Writings by Weso

Photo

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 11:45:00 -0500

AVAN LAVA “Feels Good” MUSIC VIDEO I DIRECTED

Thu, 21 Feb 2013 17:55:43 -0500

AVAN LAVA “Feels Good”

MUSIC VIDEO I DIRECTED

Photo

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 21:20:00 -0500

Music Video I produced
Mon, 03 Dec 2012 13:48:05 -0500

Music Video I produced

Amateur

Tue, 25 Sep 2012 14:53:00 -0400

Photo by Kimi Selfridge www.tancamera.com

I want to tell you I miss you without actually fucking your shit up and telling you I miss you. But I decide fuck it. I am going to tell you. I get to the office in the morning with my mind made up. I walk past all the long legged models in the meatpacking district like I don’t give a shit.

I sit at my computer and in between checking my music blogs and my fantasy football team that I play just so my boss keeps hiring me even though it is me virtually handing him 100 dollar bill, I think about you. I think I am going to talk to you today and tell you I still miss you. And ask you if you think it will ever go away? And if I am feeling really brave I will ask you, if you miss me still too?

I think about it all day until I close my computer and go home for the day and realize it is too late because you are back in your apartment, and I know not to call or text when you are back at home.

I feel stupid. I feel the same way I do when I sit in the handicap seat at the end of the subway, the one that flips up and down. When I sit in it all I think about is when you get up, don’t get up too fast because it will slam and everyone will turn his or her head at you and give you a dirty look. I think this the whole time until I get up too fast and the chair slams shut with a bang and everyone looks at me and I try and pretend like I don’t give a fuck. But I do. I give a fuck and I feel like an amateur. Like today, when I thought about you so much I forgot to tell you.

Photo

Mon, 17 Sep 2012 12:30:16 -0400

Written with clay.

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 10:02:52 -0400

Written with clay.

McCarren Park

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 16:15:06 -0400

McCarren Park

Old tag, new photo

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 16:12:15 -0400

Old tag, new photo

My new article in Relapse up now!

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 15:23:12 -0400

My new article in Relapse up now!

The BMX 3 or How I Reinforced My Lack of Toughness Through Random Acts of Near Violence

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 15:37:27 -0400

25 Lighters,

25 Cyphers,

Went to jail and shared a cell with a 25 to lifer.

Stayed at my grandma house with 25 bibles,

Stayed at the trap house with like 25 rifles.

-2 Chainz

My friend Maggie invited me out to a birthday party at Commodore. The last time Maggie invited me out to a bar a guy pulled my hair because I told him to “relax” and punctuated it with “Amigo”. I’m starting to think Maggie is bad luck.

I ended up leaving the bar around 2am and walked north to my apartment in Greenpoint. I was walking along Union at North 12 when three kids on BMX bikes rode by, but not without the last one pushing me as he rode past me on the sidewalk. He looked behind as he rode past and we locked eyes. He yelled something about how he got me. I was pissed.

But first I had to piss. I relieved myself at a tree near the running track and as I did, I stepped on a Corona bottle. I saw this as a sign above, “Show these motherfuckers!” I zipped myself up and grabbed the bottle.

I carried the bottle at my side as I crossed the track onto the dewy grass. I could hear the teenagers on the skate park ahead of me. My first thoughts were to break the bottle off on the fence and go all crazy and wave the bottle at the kids, teach them a lesson. Don’t fuck with random white dudes because you might just run into a crazy one, like me!

But as I crossed onto the other end of the track I lost some of my courage. But I didn’t lose it all, or maybe I did. I approached the skate park and stood on the empty street. The kids were riding and bullshitting on the cement park. That pissed me off again, fucking having fun and shit. I hoisted the bottle in my hand and chucked it over some trees.

I didn’t wait for it to land as I sprinted down Lorimer. I could hear the crash of the bottle and them yelling behind me. The park was long, longer than I had remembered. I quickly realized I didn’t have time to make it out of the dark abandoned park so I quickly ducked into the playground filled with swings and slides. I couldn’t find the other exit. I had my Docs on so climbing the fence would be tough with my wide boots.

