Non-Woman

Non-Woman

by

Areol 

Santos

I once knew a guy who did not know me. He was a cool guy. His name was Santos. He was big and tall and round. So very rotund, fat or uh big boned. Ha, ha. Big boned. Santos had some sort of memory problem. He couldn’t retain any information other than his own name. But he sometimes struggled with that as well. Me and Santos were in the same 7th grade P.E. class. I absolutely hated that class and so did Santos. The coach was so annoying! But I guess most coaches are. Coach Nunez was his name. He was part Hispanic and part priest. Well, that’s what the other students used to say about him. Coach Nunez was known for quoting a lot of different religious figures. Somehow, he always managed to have ten new quotes every day. Most of the students laughed off his quoting but not me. Every once in a while I would write down one quote that seemed to grab my attention. “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.” Coach Nunez said one day after handing out the big red rubber balls for a game of dodge ball. He was quoting Gandhi. I wrote that one down and memorized it. “Santos, look out!” I shouted. Santos turned his head to the left just in time to avoid being hit by a ball. It was only an inch away from hitting his nose! “I’m okay now!” Santos exclaimed. He picked up a ball then flung it hard at the shortest kid in school. His name was Kenneth and he resembled a frail little mouse. “Ow! Coach Nunez, Santos hit me way too hard!” Kenneth complained while rubbing his right shoulder. “Santos! Don’t throw so hard! You hurt Kenneth!” Coach Nunez scolded Santos. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, Kenny.” Santos apologized then hung his head low. “That’s all right, Santos. I appreciate the apology.” Kenneth smiled then sat down on a bench with the other injured kids. “Ha, ha! Kenny’s gonna’ cry!” One of the other students, Ignacio, taunted Kenneth. Ignacio was a born taunter. He wasn’t a bully. He was a taunter. What’s the difference? A bully will usually taunt and physically harm his victim. A taunter will wait for just the right moment to verbally assault his victim. A taunter abhors physical violence but has no problem with using words as weapons. Ignacio even had the look of a taunter. He was of average height but with a very Mediterranean complexion. I think he was part Greek and part Brazilian. His hair was a dark color, not quite black but not quite brown. He always had it slicked back with the aid of some special kind of hair grease that his uncle shipped to him from Brazil. Ignacio was also the only 7th grader with a mustache. It was a thin wispy mustache but still a real mustache. “Kenny’s a cry baby! Cry baby!” Ignacio laughed and pointed at Kenneth. “Stop it, Iggy! Leave Kenny alone!” Janet defended Kenneth. Janet was quite possibly the prettiest, nicest, and coolest girl in the entire school. I had a bit of a crush on her. Well, just about every 7th grade boy did. Even a few 8th grade boys. Janet had curly red hair, deep blue eyes, glowing fair skin and an awesome smile. She also had this way of looking at someone, anyone, and instantly connecting with that person’s true self. “You’re such a bully, Iggy! Stop picking on Kenny!” Janet scrunched up her face and gave Ignacio the stink eye. “Hey now! I’m no bully! I’m just a taunter.” Ignacio caught a ball and held onto it for a minute before hurling it at some kid’s stomach. “Oh whatever! You’re a bully and you know you’re a bully!” Janet picked up a ball and threw it at Ignacio’s face. “Hey! You can’t do that! You’re not in the game anymore, Janet!” Ignacio was about to retaliate in kind when he was struck so hard in the chest that he immediately fell backwards onto the shiny gymnasium floor. I turned around and saw Santos standing with a big smile on his face. “Santos! Look what you’ve done!” Coach Nunez ran over to Ignacio and checked his vital signs. “A ball for a ball makes you fall!” Santos exclaimed. Every single student laughed. I wrote down that quote.

