The fighting body gives a hand of aid
This world is perfect nothing is wrong, we are happy. So it seems by our eyes. By 2009 the first African American was inaugurated as president on January 20, 2009. During the new presidents Barack Obama’s presidency speculation arose against him. A new health plan for the nation caused sides to form. Free health care for seniors & for the poor would cause everyone to be cut in their pay check.
Soon sides formed on each issue, more people believed the president was unfit to be in office. How could he improve the way of life when the former president George W. Bush had given Barack Obama much to do after leaving office. War was settling down, the economy sudden shift, and unemployment had taken 1o.2% of the labor force. We had expected too much from Barack Obama, we had given him too many issues to handle, and believed that he could fix them in a short time. He slowly made ways to improve live, but didn’t happen soon it took more then what was needed.
The nation of the United States thought that one man could help the nation who elected him, he will bring change but it wouldn’t happen soon. This had brought many people to rethink their president and his actions, questioning every move and word he made. In January 6th 2010 an event had headed the reassurances of the nation, on this day a beautiful assembly was held in the white house where a brake through had be announced with the rebuilding of the middle-east (countries and nation in the region that was in Sadame Hussain’s tyrant control) and its nation who were afflicted by the war.
There were many rumors and meetings about how to help the mid-east, now there were plans to begin sending government works and supplies to help rebuild lost homes. I was just a child then and witness the evolution and devolution of the nation through my eyes. Months later the first moment of backlash shown when troops and U.S. government workers were protesting against by political protests, which were able to pull apart the nation. It had drew lines in many ways, some choose for the plan to rebuild and help, others choose not, and even choose to go a step further by holding protests that led to riots. On March 9th 2010 a riot had broke out were force was imitated, at first it was a peaceful protest but turned when opposite sides had meet.
Protestors for and against the plans of aiding the Middle-east had fought with words and rose to shouting matches, and ultimately led to fist. Police were sent in to bring order, tear gas, pepper spray, and stun guns were used, yet it the end it made it worse. Hostility was made at the police in full riot gear, the protestors fought back with rocks, bats, and lid pipes, it was unknown who drawn first blood but it didn’t matter in the mist of it. In the after math of all the fighting a few were found dead, officers of law found beaten to death as well as protestors on both sides of the debating issue. During this incident many stations of media had broadcasted images and video footage; it was seen by many and talked about dozen if not hundreds of times by TV shows and on the radio.
I could see even as a child that the world I was living in was shifting in an unknown direction, it was scary times in those days. U.S. soldiers & workers had snuck supplies out of the country to needed areas of the middle-east, which made more protestors feel unheard and that the people’s voice didn’t matter. Also that the government did what they wanted without acknowledging what they did, and didn’t know the effect their cause had. As I grow up I was more concerned about my life then the world. My family life was horrible and nearly unbearable, my father was a drunk who came and gone through out my life, my mother was a woman who was strong but weak when my father was around.
My older brother James was a racist and a begat, his life was like my father (he was rarely in my life). We lived in downtown Long Beach California, my mother worked as a nurse at Memorial Hospital at 2801 Atlantic Ave, 90806. She was a smart woman but over the years she got sick, she was diagnosed as bipolar and it was heredity, I would read her medical books to see if I had it to. She committed suicide when I was 14yrs old, even in death she was a burden to me. She left me $100,000 hundred dollars in life insurance, as my mother was being moron by my rotten father; he had shown himself in his best moments of his life.
He died in a car crash; he was drunk and wrapped his car around the tree in my front lawn. My brother took care of me the best he could if you can call it his best, the two deaths hurt me emotionally while it hurt my brother financially. I felt horror-able against what I felt towards my father, I hate him for what he did to my mother in my memories I see him taking care of me while hurting her, my mother. I kept the money secret to myself and wanted little to do with my brother his face reminds me of my mom and the way he acted remind me of my father. I wished to be rich on so many stars and found-tons sometimes I would ask god why I was suffering, wondering if that I was meant to suffer in order to grow.
I kept working on my mind to try to keep myself from falling apart, my future was unsure but being bipolar was sure. Years past and I was becoming a brilliant man, as I graduated I left to CAL state as a med meager. I grow tied with being poor and wanted to be more than a poor kid. 4Years had past and war had come to my life, the U.S. was now fighting against Mexico and a small civil war were the people fought against the U.S. for the lack of help in Mexico after El-Niño hit and destroyed many cities. Civil war was braking out in South Dakota & Atlanta Georgia, LA & north California; many poor neighbor hoods had felt the economy shift had crippled them.