Fuck. A sense of dread enveloped me. This was it. This was how I was going to go out. I could see the headlines in the Brooklyn Vegan, “Local Hipster Doofus Hospitalized By Gang of Five Footers”. I could hear my Dad’s voice in my head, “Son, you need to get insurance. If anything happens to you it will bankrupt me and your mom.” I wondered if I had time to signup for health insurance on my iPhone while I hid behind the monkey bars? I hoped they would use this in my obituary.

I saw the kids peering through the fence for me, I froze, hoping they would give up the chase and go back to the skate park. They didn’t. Instead they rode into the jungle gym, and were mere feet from me. One of them said, “He had a striped shirt on.” I looked down at my jean jacket and wondered if I could just walk past them and pretend that I wasn’t their man. I doubted it.

It didn’t matter anyways because they had spotted me, “There he is!” one of them shouted. I walked out, my hands at my sides my head on a swivel like my youth basketball coach had always taught me. They were in front of me in a half circle. I could have taken them on one on one, but the three of them I doubted it. I wasn’t an experienced fighter, and the numbers were against me. “You throwing bottles faggot.” I thought about telling him to “Relax, Amigo.” But that didn’t really work the last time. So I just said, “You pushed me.” He didn’t like that either, as he picked up his BMX bike and flung it at me.

Little known fact, side stepping a flying BMX bike is actually pretty easy. The bike crashed to the pavement with a bang, distracting them. I decided this was my chance. I took off.

I ran as fast I could to the corner of Lorimer and Driggs and made a hard right down Driggs. I could see the sign of Matchless, a bar, on the corner. If I could just make it to the bar, I knew they couldn’t follow me in there. I made it to the door and stepped in quickly. I sat at the bar from a seat where I could keep an eye on the door. I ordered a beer with my eyes on the door the whole time. Fucking punks, not even 21, I tried to reassure myself that they wouldn’t try to come in. If they did I would just yell on the top of my lungs, “Minors! Minors! Kick them out!” It was fail proof.

I drank the beer slowly and by the time I finished it, it was warm and the bar was empty. I didn’t see any sign of the BMX gang circling outside. I figured it was safe. I stepped outside and scanned the streets, no sign of them. I walked (backwards) up Manhattan Ave towards my apartment.

I made it home and with the click of the lock behind me I felt a sense of relief for the first time since my run in. The teenage BMX 3 could no longer harm me. Relax. Amigos.

Writing on cards while waiting for the bus. Staten Island, NY

Tue, 15 May 2012 14:37:53 -0400

Writing on cards while waiting for the bus.

Staten Island, NY

Check out my new article in Relapse. Featuring Chilean fashion...

Tue, 01 May 2012 14:05:08 -0400

Check out my new article in Relapse. Featuring Chilean fashion designer Pola Thomson.

Flashes of Life

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 12:40:53 -0400

Older Brother and I

When I was five my parents took me and my older brother to Washington DC for Thanksgiving. I remember I bought a miniature Blue Angels airplane from the Air and Space museum. I also broke the sliding doors at the hotel. My brother and I would sneak up on the doors from the side and then stand in the middle. When the doors opened we would stay in the middle where the censor couldn’t see us and the doors would close on us. They always reopened except for the last time when they didn’t open on me but just stopped, squeezing me between them. I slid out and the two doors stayed there. I was scared we were going to get yelled out, but no one saw us.

Later that day when we were waiting for the subway to come, my brother and I grabbed the rails of the escalator from the outside and let it carry us up into the air. My brother and I dared each other to see who would go the farthest. I think he won, but by default because on my last attempt the escalator stopped with me dangling in the air. “What do I do?” I pleaded with my brother. “Drop!” He said.

On our way home from the museums I saw a guy working on the escalator as my family took the stairs up. He looked frustrated and wiped sweat from his brow. I felt guilty. I wanted to say sorry, but I was also frightened he would get mad at me.

