Thursday, January 21, 2016

Ascending Psycho (Final Chapter)



The Lunatic Was In My Head
Brain Damage




The worst punishment I could give myself, if I were God, would be to be reunited with my father. That would really ruin everything.

If I were God, the punishment I would give to a person that had committed similar crimes as I have, would be to force father and son to be together for an eternity. That would the worse hell anybody could give me.

If I were Satan, I would demand Angel’s soul to be by my side forever; I would even make him an ambassador on Earth. But this would be some sort of reward, and I know I don’t deserve any. 

Now, I don’t know if God would punish me by sending me to hell or if Satan would accept me and give me any kind of rewards for my wrong doings on earth. But I would feel better in hell than in heaven, that’s for sure.


***

When I got home the shop had already been closed. I found grandma waiting for me at the front door of the house, she appeared agitated and troubled, and she was hurriedly writing me the following note: “Angel, they all know about the murders, it’s all over.”

“Yes grandma, I know, but they won’t catch me alive, I won’t spend the rest of my life in jail. I’d rather die.”

“I want to die too.” she wrote on another note.

“I love you grandma, I love you very much.”

“I love you too Angelito.”

The people in the park kept staring at us like zombies; they were staring at us and moving in slow motion, undecided about their next move. I could sense all the tension in the air, things were about to explode. I pushed grandma’s wheel chair to the house. She had a bunch of papers on her desk. She gave me another note, it simply said: “My will”. 
 
I knelt and gave her a hug and a kiss; I looked into her eyes for a second. All the feelings we had for each other had been clearly shared and expressed every day of our lives. Everything had been said before. Then, I grabbed my car keys and left.

When I left the house, the first person that I encountered outside, was Leticia’s mother. She had a furious look on her face; her lips were trembling when she said: “You killed my daughter, didn’t you? You killed her, you murderer, I know you did!” And she started to yell, “The killer is here! The killer is here!” the people in the park gathered and began to approach the house, but not fast enough. I jumped in my car and headed for the Sequoia Mountains. I could see the maddening crowd in my rear-view mirror, with their silent but exaggerated gestures, claiming for justice and desperate to avoid my escape.

While driving up hill, Sadie came to my mind, she could have been my savior, but she appeared too late in my life. She wasn’t destined to be my savior, because, had she appeared years earlier, she’d been too young to be part of my life. It was pointless anyhow; the past can never be rearranged. Now, I’m chasing my present, and my present is going to collide with my past and my future.

I wonder if God is witnessing my end. I wonder if God is happy with this end, or if Satan is preparing for my arrival. I wonder if they exist. But I don’t care for neither of them, after all, one never helped me and the other one never bothered me.

I feel nothing now, emptiness is a hollow feeling. My entire being is full of indifference. My life had been useless, I'm someone who should have never been born. I never found the reason for me to be here.

In reality, the turning point in my life was when my mom died. Losing my mom was losing my life. 

My destination is here, I can see the bridge. It makes no sense having regrets or hopes. No one will know what my motives were or what pushed me to become such a monster. The world is not perfect, many more people like me will show up, as long as bad parents exist in the world, monsters like me would keep appearing.

I can see from the bridge a line of patrol cars with their lights on and their sirens blasting, the air and distance distorting their sound. They were howling like some of my victims once did, needlessly and in vain. Finally, I can say I’m happy standing on the outside edge of the bridge, grabbing the rail with my left hand, with my arm extended, and the gun in my right hand pointed to my right temple. And while looking to the sky, my last thought was that I created my own heaven by creating hell for others. 

No need to ask for forgiveness. 



Edmundo Barraza





Monday, January 11, 2016

Milk of Amnesia







Recovery Room

When I woke up from my involuntary Propofol trip, I was in the recovery room. I was lying on an ambulatory bed. There were five people in the room. A male nurse was removing tubes and needles from my arm, he appeared to be Latino. Next to me, there was another bed with a female patient on it; I couldn’t tell what her race was, a young white female nurse was helping her. Across the room, I could barely see an Asian head rising above the counter of a tall desk. It took me two seconds to recognize him, he was my anesthesiologist. And that’s when I began my interminable blabbering . . . “There you are my friend, you know what? I love Asian guys, most of you guys are educated, respectful, and you know what else, I’ve never seen an Asian wino or homeless asking for money outside liquor stores. Oh, but now I remember race has nothing to do with it, besides I bet you’re a hundred percent American, but anyway,  you must be proud of your race, and most of you are handsome too. Ah, but I also like Blacks and Latinos like me, and Hindu people are nice too. Let’s not forget whites, sometimes they’re nice too, and the good thing about them is that they never get offended like us, ‘the minorities’. Hey doc, what did you use to sedate me? I feel really, really good. I feel mellow, relaxed, I feel like a hippie. I want to share my euphoria and my cheerfulness. Did you put some weed in the mix? Can I have some of that stuff before I go? Do veterinarians use that stuff too? I heard they wanted to use it for human executions, that can’t be true, but if they do, then it’s a good way to die, it’s like a reward. Better than the chair anyway. How could some one not get addicted to this wonderful drug. In this 'world' everybody is nice". 

