words by humming and stimulating their larynx; creating rudimentary melodies. It seems it’s an innate consequence of life; maybe by imitating the swashes of the sea or the sound of the weather or from somewhere deeper, the beat of the heart.
            A step away, but I think offers some insight into this somewhat esoteric philosophical thought; anyways a few years ago I dropped acid for the first time, but I should exclaim: in comfort of my own home, with a well thought out itinerary and strict research into the drug beforehand (I suggest everyone do the same). But, when completely submerged in the chemical effects, the serotonin in me raged with the intensity of that moment; I remember watching the sporadic music videos of Spike Jonze and Michel Gondry (an immense admirer, at that time), conjuring ideas and thoughts on the music video Drop by The Pharcyde (ironically) that raced through the terminals of consciousness, and finally stalling on a single idea: the relationship between drugs and music – why is it so acute and intense after a few drinks, or by ingesting a pill or inhaling whatever your preference of drug (some more than others)? It came to me that maybe inebriation is a primordial connection to some dormant consciousness; it doesn’t matter who you are when in the state of intoxication it’s never productive, never bettering, and certainly not natural, but it always gives you perspective, perspective into the moment either inward or outward, and what is better expressed in a moment(s) than music; that ancient communication orally spoken and played through us from our ancestors; enunciating and quantifying beliefs, philosophies, emotions, and in essence the human experience.
            I believe that there is no randomness to our communal understanding of music; it’s the sacred, solemn pride of humanity. I hate to talk existentially, but I believe it will be our only outlet of communicating with intelligences foreign to this world. If you notice there is still existing in the world conflict with language, gender, race, religion and politics, you name it, through the years it may have dissipated, but it’s still surviving and it seems it’s only evident that music, the most egalitarian of all human creations, will effectively showcase humans on the platform of the galaxy (or universe whatever comes first). And I’m curious as rhythm has developed so naturally to human existence, is it the same for extraterrestrials and how has it influenced them?

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Damien Rice - Delicate
O (2003)

So I realized I already had Damian Rice’s first studio album only after hearing this song on a recent episode of Misfits, brilliant in its own right, but besides the point, I had, under the eye of adolescence skimmed through this specific collection of beautiful songs and missed most of the inebriating, wine-sipping rhythms that romantically settle with the nostalgia of first-loves and youthfulness.
            Maybe, because I consider myself a conditioned adult, maturing enough to pursue a worthy education, but I can’t divert but be reminded of the substance of my past, the blithe of my youth and the incredible moments I’ve shared when listening to the album’s songs in succession. And not to say, the fire within is extinct, but I’ve realized as my sincere investment in education and future has brought revenue, I’ve notice the risk I used to take notably subside, and I want this back. I miss the abandonment and the spontaneity that riddled my life. Since then I still rejoice in moments and encounters that smack me briskly like the revitalizing nature of dunking your head in a cold lake, but I’ve yet to feel the abrupt quality of it, aware of the sensation before the submerge.
            I was in love once. I remember I would secretly shake from the simple touch of her soft skin, utterly helpless, but I nurture in the time, even the aftermath; the catharsis and purging of tears. I admit I miss the taste of her lips, how I playfully bit them, and the smells of her sweat glazing under the television then morning light. I remember being unaware of inspiration she imposed, yet saying and writing the most profound one-liners and confessions like they belong in a romantic scene in a great movie.
            Oblivious, the usual months became like long voyages into love’s abyss, but I emerged, eventually, to see another had taken my place, and without the famed ending of Odysseus, I was lost and a new sense of security creped in, I loathed to this day. It had been the first time I had loved, let go, to face unreasonable vulnerability.
            Of course, time has passed to make new erosions and marks, but I remember wailing at the vague thought of her, O how my knees buckled, crumbling the love notes I’d wrote. I’d throughly dispose of them, so that there was no evidence of the memory. I took refuge in the grave and solemn thoughts that protruded each moment of each day afterward.
            Soon, I could not force myself to grieve and the tears were waterless. The sun grew out the sky, the affliction was gone, but left a scar deeply burned. And when I listen, I remind myself I’ve healed, but know I still need the love, don’t we all.

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Julio Iglesias - De Niña a Mujer
Mi Vida: Grandes Exitos (1982)