We spent Thanksgiving in a bar. There was a football game on while we had a turkey dinner amongst a bunch of drunks. I remember the kicker of the Pittsburgh Steelers (I think it was the Steelers) kicked it out of bounds on a kickoff and my dad leaned over to me and said that was a really bad play, and it rarely happens and the kicker was a real bum for kicking it out of bounds and maybe he would even lose his job.

The TV kept on showing close up shots of the kicker looking sad and depressed. He was standing alone and no one was talking to him. I felt bad for the kicker and hoped he wouldn’t lose his job. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

When we got back to the hotel there was a guy fixing the sliding doors at the hotel. He looked like the same guy that fixed the escalator. I went up to him and said sorry for breaking the escalator too. He said, what escalator? And what do you mean “too”? I got nervous and hurried up to my parents who were waiting for the elevator. When the doors dinged open I ran inside the elevator. My mom asked me what the hurry was. I told her I didn’t want to break anything anymore.

Vieques

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 13:41:00 -0400

El Weso en Puerto Rico

Photo by X.A. Medina

“I want to burn. To burn like the rest of the world.” That was one of the first things she said to me. That and did I want to smoke a joint with her. I had just arrived on the island of Vieques. It is a small island off the eastern part of Puerto Rico. The ferry takes about an hour. The waves had shaken the boat, almost as a warning to turn back. I ignored them.

I needed to escape the craziness that was living on Calle Monteseratte in Santurce. I needed to escape the loud music that came from the open windows of the strip club The Blue Marlin that I lived on top of. I needed to escape the neighbor’s rooster who started his wake-up call at 5:00 AM everyday. I needed to escape the transvestite hookers that scattered my walk home from a bar late at night. I needed to escape the man who drove in his truck with his loudspeaker selling fruits and vegetables, “Tres huevos un peso! Aguacate un peso!” The first day I heard him I thought he was negotiating with a criminal through his megaphone, not selling vegetables.

I escaped all right, directly into a whole different type of dementedness; the American Ex- Patriot island of Vieques. I took the ferry on President’s Day. A day that most Puerto Ricans are given the day off work. A day to celebrate a bunch of President’s that were never really theirs and who have never spoken their language. A bunch of Presidents whom the Puerto Ricans have never been able to vote for or against. Most ‘Ricans go to the beach and drink Medalla on President’s Day in Puerto Rico. I wasn’t Puerto Rican so I went to Vieques.

—-

I got in a large white van driven by a small old woman. “Esperanza Inn”, I said. She nodded silently and drove me away from the port. The trip cost me $6 dollars.

—-

I was staying in the Esperanza Inn, right off the main strip of about a half dozen bars and restaurants. All run by Ex Patriots and all boring as shit. The bars that have stupid posters of dumb sayings. Filled with fat American tourists filling their pink and burnt bellies with dead cows and chickens, while they polluted the air with brainless conversation. It was enough to drive a man insane. No wonder some of The Puerto Ricans’ from San Juan had never been, this wasn’t their Puerto Rico, this was the gringo’s Puerto Rico.

—-

That night I enjoyed a meal in Esperanza at the nicest looking place on the strip. I had a bottle of red for myself and the lamb chops. She sat on the other side of the bar, alone nibbling on a salad and a glass of Sangria. Her hair was long and blonde. Her skin was as close to brown as a gringa could get. She ate her salad with an overwhelming sense of boredom. As though she wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to be there, but didn’t want to be anywhere else either.

I timed my exit out of the restaurant with hers. Which meant I had a couple extra glasses of water while I waited for her to finish her meal. I let her walk out first and exit into the tropical night. She lit a cigarette and took a large drag.

“Could I get a light,” I pulled my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. She lit my cigarette silently and begrudgingly. “It’s hot out.” My best attempt to strike a conversation was to talk about the weather. She took another drag and ignored me for what seemed like forever. More drags, more silence. I finally got the courage to walk away when she stopped me short.