Drugs & death had risen beyond the combine numbers of the perverse years due to, I was now a surgeon of war, and it was far from pleasant. I was in Mexico doing the best I could with little hope of saving lives, days were spent finding people in broken homes of ruble, working in a hot sweat moving through flooded areas to help someone who’s already dead. I couldn’t cry for people I didn’t know and didn’t care for, I cut into skin ripped out hearts, organs to put in others who needed them. At times it was meaningless and pointless many died from staph-infection, it was scares to get what was needed. Sterilized tools were rare, so were anti-bodices, many died for these reasons.
I have many regrets for not saving their lives, but I have no tears to give them. When it was over I found more than months had past but years. I’m too old to care for the past now, my dear departed wife is not by me and my heart is closed off. She was the only one I let in, the only one I loved and cried for. At my father’s funeral I didn’t, at my mother’s I didn’t, at my wife’s I did cry but in secret. Things changed now, the country had learned to understand, learned to help, learn to be kind.
Everyone and everywhere is pleasant, computers are in everything to make life easy and comfortable. To me computers made things inhuman, the human touch is lighter than it once was and is get lighter and lighter tell it’s nearly gone. I sleep alone in my bed dreaming of a time where I could be loved by her again. Machines are outside my window cleaning the streets unmanned, painting the sidewalks with soap then wipes away leaving a clean street, the noise they make are unheard like the echoing cries of a child drowning in the sea with gallons over their head. Can I care for a world that has rushed for progress and ended up being crippled at the sometime in the end.
I can’t help this world many were killed and many were dying. There can’t be any saints without the sinners doing their devilish deed, no divine acts of help can’t react us when-ever-one is already in heel. Can god save us or would he turn his back and let us burn, can Jesus die again for or sins, or is our sins to many for him to repent and forgive. I lived in my own hell but I learned that ever one has their own hell, god gave us the chose to do what we want, and we could build a heaven or a hell. And it seems we’ve are ready built one, after tarring down an old one that’s been out dated for way to long.
Time is repeating for me. Days are all the same, I move forward but each day is pulling me back. The clock will ring and the repeating days will come. Please tell me good bye you rolling days of my life. It’s time to wake up.
*****
“9:15 am, it’s time to wake up, 9:15am time to wake up, time to wake up, 9:15”. The alarm clock speaks in woman’s voice, it’s much better to wake up to than a computes voice trying to wake you with its imitation of a human’s voice. At least this way I won’t think of it that much, “mourning sitting in place”, the window shades move apart bring the sun of mourning in. In the kitchen the coffee machine grinds fresh beans; the day is scheduled like every other. The alarm speaks at 9:15am the shades turn on to do its job.
The bed is made by small machine bed like bugs that make your bed for you, the name of these small sized things are BED BUGS “clean your bed and they won’t bite”, a stupid gimmick to sleep things that moves out the way another choir. I wash off in the shower like each morning; a vent blows warm air above me as I get out the shower. The closet opens and rotates shirts, ties, and pants on a circling conveyer belt, into a black suit with a red tie at my collar. Throw my PJ’s in the melt hamper; grab my coffee in my mug, lock up my apartment for work in this big city. I walk to the elevator go down 10 flights in this 20th floor apartment that I’ve lived in since my wife’s death, I still own the house but not a home because she’s not there to make it one.
And again a boring day in a boring city, I go to the speed train and wait on the plat form for 10 minutes to get to work on the other side of the city. I see the faces and their so typical that their blank and have no need to be remembered. I strap in my seat, speed trains ran on solar panels that recharged constantly, and are faster than the old ground electric trains. Only a number of people could be on a train, and every one had to stay strapped in to their seat, many regulations and laws had been made due to the cost of derailed trains. Each train had 5mintues to unload & load its passengers, and 15mintues to get to the next plat from, time locks had made it efficient, computers made it safe.