I miss Panama and everything about it! Or should I say I miss the world my family had been accustomed, the world I had in-turn embraced as part of me – the roots of my flourish. It’s been about three years since I last visited the idealic town of Chitre (yes, it’s pronounced exactly how it sounds), yet the impression it’s left, only makes me long for it. The seed of my good-natured relatives and the mystery of my mother, who prior to, had never quite illuminated the branches of the family tree, only through the indecipherable phone calls on important holidays, birthdays, speaking gestures of affection from faces I never remembered.
            The reason to this longing of the place was induced by this melody by Julio Iglesias, although the memory is insignificant, I’m unsure why it’s roused up during every listen. Anyways, the memory is of when mi tia Oleen and I were wandering in Panama’s largest mall, looking for some store, and aimlessly, slowly I identified the tune playing overhead through muffled speakers as something I’ve clearly heard from my mother’s music collection. And it resonated. Julio Iglesias? I said to my aunt. La musica? It was ambient to her, regardless she gestured to listen. It made no difference to her, but she acknowledged that it was. Like I said insignificant, but as each time my playlist skims past it, I can’t help but be reminded of stalling, walking. trying to catch the song.
            Anyhow, the busyness of the Chitre was mirrored in the daily cycle; loudly through the crazy traffic in morning it tells you it’s time to wake, and like something reverent, the solemn silence at night indicates when to sleep. And the calmness walking in the streets, in the day; the polite mannerism instilled in the people, expressed a state of collective welcome. I often ventured off far, most days to the point my feet would ached when I returned to my aunt’s spaciously quaint home, and discover elegant niches of the city, remnants of its former glory . The delight of the people and the cuisine, as in most Latin American countries, is taken in high regard and undeservingly cheap, so I ate from the vendors and the restaurants; breakfast, lunch and dinner. Before, I met people that spoke fluent English, I’d move-up wonderful vantage points, arched over the gem of the town, and see the sunsets; usually at five or six, and despite the unexpected earliness at a place always hot and at the equator, I found the vistas like paintings. My family I had not seen since I was I two, presented me with the world on their shoulders, it was as if I’d grown old and my child and their child would greet me and rejoice in my company. Almost like that, on the verge, they would all tell me stories, anecdotes, and jokes as if I fluent in their language. Radically different compared the scare American family waiting at home; the adjustment of getting acquainted was brief, and I was whirling, intoxicating in enthusiasm from their presence. Not a dull moment.
            After a couple weeks, my aunt arranged for me to attend a private school called San Juan Bautista, named after the town’s patron saint San Juan, or John the Baptist. Through this; I met generous people that welcomed me into their social circle; the parties and discotheques (clubs). In the freshness of these social gatherings, I distinctly noticed there was more emphasis on dancing that getting fucked-up, something new to my life back in Utah.
            Although, I remember being tipsy dancing with two girls (at the same time) that I had infatuated over from the moment I entered the classroom, our legs were close enough to feel the sweet, and clumsily in my inexperience, I saw a sweet gleam from the eyes of one my Panamanian counterparts. Both had their qualities, but there was something more I appreciated in one the girls. A Russian and a European mix of Panamanian, Angelina, a juicy body with everything in abundance, a sculpted face, but there was language barrier; and serving as the mediator there was Ericka, she was full Panamanian: dark skin, reddish hair, slender legs, toned body and an attractive face. Ericka I must confess was my crush for the reminder of my stay.
            She spoke near perfect English, which was surprising because everyone struggled with it, and she introduced me to a range of different personalities and experiences, allowing me access this strange (to me) niche of her world. She spoke of something vague, longing for grandeur and experience other than the ones she was used to, and like me, she possessed thoughts of something beyond the edge of our sights, an aptness to acquire the world’s emotions. She wanted to get out.
            She had a boyfriend then, a strict virgin (common for most girls in small towns untouched by corruption) despite my efforts; and she confessed in my arms that he was a coke fiend, going in and out of bathrooms feeling reenergized. She felt his dullness, but the town small. I wanted her, for her to be mine but I realized by the time things were appropriated, I had to stay and graduate high school.
            And as I skim through the memories, and remember; I miss her or the thought of her. I wish I could’ve stayed, at least a year, just to see if things would’ve work out. When I think of Panama I think of her, of course, reuniting with the family members, and being engulfed in a beauty that wasn’t mine.
            We used to keep in touch, but somehow lost it between the distances of our homesteads. I’m positive when I finally plan another trip, masked in the purpose of visiting my family, her life will have drastically changed; probably married, a kid, or have moved far away from the land, as she candidly spoke often of, regardless I’d still try and reconnect, and ask what’s become of her life.

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Deerhunter - Agoraphobia
Microcastle (2008)

The title of this song perfectly fits the situation I was in this last December - waiting for the world to happen. Being accustomed to Utah’s seasonal polarity, during this time, I felt as if the world, or my snip-it of the world I grooved was lacking in excitement, lacking in spontaneity. The high school friends I associated myself with; day after day (or every weekend, depending on the season) the interactions slowly became the same: getting drunk, high and/or partying. There was no substance, except for the night’s preferred substance. It’s been a few years since the heydays of high school, but as we all aged physically, I realized some never grew mentally; overflowing the days with reasonably good times induced by alcohol - without it, forget it. I couldn’t do that to myself, so I left everything behind (as I did once in high school, undoubtedly returning in my adulthood) without the slightest twinge of loneliness or regret. I feel it was a decision at my best.
            I should say that I first drifted to this kind of lifestyle after reading the works of writers that drew their catharsis from the decadence of the city like Selby Jr., Rimbaud, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Verlaine, and Cabell I was noticeably apt to follow the same path. The beauty they write about is more than alluring, but like the moth-to-a-flame it also can be very self-destructive. I can’t say, I’ll never have these experiences of decadence and inebriation, but I will never be so self-involved. There comes a point in everyone’s life when there needs to be a balance to take dominance. And I think through growth, I’ve come to that stance.
            I don’t know; I expect that this blog will take use as something of a confessional. The very least, I’ll make it interesting: detailing the most humiliating to the most beautiful (if all beauty is subjective, I’ll make it accessible) I’ll begin to document it all.

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