All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

She Picks -A Short Story by Ryan A. Loera

She picks her nose. She picks it often. Her favorite day to pick it is Sunday. The Lord’s Day. While most people change into their Sunday best to go to mass… she changes into her Sunday best to pick her nose. She starts off slow and gentle. Sometimes she lights a vanilla scented candle beforehand. She says it adds something extra to the moment. Do not be confused by my description. I assure you I am not using any kind of metaphor when I say she picks her nose. She thoroughly enjoys it. Sex has never been much of a concern to her. Nose picking gives her far more satisfaction. When she picks her nose she gets lost. Lost in time, lost in space, lost in the simple act of picking her nose. She says her soul merges with the entire Universe when she picks. She becomes one with everything. To her it is a divine blessing. She is not a whore or heretic! She is a nose-picker. And she is damn proud of it! All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

In the Beginning -A Short Story by Ryan A. Loera

In the beginning, there were no toilets. People were forced to defecate on sidewalks and near government buildings. Sure, nobody enjoyed taking big long brown dumps in front of each other but there was no alternative. Until a man named Harry Clump had an epiphany one humid afternoon. He turned to his wife Mary and said: "Hey! What if someone created a place where people could defecate in private!" "Whadda' ya' mean? You can't just devote one place entirely to the act of defecation! Besides, people are perfectly happy with defecating anywhere they want to." Mary had just finished taking a pretty big dump on a bush in the local park. "I'm not so sure about that, Mary. I mean... I believe people are yearning to know what it feels like to be able to defecate behind closed doors." Harry took out a notebook and a pencil and began sketching something. "Huh? You mean like pooping in one's own bedroom? Some people already do that, Harry." Mary watched Harry draw something circular. A minute later, Harry finished his sketch and held it up over his head. "Behold! The Defecation Booth!" He exclaimed. "The what?" Asked Mary. "The Defecation Booth! You see, people will enter this cubicle and sit down on a chair-like thing that has a hole in the middle. Then they can defecate all they want in complete privacy! It's genius I tell ya'! We're gonna' be rich, Mary!" Harry jumped up and down with excitement. "Oh I dunno', Harry. It sounds pretty dumb to me." Replied Mary. Two weeks later, Harry died from explosive diarrhea. Mary eventually sold his idea to a scientist/engineer for $100 and a coupon for one free taco at Pancho's Tacos. The scientist/engineer perfected the design ten years later and named it after himself. His name is Dr. John Stall Toilet. Today, he is the fourth richest man in the world. Right behind the guy that invented disposable diapers. So, there you have it. The origins, more or less, of the toilet. The rest, as you know, is... defecation.

All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

My Sandwich

He ate my sandwich! Bob ate my wonderful sandwich! My turkey, cheese, bacon, tomato, lettuce on rye sandwich! How could Bob do such a thing? Does he not know how many hours I spent making my sandwich? Well, maybe not hours but minutes. Several glorious minutes! I even drove all the way across town to get the good turkey from the good deli. Doesn’t Bob know this? How could you, Bob! How could you eat my sandwich! Why did you eat it? Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from eating other peoples’ sandwiches? Huh!! Do you? I recall a time when you wanted to make a sandwich of your own but did not have any bread. You asked to borrow a few slices of bread and I was agreeable. In addition, I also gave you $5 so that you may purchase a loaf of your choosing. That was not too long ago. Did you purchase your own loaf? No! You spent that $5 on beer. And when you got back home you didn’t even offer me a beer! Oh how I loathe you, Bob! It is no wonder you are a solitary man. But I digress. Why the hell did you eat my sandwich? Was there something about it that called out to you? Hmmm? Did the sandwich itself speak to you? Did it speak to you in French or Spanish? If you are having conversations with talking sandwiches regularly then perhaps you should see a psychiatrist. But even that is no excuse for eating my lovely sandwich! Why! Why did you eat it? I’ve been nothing but kind to you these past few months. I have no qualms with our living arrangement. And I only slept with your wife once! Only once! So… Why did you eat my sandwich? WHY!! All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