That drug was sure hitting my sympathetic nerve system.


Somehow, the Propofol was going straight to the section of my brain where I had stored the ideas for the short film I wanted to create. When I came out of the operating room, I was feeling like a director, like an actor, like a cinematographer. It was unbelievably cool. I, myself was the camera, my eyes were the camera. And it was very easy to handle, no need to focus, no need for a dolly, or a steadicam, all I had to do was turn my head. The moment I opened my eyes I started filming. And I was watching the movie; I swear to God, I was watching THE MOVIE at the same time. You have to believe me, I was filming with my eyes. I first focused on my nurse: 

FADE IN:

INT. HOSP. RECOVERY ROOM – DAY


No one was saying a word, but all of them were smiling. The other nurse was moving her head sideways and looking at me from the corner of her eye, and her patient was rolling her eyes, and I kept going . . . “tell me doc, (I was still referring to my anesthesiologist) if you were sick, would you like to be attended in this hospital or would you rather go to the Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills? Would you rather have a doctor graduated from UCLA or another country like Mexico or India, or Russia or . . .  oh, but what a silly question, I forgot doctors don’t get sick. I bet that before they die they inject themselves with Propofol. Hey! I just remember that movie with Michael Caine, what’s it called? Oh yeah, “Cider House Rules” that’s right! The doctor keeps self-medicating ether. Anyway, he was always in a good mood. He loved all the kids in the orphanage and all the princes of Maine and all the kings of New England too".
 

Operating Room


An hour before all of this happened; I had entered the operating room. And this was the scene: I’ll try to be as accurate as possible. There were nine or ten people in that room; they were all young. Four females and five or six males, all the girls appeared to be in their twenties. I only knew the name of one of them, Janet Lee, she was probably the oldest, in her late twenties, I think. The anesthesiologist was Asian too, I remembered I had asked him what kind of anesthesia he was going to use on me, and he said,  Propofol. I’ve met most of them before, but I didn’t catch their names. They’ve came to the prep room, I didn’t capture any foreign accents on any of them, but several races were involved in the group. Asian, Hispanics, whites and African-Americans. But to me they were all Americans. The room had such an air of universality, that I wanted to start singing "It's a Small World", I really felt like I was in Disneyland. The moment I entered the room I felt safe. They were young, they seemed to be smart and well educated, they were very friendly, and in a good mood. Seeing so many happy faces in a single room made me smile. They were having fun helping sick people and enjoying their jobs. It was definitely a group of young talented people. The future of America seemed bright in this room. 

Prep Room


Earlier, I had waited for seven hours, from 9:00am to 4:00pm in the prep room. The friendly group that was going to perform the surgery had come in waves to ask the usual questions about my medical record, allergies, medications and other information  about my health. But I wasn’t prepared to spend so many hours doing nothing; I didn’t fall asleep, so I kept thinking about a project I had in mind: 

“To Kill a Mockingbird” was the theme for the next Germ Film Festival in Fresno, Ca. I had to develop a five-minute short film around that movie, or book. So I had seven hours to think about that project. I knew it wasn’t easy. The story involved racial inequality, a false accusation of rape, mental and physical abuse. A humble and ethical lawyer, a mentally challenged neighbor and a jury made out of twelve white persons. All told from the point of view of a ten-year-old girl. I love the movie. Gregory Peck was absolutely perfect for the roll, and the three kids were great, as was everybody else. But the story by Harper Lee was incredibly amazing. Another thing that I find amazing it’s that things haven’t changed a lot since then. It’s very sad, and people like Donald Trump are ruining the situation even more. Ignorant intolerant persons like him are interfering with America to become a better country. It’s very sad indeed. America and the whole world had spent the entire twentieth century struggling to improve human relations, trying to erase hatred from the human mind, I thought it was working. But now my opinion has changed. It seems that we have to endure another century in the same conditions.

Anyway, the theme was complicated, it had too many characters, a lot of scenes had to be considered, and several locations were going to be needed. It was just too hard, and I still had to take into account the zero-dollar-budget. I found “To Kill a Mockingbird” very hard to transform into a five-minute-movie. I thought that maybe I could turn it into a parody and name it: “Tequila Mockingbird” and maybe I could turn the characters into their complete opposite, I thought about an all group of black people in the jury, and change the color of the skin of the 'rapist', and have a different type of lawyer, like Paul Newman in "The Verdict", drunk and down on his luck, (hence the title) or have the ten-year-old girl kill all the bad characters in the movie with a sling shot. But I couldn’t find anything satisfying or convincing. I lost seven hours thinking about it. In the end I decided to let it go and try something else. And just when I thought I had material for another story. They came for me, to shoot me with an injection full of Propofol.  