“I want to burn,” she dropped her cigarette into the ground and put it out with her heal. “To burn like the rest of the world.”

“The world is burning?” I asked, unsure if I heard her correctly.

“You want to go to the beach and smoke a joint?” She looked at me for the first time. In fact it might have been the first time she noticed I was even standing there.

We walked along the beach as it curled away from the town. The night was quiet and the only lights were from the moon and an occasional lamp on one of the sailboats anchored a hundred feet or so past the coast.

We approached a campground that had one large tent and a few smaller ones scattered. Laundry hung from a line connecting one palm tree to another. Beer cans littered the exterior of a burnt out fire pit.

We sat on the beach as she rolled a joint. I untied my shoes and let my sweaty feet sink into the cool sand.

“You live here?” I asked.

She nodded as she licked the paper of the joint. “With my boyfriend.” My heart skipped a beat. Boyfriend.

“Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, and some of his buddies. They are all locals. I am from Martha’s Vineyard though. I came down here two years ago with some friends and have never left. I only went onto the main island once. I hate San Juan. I like it here much better.”

“How do you make money?”

“We sell coconuts and we farm.” She lit the joint and took a drag, the bud of it lighting while she pulled.

“Farm what?”

She handed me the joint, “Weed.”

—-

The next morning I rented a scooter and took off for some beaches. I bought a sandwich and some beers at the gas station on the way out of town. I followed my tourist map out to the beaches.

I started at the farthest; Blue Beach, then headed back and hit Secret Beach and Red Beach on my way back towards town. Each beach was beautiful and quiet, only a few tourists on all of the beaches, but each of them big enough that you could have your own part of the beach if you wanted.

I waited out my buzz from the beer on Red Beach and eventually got back on my scooter. I rode through the main strip of town and saw her and her blond hair on the sidewalk sitting bored next to a cooler filled with coconuts. I pulled my scooter over and walked up.

“Hey,” I said. She looked up from her book and stared at me blankly. I got worried that she didn’t remember me. “It’s me Wells.” I reminded her of my name just in case she forgot.

“Hey Wells,” she nodded at the Puerto Rican guy sitting next to her. “This is Juancho. My boyfriend.” I reached out my hand to Juancho. He was chopping the tops off the coconuts with a large machete. He looked at me and back at the machete as explanation to not shake my hand. I put my hand back in my pocket. Juancho looked like your average Puerto Rican, the only significant feature was a large scar going across the bridge of his nose. It gave him a look of a certain amount of toughness.

“I think I am going to go get a drink. I will see you guys later. Nice to meet you Juancho.” He nodded at me in between hacks of his machete. I walked away when I heard her behind me, “Wait I’m coming with you.” She ran behind me to catch up. It was strange to see her run. I felt like girls like her never ran. Girls like her walk out of their burning houses coolly while everyone else sprints. “I’m so fucking bored, could use a drink.”

We went to Lazy Jacks. An outdoor bar like the rest. The only difference being it sat on a corner and the bar wrapped around in an L shape following the intersection of the road.

We sat at the bar, I ordered a Medalla, she had a piña colada. “How did Juancho get that scar?” She looked at me through her sunglasses and pointed to her chest.

“He can be a real motherfucker sometimes. Trust me, he deserved it.”

“Oh,” was all I could muster in response.

“He thinks I don’t know Spanish, but I know more than he thinks.” She smiled for the first time since I had met her. It was a smile that both excited me and scared me. She had a power over me, I could feel it. What she was going to do with the power I was unsure of at the time. I would find out soon enough.

—-

The night I found out, I was laying in my room reading when there was a knock on my door. I pulled back the curtain to see her standing there her head in her hands. I opened the door quickly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need your help,” She pushed past me into the room and looked around before she shrugged her shoulders and sat on the corner of my bed. It was as though my room was exactly how she imagined it. I wished it were different, that I could have surprised her. I don’t think much could ever catch her off guard.

“He’s been stealing from me,” she started. “He’s been selling the weed behind my back and not giving me my share.” She looked at me, I see for the first time she had some scratches on the left side of her face.