The two rails ran one way in different direction, and all trains stopped at each stop at the same, moved at the same speed 45miles per hour. Every day, every week, and each very hour is planned. I know what I must do each day, wake up, shower, change, and on the train tell 10:00 get off at the sixth stop after getting on. I have been walking the same steps that I’ve taken 100’s of times if not hundred thousands of times in the same way to the same places. Pass a small park with the same kids playing with their mothers watching them, and gossiping with friends about people they do and don’t know.
A drug store with the same clerks at their shift waiting and working always to sell what they can. Pass through the same hospital doorways, “hello Naira, good mourning” meet the same nurse at the front desk, at work by 10:30am to 6:30pm. “Hello Mr. Morales, good mourning”, I node my head with a fake smile that gives her a warm greeting. To the room on the 8th floor in the surgeon’s area, my offices were my work is kept in each repeating day. On these four walls I came to know, two have long book cases that take up both the left wall and wall opposite.
The door faces a wall that five windows equally parallel to each other stood on, a long cabinet lined with the windows that was equally spaced of6 inches from each other in the center of the wall 5 feet was on both sides of the windows and the metal cabinet was 4 feet off the ground, I spent so long in this room I know each dimension of the room. I’m the chief surgeon of Memorial Hospital in the city of Long Beach California. I chose to be here at this hospital because of my mother, she helped people here and I’m here to do the same, also I feel connected to her doing the same work she did. My work has meaning but isn’t needed on high demand which makes me glad not fighting against death again to save someone I don’t know. The world is careful at least the one I live on, people are healthy and rarely sick enough to meet death.
Or need the doctor to probe, analyze, and inspect to judge if I am needed to cut, to slices, to remove the sickness that death calls for you to die by. I’m a surgeon & an artist, my paint brush is my scalpel, during the time of war my work was most revered. Now I’m the relic that survived the course of time and change, I was young, smart, as well as strong enough to be on top and stay there. My youth has faded but not welted, I’ve aged well and my strength is still here unwiring matching that of the young per-med students that I teach & work with. My brilliance is more now than before, wisdom, experience has added in my brilliant minds progress.
I’ve been paid so much money that I don’t really need to work, I work mainly to recapture the moments of glare I once had lived. Also to keep my mind as sharp as my blades edge, so I won’t rust like the old men who gave up their work to grow old playing golf. On many of the book shelves are pages of the war framed that cover the empty spaces, and others on the wall that my door stands on, they remind me that blood once was a second layer of my skin. Each day is new but as old as the one that past, I spend my life in a room where my past is in my face, I sleep in a bed that’s empty of love towards me. The sweet fruit of life is bitter in my mouth, I sign pages and work little, each day is worthless, the saying that each day above ground is a good day, but is it a good day when you’re in the clouds thinking of a world that’s better than the world you live in.
At times I just stand at the window with my eyes carelessly viewing out at the city; I enjoy it because it passes the time. I see the speed train flying to the next stop and to the next like a fast pace snake, it moves close to the ground hidden in the dirt before rising to the surface to peek out its body from the tall grass. Tall buildings are in the center of the trail; my home is on the other side of the trail, but still in the center of the trail standing with others like it. Down in the streets are people riding electric bikes that are charged by pedaling, these riders navigate the back alleys and the streets to get where they want. Shiny melt bugs of different colors roll by the travels on their bikes but never cross their paths into each other and just move along side each other at different passes.
With my voice I call the radio to play my list off music favorites, its sweat and kind with simple melodies, with simple words. The mood lightens from boredom to a more bearable day. There is not much to do but wait & wish for something to brake the killing hours of nothingness. Fantasizing of something more is the only thing that brings time to move faster, my fantasies are a little shameful if told to someone. I would pretend to go to the Far East, somewhere peaceful with beauty.
I would sleep with exotic women of color & culture; they would be young, too young for an old man like me. I would search for beauty that only nature could make which is why I fantasia of young exotic women they aren’t like the women in this country who are tainted by plastic surgeons who cut into the skin and change it for beauty. I’m a surgeon that saves lives; I don’t try to give beauty to a woman who values it with their greedy lives. I don’t need money and I won’t sell my skill to do some work that change the beauty of the body. I’m not attracted to these women that want to be sculptures of what their idea of a perfect body that the media and opinion of others give.