Community

Time takes me away from all the forbidden science of our lackluster generation. Generational gap undone by modern conveniences. Truth here and there and covered up thoroughly by blankets made of the best copper wiring this side of the boundary line. Hilarious I once knew how to write so charismatically without so much as a period or apostrophe, apostrophe. Mind you you mind nothing tangible or legislative and I felt this right away. Earthquakes scare us to the point of non-recognition. But hey I mean whatever puts the gas in your engine now, man. Float then flow. Water flows through this vortex of a society. It flows to us from the great unknown! I'd like to study the not so culinary arts. Community colleges gloss over much of the fundamentals but then go right back to focusing on nothing but the fundamentals. Ain't nothin' fun about that shit! One thing I do know I want to do is to start a massive community garden. Sensationalism devours the whole pernicious spring fountain. Plate the ground in silvery things amongst what you believe to be your holiest doctrine. Peoples are factioned off into minor fruitful events of other minor fruitful events. Interesting and fascinating jurisdictions make us believe ugly rhyme vestiges. Every Wednesday and such turmoil discusses us as if we never even cared about property or windowed worries, fricking banality. Commonality we peruse the last aisle at those gross grocery stores and blame the next shopper for spoiled produce. Life and love and love and life. Those bastards, the ones who own the stores, have no clue. No clue. So we all speak terribly. Thine world is a vampiress suckling on the teet of corporate idealism! Oh but but they flounder still longingly. Moment to moment. In particular... I cannot give two shits today. We begin as though we've never began before. I am ambitious and fuck you for saying I am not! You fuckin hater of life and all things limitless! Go on and remain confined in your steel cage by your so called "beliefs" and "ideals"! All is weary and atrocious. That popsicle my nephew ate looked like it was loaded with untruths and hypocrisy. But oh he swears it tastes good. Of course it tastes good! This is why most of us believe the crap that gets forced onto us by government and corporations! They spend millions and millions to ensure that their lies taste good! I for one am sick of it, sick of it. Now is as good a time as any for all of us to band together as a community and throw off the shackles of big business and big government! We are not meant to be corporate slaves! We are meant to be limitless! Beautifully Limitless Creators! All words written by Ryan A. Loera Copyright 2015

Star Language

We aren't liable to be held accountable for most things done wrong today. That just seems to be the new normal in society. Come to think of it... it's been the norm for quite some time.

If you are going to meet me halfway than by all means meet me halfway, sir. But don't do it on my account. That faithful woman is not your property but she does care a great deal for you. You are blind to it and to her.

I've told you many things before. I've spoken to you about a variety of different topics. The history of the French. The history of the Prussian Empire. Sociological experiments involving multiple participants. Art appreciation and convex theories. It only means something to you if you allow your being to absorb it. Indefinitely.

Modesty often finds us when everything else has begun to shift right before our eyes. Yes. Like cellophane deniability; ruminating over divided dimensional output. Just to translate archaic Latin adjectives back to the original star language.

Impression of the Mountains

'Impression of the Mountains.' 11in. x 14in. Acrylics on acid free primed linen canvas. $30 or better offer. Paypal accepted. Comment/message if interested.

Juniper

Painted this beauty last night. Acrylics on recycled cardboard. Titled Juniper.

Snow Cone

In the middle of January is when I lost my first original love. She had purchased a snow cone from a street vendor who only charged her a smile. Yes, a smile.

As she licked it she was brought back to a time when she was a child of only five. Her mother did not pay her much attention in those days. But usually because she was too inebriated to stand on her own two feet.

My original love she always thought of this when enjoying a snow cone or any other childhood treat. Sometimes she'd cry out loud if only to hear herself lose control.

Then one morning she finally lost complete and utter control. She mouthed off to the snow cone vendor and threw crushed ice at his face.

Some passerby interpreted this as a crime and phoned the local police. When the police arrived at the scene they saw her foaming at the mouth and felt it necessary to taze her.