When I was wheeled out of the hospital, I felt something was wrong. I felt terrible, I didn't say thanks to anybody, I didn't even shake their hands. I bet they're used to that. But it's not that I was ungrateful, it was just unexpected, one second, I was in, and the next, I was out. I didn't even see the doctor who performed the surgery, or anybody else, except for the anesthesiologist. The worst thing about it was that I didn't have any energy to return and hug and kiss everybody.

You might not believe this, but Michael Jackson was singing "Black and White" in the car radio. Right away, I thought that song could be perfect for the movie I just saw. It also came to my mind that he had overdosed and died on Propofol. 

But I'm sure he was watching a great movie too. 




Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. 01-11-2016






Monday, December 21, 2015

Flawless

God is not perfect
 
The Pope is not perfect
 
Donald Trump is not perfect
 
The Dalai Lama or Malala or Gandhi
 
All Republicans or ISIL or ISIS or Al Qaeda
 
The Boko Haram or the Qudz or Hezbollah and the rest
 
The United Nations is not perfect or Human Rights or the Red Cross
 
The World Health Organization or the Homeland Security or the FBI or CIA
 
France is not perfect or England or Germany not even the USA
 
Obama is not perfect or Bush or Clinton or the next one
 
The Beatles maybe but not Dylan or the Stones
 
She’s not perfect I’m not perfect no one is
 
War and Peace are very imperfect
 
The world is not perfect
 
Only Satan is
 
 

Humankind was made in Satan’s image.
 
We’re destroying the world. 
 
Any objections?
 
 
 
 
Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca.  Nov-23-2015
 
 
 
 
 

Levitating



I bet you’ll die with a smile on your face and I wish I could see it but I know I’ll die first. Because seeing what you’ve been through your whole life, you must be immortal and indestructible. 

Your guitar is an instrument that connects your brain to your heart and your soul, and it gets all expressed with your fingers, or all the way around. And if you add the right lyrics you’ll incite a riot again. And your lyrics and your guitar will echo in my bones.

Love gone bad, cheating, mistrust, lies and suffering, and also. double crossing, deception and abandonment. We can find all devastating adjectives in your lyrics, and yet we believe you because we know you’re an expert. You’ve been the cause and the effect of all those feelings.

You’re an authentic soulful bluesman. You borrow alien sentiments and affections; you instigate young and old minds with messages of rebellion and mutiny. You twist and wring love and devotion and turn them into evil provocations. 
  
You exported a sound that had been ignored for decades. Turning white America into their own magnificent “devil’s music”. 

Your image is a symbol of a new rebellious generation. And for decades you fooled us, because you really were a humble and sincere human being. A man so gentle, that without a doubt could be called a gentleman.

Like all good brothers you fought with your own, like all great artists, like all great bands whose members had contrasting egos. But now we know it’s all good. 

I was convinced that all blues and sad music had to come from misery, anguish and desolation. But you really never suffered; you were having a great time, all the time. So you convinced me I was wrong. Devastation can be created for no reason then.

You got to scrape the shit right off your shoes with your overloaded acoustics to create a devil full of sympathy. You were always trouble, it seemed. A Houdini in reverse, never wanting to disappear. 

An expert monkey reaching for coconuts can also fall from a palm tree and end up like a pirate with a broken skull. 

Never a dull moment indeed.


*** I wrote this little piece after watching "Under The Influence", a documentary about Keith Richards.


Edmundo Barraza
Lancaster, Ca. Dec-19-2015 




Thursday, December 10, 2015

Killing Trump





 


I need to kill Trump


I need to kill what I don’t like or what I hate


I need to kill guns and bad people


I need to kill bad people with guns


I need to kill dumb Republican politicians hypocrites in the first degree


I need to kill unfulfilled ambitions 


I need to kill people who waste time (I do, a lot)


I need to kill my own procrastination (NOW)


I need to kill irrelevant religions (all of them)


I need to kill all people that hurt children


I need to kill all killers


I need to kill racist macho homophobic wife beaters


I need to kill violent people that only talk about killing


I need to kill NRA supporters and gun-loving false protectors of peace


I need to kill and re-kill the second amendment


I need to kill indifferent people that never vote and always complain


I need to kill all that I hate so the world becomes more human


But if all my wishes would come true and if I get rid of all I hate


What would I do by myself in a perfect world? Ha!


Could any parts of this rant be considered terrorist threats?


What if someone would really kill Trump? Millions would want to, I know.


I’d be glad to be a suspect


Still, it would be fun to be hated by all stupid people in America


But admired and loved by the rest.





Edmundo Barraza

Lancaster, Ca. Dec-10-2015