These women have implants to get high firm breast of C’s D’s and rarely E’s, round back sides, liposuction to get an hour glass waist, I don’t want this woman that is more plastic then flesh. A real woman is natural beauty in & out, there other things I want in this woman. Blue eyes behind glasses which wins me and red hair or black gives me a chill of excitement. But I can never find my fantasy girl, I can find a girl with one but not the others, I find it lucky that a small few of nurses have two traits that apply to me. My age draws them away; my mind pulls them back closer to me that I can win them over with a word.
I find it odd that I can’t say the words that woe’s them; loneliness harbors itself with me at nights. I want change, I want joy, I want passion, I want more. “Hello Mr. Morales, Doctor”, nurse ask to me before becoming censured. “Oh, hello what is it miss”, I say miss to give the women I speak to believe their young or beautiful. “I have some papers for you to sign and the Bennet surgery is ready to start in 10 minutes”, nurse.
The nurse leaves leaving a few documents to sign and reports I need to make for the Bennet surgery. I walk to surgery room #1 on the 4th floor, snapping out of my wondering mind is common for me. The room is sterilized, cold and with blue painted walls of a typical surgery room. I stand in a white lab coat over seeing my students performing a simple operation; Mr. Bennet has a pacemaker that’s being put in. It’s not too series that I need to be in the room, but Mr. Bennet wishes for an experienced doctor in the room just in case.
People today are so paranoid when their health shows signs of abnormality, the young students use mechanical tools that computerize each cut perfectly. These surgeons aren’t real surgeons there operators of mechanical machines who cut into the flesh without touching who their cutting. Mr. Bennet lies on the table in the center of the room with a huge machine lights looking down at the man. In moments it’s done and I’m unaware of it, looking at the nurses in the hallway I want to talk to them and pull them into my world for a minute. My eyes pull back to the room viewing the young doctors finishing up the meaningful yet pointless work.
The day moves to the end, I walk to the train get off and walk the rest of the way home. Up the elevator to my room 146 one 10th floor, I undress and fold my used clothes on top of my old PJ’s in the hamper. Computers run everything even my whole apartment; with my voice I can work my stove, shower, and anything. I harbor loneliness in my pounding chest; I can remember my dear wife, oh Angelina I miss you. I can see it like a movie now when I meet or at least I remember the moment I saw you.
Your hair was dark red as you sat in the shade of a tree, but as you moved closer to me you change. Your dark red hair turns to a light brown when the sun stands behind you and through your long shoulder length locks, twisted and curled like a slinky’s spiral. You walk past me with a note I was there until you feel my stir, you look back to see me and the eyes you wear are sparkling hazel that the sun brings out as you look back to me with the sun beating off that beautiful skin. Your ivory skin is as bright as that warm smile you wear show out carelessly and care free that it attracts happiness around you. I didn’t just what to make love with but I wanted to be loved by you deep in my mind I can remember the every touch of your figure, a year past before I gave my very name and life to be with you.
My heart broke when my life with ended. We split in two and we’re pushed into different worlds of life and death. The movie ends for me when my memories of the first moments seeing you run low. Dreams of remembrance are soon followed by dreams of sleep. My eyes shut slowly, arms folded over. Lightly the computer speaks, “sleep sitting in place”, shades pull in shutting away the moon. Motionless I sleep for the next day, beyond my walls out my window the world continuously moves on.
The bikers aren’t out but the cars the hugs close to the ground like bugs are out, with lights of red & yellow flash by leaving a trail of its rear lights behind. The gears of machines stop at factories, workers drive home tired, desk jocks leave their company office or cubical for home with awaiting family. The unnoticed waiters at the dinner walk the streets to their house filled with emptiness, they work to pay off the debts of school but brave the days for the upcoming ones of dreams. Fisher men at the dock come to shore to rest for the next day’s catch; even the surgeon goes to sleep. The would be dark streets, are sit with bright street lights for those who are still out and need the guiding lights of the city.
Sprinkles on auto time spray lawns at 10:00pm, a few people awake for demanding night shifts at work. I always wonder before I sleep do the people that work at night look up at the stars, in the day the sky is a blue sea with white clouds swimming around. Shaped as animals above floating and pushed here or there by the windy waves that blow. No one looks up at the clouds, I wonder if nobody looks at the night sky like the sky in the day. But then again when has it when I stayed up to see the star filled sky. I’ve stared out and look to the city and seen the sky.
I will see the night sky tomorrow.
Departed trail & Bitter trials. 
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