Unfortunately, the voltage was just a bit too much for her fragile body to handle. Her brain literally imploded from the high voltage. She was buried next to her Mother.

All this happened in the middle of January. I lost my original love. I lost her when she lost herself.

I am reminded of this whenever I see a woman enjoying a snow cone.

Socialism

Original abstract atc painting. Titled Socialism.

Boy Wit No Face (short story)

I'm reading "Boy With No Face" - http://www.wattpad.com/story/3687232 - on the Wattpad app http://www.wattpad.com/download

Boy With No Face

Here's a short story I wrote:

Some time ago, but not too long ago, there lived a boy with no face. When I say no face I mean just that... no face. He was born without an actual face. He could still talk and eat through a very small hole located beneath his chin. But he had no proper mouth.

He did not have very many friends during the most formative years of his life. You could say he was one of those "late bloomers" but that moniker just would not be accurate. It might be somewhat more accurate to say he was the quintessential loner type. Even though he did not enjoy being a loner he eventually learned to tolerate it.

Please, do not feel sorry for him. For he never really felt sorry for himself. If he had then he probably would not have lived as long as he did.

He was born on a cold December morning in the year of the rat. His parents were not of any particular descent but certainly resembled beings of great cultural significance. They were both very happy when he was born. They did not care that he was born without a face. They loved him and taught him about self-awareness and self-confidence.

When he first attended elementary school all the kids made fun of him. They would chant things like, "No face! No face! Where's your face?" For the most part he was able to ignore their ignorant chants and jeers. Then one day a cute little girl in his class approached him and asked, "How are you able to see?" "I do not see in the same way that you might. But I can feel the energetic vibrations that everyone and everything emits. It's like a unique form of sonar." The little girl did not understand his answer so she just waved bye and walked back to her group of friends.

The remainder of his elementary career continued in the same fashion. Most of the kids did their best to ignore him but every once in a while one of 'em would approach him and ask a question. Of course, he always answered. It may not have been the answer they were expecting but it was an answer nonetheless.

By the time he reached middle school he was pretty sick and tired of being ignored by his fellow peers. He kept a journal and wrote in it daily. It helped somewhat but not entirely. He practiced karate and learned to break wooden boards with his forehead. It also helped him relieve his frustrations but the effect did not last very long.

In high school he became more involved in the creative arts. In particular, painting and sculpting. He painted a lot of still lifes, portraits and nudes. He sculpted mostly from his own subconscious desires. He once tried sculpting the head of the most popular and beautiful girl in school but it took him longer than expected and so he lost interest.

It wasn't until his senior year that he was invited to numerous parties by some of the popular kids. He didn't attend them initially because he figured they just wanted to have someone strange looking at their parties in order to serve as some kind of entertainment. But he ended up attending one, as a bit of a social experiment.

At this particular party just about everyone was drunk or in the process of becoming drunk. Nobody recognized him because he cleverly disguised himself by donning a very detailed latex mask. He ordered the mask via ebay then repainted it with his own special mix of acrylic paints. As soon as it dried it resembled some sort of androgynous being.

He slipped in between groups and cliques with great ease. A couple of peers asked him who he was; he said his name was Allen. One young lady came onto him in the most peculiar way. She asked him if he had any drugs on him because she wanted to get high and then engage in sexual relations with him. He of course did not have any drugs on him so he politely told her he didn't. She still seemed interested in his company but quickly succumbed to her own inebriation and passed out on an old tattered armchair.

He then sat outside for a while underneath a patio umbrella and watched as his generation spiraled out of control. He witnessed boys throwing up in bushes and girls throwing up in handbags. A part of him wanted to cry and another part of him wanted to laugh. But he maintained his countenance.

Soon he found himself enjoying a hot dog or two and partaking of something called flan. It was tasty but its texture was comparable to a skiddish slug. He also ate a handful of salted pretzels and a bushel of popcorn. He then washed it all down with a diet root beer.