“What happened?” I tried to get a closer look but she turned away from me.

“He thinks I don’t know Spanish. But I know. Him and his buddies, they talk late at night around the fire, and they get careless when they drink. They talk, they think I don’t know but I know. I need your help.” She repeated her plea.

I nodded my head silently, “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to come with me tonight. I’m going to teach him a lesson.”

I agreed to go with her as I began to put on my shoes. She got up from the bed and closed the door that I had forgotten to close earlier in my excitement for her arrival. She locked it and touched my shoulder as she sat back down on the bed, this time in the center.

“But first,” she pulled her shirt over her head to reveal two tanned breasts. “There is more than one way to skin a cat.” She then pulled her underwear off and kicked them to the floor as she pushed up her skirt.

—-

She had a flashlight that she turned off when we approached the campsite. She had given me a butterfly knife. I wondered if it is the same knife which she slashed his nose. I don’t ask. I followed her like a sleepwalker who knows they are dreaming but unable to shake themselves awake.

We walked past the campsite that was eerily quiet; the only noise was the occasional crackle of the dying fire and the coqui frog that whistled into the night. She put her finger to her lips as we walked by moonlight to the tip of the beach. Just beyond the beach was a small island; I had never noticed it before as it lay on the other side of the peninsula, shielded behind the palm trees.

She leaned to me, her breath warm on my ear, “It is shallow all the way out to the island, never above your waist. Trust me.” We kicked off our shoes and waded out into the water. I took my wallet out of my pocket so it didn’t get wet as we walked into the water and the ocean hit my crotch with a coolness that made me gasp and shudder.

When we got to the island, she dropped her shoes next to a large rock. I put mine next to hers and slipped my wallet into the left shoe. We walked around the left side of the island, the part hidden from the mainland. Eventually we came upon a path that took us into the wooded area. Occasionally I heard something scatter nearby. “It’s an iguana, don’t worry.” She told me as though she knew exactly what I was thinking.

Finally we entered a clearing where there were no trees anymore but just a field. A field that I quickly realized was filled with Marijuana plants. We walked along the outskirts of the field until we came across a hand carved wooden table that was filled with tools and baggies for harvesting the weed. She grabbed two large backpacks from below the table. She handed me one. “Let’s go,” she said as she led me out into the field where we began to strip the plants of their leaves. “You go that way, I will go this way and we can meet in the middle.” She pointed me off into the opposite direction.

I striped all the plants I could find, my hands became raw, unsure if I was even doing it right. I was just blindly clawing at plants. I could hear her rustling across the field from me. I started to move faster, the realization of what I was doing started to settle in, stealing drugs from a drug dealer. Then I realized I couldn’t hear her anymore. She was not stripping the plants. Or if she was she was too far away for me to hear.

I saw a flash of a light and then heard the unforgettable smack of a fist against flesh. I walked quickly and quietly towards where I saw the light. I could hear the hiss of angry whispers a few feet ahead of me. I lowered myself and crawled along the dirt.

Between plants I saw Juancho and the glimmer of his machete at his side. “Where is he?” He demanded from her as she stood in front of him, the flashlight shining on her exposed feet.

“Who?” She played dumb, her right hand held her cheek where he must have punched her.

“The Gringo! I know you convinced him to come out here and steal from me. I know you, you fucking whore.” He raised his machete above his waist ready to slice her in half. She didn’t flinch.

“He’s not here. I fucked him, yes. But I didn’t bring him here. He would only slow me down.” Her voice was calm and cool. I don’t know who scared me more, him or her. They stood there staring at one another. Neither moved or said anything. He breaks the silence, “You know they won’t find you right?” He asked her.

“What?” She questioned. I found myself gripping the exposed butterfly knife in my hand.

“They won’t find your fucking body!” He yelled for the first time. The sound of his voice awoke something in me and as he pulled back to swing at her I lunged at his exposed arm with my butterfly knife. It landed in the middle of his forearm and tore down like when one cuts an apple. Blood poured on me as he screamed. I could see tendons dangling from his arm, the machete landed next to my head. She looked at me with a dull expression as though she had expected me and never doubted I would save her.

