What’s In a Name?

What’s In a Name?

                        What’s In a Name?

                                                What’s In a Name?

I got so embarrassed when he asked me. As Raquel would say it- I felt like he had just looked at my asshole.  Ashamed, embarrassed that he had pointed it out all the while pushing back the rush I got from thinking of showing him some more.  Bending over spreading them if you will. Can I be an introverted exhibitionist? Cause that’s how I feel at times with my writing. I perform it- but that’s about the only way that I felt more reassured of doing it.  In other words, I’m insecure about my writing.  PHEW! Ok there I said it.  But I have been saying it a lot. I will probably say it a lot more times. I will be obsessed with writing about how I have problems writing.  I will write myself into and out of a paperbag.   I believe it was either Stephen King- I could be way off but someone suggested that the struggling author, the writer’s block inflicted author to just sit at your computer and write an excuse. What ever it is that is impeding your writing. Time, fear, lack of ideas…wah, wah, wah.  Tell yourself why is it you aren’t writing. Get my drift? Fuck yeah you do cause we’ve all had that person in our lives who is always farting around us- the person who comes to stink up your day with their foulness. They complain about the same thing, their boss, their partner, their weight, their mother, their kids. Anyway some fucken repetivite bullshit until one day you just don’t have anymore answers to give, don’t have enough care in your body for this persons condition, their troubled state: they rather talk about it than do anything about it. So you cut them off like a stinky turt. No more.  Anyway this exercise, this entry is an exercise in that: in how to stop farting about your writing. When I write excuses, I am being my own naggy bitch and the point of writing these excuses is that eventually you’ll get tired of farting and stinking up your screen and your files with excuses that you have only two choices: stop writing or fucken write something else.

Anyway now back to that embarrassing moment- I felt scared cause I felt as if I had been discovered. My tapaderas was blown off. BOOM! . A super hero tries to conceal his/her identity- only a few people know about them, right? And one of them has to be, eventually, the novia. Like mine,eventually, knew my secrete except with me there was no beso desenmascarado like the hanging Spiderman.  El mio fue mas como un egg on my face.  I felt busted- had to come clean. Not that I didn’t want to or don’t- but we hide our identity to protect our loved ones from harm. It’s me I’m really protecting.  But…you’ll see. 

I am Agente Zero-Ocho, my hero persona. I ride this here red , encountered by those that surf. Here is where I put on my writer face and attitude.  The one that allows my mind to take leaps, strew one sentence after another like energy bolts leading my path. I see ahead of me and swing freely.  Back to my curious co-worker who thought it was funny how I spelled the number 0 with a z and not c like in Spanish cero.  He doesn’t know that Agente Zero-Ocho is not only a spanglish word but the “Z” as visual and audio effect to my fantasy.  Aesthetics?  Z hints at Zorro- the master swordsman enmascarado, not a superhero per se but more like a costumed crime-fighter but the two share sever characteristics. “Drat!” I thought, “now he thinks it’s a misspelling,” I freaked out a little then realized it wouldn’t be the first or last time (i.e. mexicanfulmoon). I didn’t speak up because I chose to continue concealing my identity. Unlike Ironman, I’m not ready to shout it to the world. The truth?  I also enjoy the idea of being discovered. Since I really can’t fly and shit, my ass is in the chair when I write…but every particle of me starts to race when I think of my writing being a piece of the words already floating out here…to be continued.