Just as he was about to leave the god forsaken party he noticed someone hiding behind a rose bush. It was a small girl. She was sitting cross-legged with a notepad in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. She looked up at him and smiled. He tried to smile back but of course he could not but he imagined the mask he was wearing formed somewhat of a smile.

"Hello. My name's Caroline. What's yours?" The small girl asked. She appeared to be no more than eight or nine years old. "Nice to meet you, Caroline. My name is Allen." He did his best to make sure he believed himself to be an Allen. Caroline did not seem to buy it. "You're probably wondering why I'm sitting here behind this rose bush." She stood up and dusted her knees. "Why yes I guess I am." "I'm actually just taking notes." "Notes?" "Yes. Notes." "Notes for what?" "Oh just a book idea I've been tinkering with."

He had a hard time believing a little girl could or would want to write a book but he played along nonetheless. "You're writing a book? What is it about?" He asked. "Oh it's just about a girl who hides behind bushes and spies on people and takes notes about what those people do when they are drunk." "Hmm. Sounds familiar." "Yeah I know it does but no one has written anything like it yet. So I figured I could write it." Caroline dusted her knees a little more then slipped her pen into the spiral binding of her notepad. "Do you have a title yet?" He asked. "I think I'm gonna' title it Rose Bush." "Hmm. Not a bad title."

"I should probably get home now. My Mom might be wondering where I am. It was nice meeting you, Allen." "Same here." They shook hands and she skipped out of the backyard then down the street.

As he watched her skip away he couldn't help but feel some sort of affinity for the girl's keen wisdom. He also felt very much like an observer who was in danger of becoming an enabler. An enabler of truth? Perhaps.

He sat back down under the umbrella and had a moment of extreme clarity. His classmates weren't getting drunk because they were weak willed or hollow. It was simply their way of numbing themselves. That's right, they numbed away their emotional pains much like the way a doctor numbs his patient before any serious surgery.

"How could I not see this before?" He asked himself. "It's as if they are all in much greater pain than I am. My entire life has consisted of embracing my own uniqueness and shrugging off whatever insults were hurled my way. But what about them? They've been locked into a perpetual cycle of insults and bullying since kindergarten. Maybe even longer than that. I can see now that someone must break the cycle. It needs to be broken otherwise it will be passed on to their children and their children's children. And so on and so forth."

With that he ran back inside, jumped onto a stool and shouted a message of hope. "My fellow peers! Please heed my words! Stop all of your senseless debauchery! I know you are hurting! I know you feel like no one understands you! Believe me when I tell you that I completely sympathize with you!" A few kids payed attention to him but most kept dancing and drinking.

"I urge you to put down the alcohol and turn on your minds!" They continued to ignore him. Then one peer approached him emphatically and sincerely spoke. "Hey, man. I know what you're talking about and I agree with you for the most part. But it's just easier to ignore all the bullshit in the world and get drunk. I mean... as teenagers we hardly have a say in what goes on around us and most of our parents are too busy with trying to pay the bills to really give a damn about anything else." He handed him a cold can of beer.

The boy with no face reluctantly took the can of beer, stared at it for some time, and popped it open. He squirted the golden alcohol all over his face-mask then spilled the rest on the floor. He felt anew so ran around and shouted. "I am reborn! I am reborn! I am reborn!"

Later that night, he stumbled home with a smile on his face-mask and the phone numbers of seven beautiful girls in his pocket.

The Seven of Us

Painted this yesterday. It is a symbolic representation of family life.

Significance (It Is)

Painted this yesterday. Titled it Significance (It Is). It contains paperclips and one small piece of torn cardboard.

Marvelous Derision

Painted this on a flat rate mailing envelope. It is titled Marvelous Derision.

Amused

Cautionary

Starched

Original acrylic painting titled Starched. Measures 8 x 10.

Philosopher

Original acrylic painting. I titled it Philosopher.