“Leave the bag and get the fuck out of here.” She grabbed the machete as Juancho continued to scream squirming on the dirt like a stepped on worm. I pushed myself off the earth and ran towards the beach. I got through the woods not even trying to find the path and ran along the beach until I found the large rock. Our shoes were gone, along with my wallet. I cursed my stupidity as I jumped into the ocean skipping the campground as I swam all the way back to the main beach. When I hit the beach I got up and ran back to my room where I locked the door. I went into the bathroom and threw up. I striped and sat in the shower as the cold water hit my body. God I missed hot showers.

—-

I didn’t leave the hotel room the next day. I didn’t run. I was too scared. I waited for what was coming. I waited for Juancho or the police. I didn’t really care which. But no one came.

—-

On the second day I had breakfast at a place around the corner from my room. I sat so I faced the street. Everything seemed the same. An occasional tourist drove by on a scooter. Just the sleepy town of Esperanza.

That night I checked out of the hotel and got in a large white van driven by a small old woman. “The Ferry”, I said. She nodded silently and drove me toward the port. The trip cost me $6 dollars.

As we drove down the main strip I saw her. Sitting in the same spot where I had met Juancho. But this time there was no Juancho. There was a different guy. A local rubbing her shoulders, consoling her. A cooler filled with coconuts sat in front of them. A backpack, no doubt filled with weed next to it. I turned as the van drove past. I wondered if anyone would ever see Juancho again. Knowing her, I doubted it. But really I didn’t know her. I never asked her, her name. I tried to think of one that fit her personality as she and the new boyfriend turned into dots in the horizon, but nothing fit.

—-

That night on the boat I sat next to an old drunk. He shared his rum with me as he talked, “We are conflicted people you see. We are the children of both the rapists and the raped. The Conquistadors and the conquered. We won and lost. That is why we still vote for the crooked politicians that steal from us. It reminds us of our great great-great grandfathers. Where as you, you just massacred your natives. There is no conflict in your people. Just violence. Take what is yours. Manifest Destiny, right?”

I nodded silently. I wanted to point out to him my family emigrated from Europe much after the United States was already established. That the Native Americans to my grandfather were nothing more than the mascot for the local High School. It didn’t seem important though. He had made up his mind about me. He was certain and I was uneasy, unsure of what to tell him. How to tell him he was wrong. But perhaps he wasn’t wrong. How did I know? I was just a lone man on a strange island. An island of enchantment and magic. An island that was both beautiful and ugly, equally inviting and dour.

My article on Avan Lava is in the new issue of Relapse Magazine....

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 14:08:00 -0500

My article on Avan Lava is in the new issue of Relapse Magazine. Check it out!

El Batey “Seyma”

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 15:34:37 -0500

El Batey “Seyma”

El Batey

Sun, 04 Mar 2012 13:38:27 -0500

El Batey

No Mas, Santurce, PR

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 04:07:41 -0500

No Mas, Santurce, PR

El Local

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 04:03:00 -0500

El Local

Writings by Weso

Photo

AVAN LAVA “Feels Good” MUSIC VIDEO I DIRECTED

Photo

Music Video I produced Mon, 03 Dec 2012 13:48:05 -0500 Music Video I produced

Amateur

Photo

Written with clay.

McCarren Park

Old tag, new photo

My new article in Relapse up now!

The BMX 3 or How I Reinforced My Lack of Toughness Through Random Acts of Near Violence

Writing on cards while waiting for the bus. Staten Island, NY

Check out my new article in Relapse. Featuring Chilean fashion...

Flashes of Life

Vieques

My article on Avan Lava is in the new issue of Relapse Magazine....

El Batey “Seyma”

El Batey

No Mas, Santurce, PR

El Local

Music Video I produced
Mon, 03 Dec 2012 13:48:05 -0500

Music Video I produced