Author: Roel Concepcion

Literary citizen. L.A. native. Writer and explorer.

Categories
Notes

Not Sure If

You know, I tried starting a business the other year. About storytelling, and how to use it, the form, to sell things, also known as marketing. I thought I’d do well at it, but it’s just not fitting into my schedule.

The act of writing with the intention to post it on this blog is weird because I mostly write on a Word doc, knowing and hoping that the only time these words will ever be read would be many years from now when I’m long dead, or newly dead, or when I’m dead and my kids …

Well let’s now talking about death right now.

How many times have I had tried to write a blog? Is it really for me? I’m remember the last time I did it was January, 2020. I had so much hope, my gawd, it was a new year on a new decade and I don’t know, I took some pictures at a carnival and thought maybe I’d publish these and jump start my blog writing.

Then my mom dies, Kobe dies, and the world stopped.

Four years ago. And many more attempts before then. And now that I am all about the words again. Spring really fucks with my emotions that I can’t seem to write anything; summer brings it out again. I don’t get it.

And because of that, I get hungrier to read. During the winter, I read four novels back to back. Ann Petry’s “The Street,” Toni Morrison’s “Sula,” and Chinua Achebe’s “Things Fall Apart.” I know that’s only three — but I can’t seem to remember the fourth if there ever was one and if it had, then it must’ve been a forgettable tale.

So that’s the challenge I’m giving to myself. Be brave and just write this blog. Publish. Done. It must be written in WordPress and not in Word Doc since that’s reserved for my own little world, my own little time, and my kids who will break into my computer when I’m dead and see all the nasty shit I’ve been saving and read all the shit that’s been in me since I started writing.

Just publish. Read once maybe. Get it out. I pay for this site; I might as well use it. What to write about. We’ll figure that out as we go along. But maybe once a day? Might as well. Challenge on.

Categories
L.A. Music Notes

The Prolific One

Nipsey Hussle

“Define who you are and what you are, and be clear on that. Meditate on that and then, live and die by that…”

— Nipsey Hussle

I cried for Nipsey the other day, having finally listened to the Victory Lap album.

I was mesmerized by his voice and saddened that I will never hear it again outside of this capacity — in songs and interviews.

And I was reminded of the deaths of my favorite rappers, having grown up in the ’90s, exposed from the jump to the rise of rap and hip-hop and subsequent fall of some of the pioneers that paved the way for MCs like Nip.

So I broke down listening to “Last Time I Checc’d” and wished I could’ve lent my ears to his message a little earlier, when he was still alive. 

Categories
Vignettes

What shall I do with the ghost staring at me in my living room?

Ghost

Shall I shake his hand to congratulate him on his arrival? It must’ve been some ride from wherever he came from, no doubt.

Shall I ask him to tea, ask him about life – and death – and ask him if he’s craving anything, like fresh strawberry pie or braised goat tacos from North Hollywood.

Shall I pass him my joint and tell him it’s more CBD than THC – in case he doesn’t want to get higher than he already is.

Shall I flirt with him, ask him if he still harbors any sexual preferences, or is sex something that’s forgotten once the genitalia turn spectral. 

Shall I listen to his moans and groans, and I stay silent, and wait until he utters the first word in our encounter. Why would it be incumbent upon me to act first? The living are such pushovers. 

Shall I ask him about my parents – how is mother and step-father doing?

Shall I ask him about the election, he surely must know the results; I mean, what’s the point of living then dying then coming back if what he can only offer is the incitement of fear. How boring. How juvenile. How insulting, actually. 

Shall I ask him his age, name, and last-known location, as if I were introducing myself via some old AOL chatroom, surely that must be important; for, at the very least, I can help guide him to wherever he may want to go; perhaps, this could be the perfect reason to use up the last drops of ink in my Epson printer to print out directions for him via Mapquest; he’ll hopefully get this joke, unless of course, he was of the Thomas Bros. generation of navigation. 

Shall I ask about God. Ha, no, LOL.

Shall I invite him to sit down and rewatch that episode of “Unsolved Mysteries” on Netflix with me. The episode where Japanese taxi drivers pilot ghosts around the town of Ishinomaki free of charge, and I’ll joke that the eerie way they would appear in the back of the cab reminded me of his summoning to my living room.

I’ll tell him that I originally watched it with my wife and that she laughed when she saw me squirm inside my snuggie, turning what was supposed to be Netflix and chill into Netflix and chills.

And I’ll ask him if he had ever taken a taxi as a ghost before. And no matter his answer, I’ll fake laugh because, in truth, I wouldn’t be able to relate anyway. And hopefully this will ignite some small talk. And he’ll blather out all the sordid details of his passing, and I’ll nod and smile and mirror his body movements to gain trust, and who knows maybe we’ll turn friends and I’ll invite him to meet my group of friends after the pandemic is over, and he’ll joke that that would be the most ironic thing because, by that time, I’ll be joining him and…

Okay, I think I’ll just get inside my snuggie and pretend he isn’t there.

Categories
Music Notes

Bad Moon Always Rising

Moon

I live anxious filled days and depressive nights. 

Sometimes days are better, sometimes days, it’s light. 

I live these days because I have to – and we have to.

“Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival

When “Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival was first released in April 1969, the United States – as it was and seemingly always will be – in full disarray. Civil rights, racism, war, anxiety, assassinations, and an ever-present threat of death pervasive at family doors. 

A quick listen of the song today — it reveals that despite nearly 50 years of time passed, the lyrics remain as poignant as ever.

I feel a great sense of connection to these lyrics and to those who listened to them and loved them throughout the years.

Written by John Fogerty, who told LouderSound.com that: 

“I don’t think I was actually saying the world was coming to an end, but the song was a metaphor. I wasn’t just writing about the weather.”

When I listen to “Bad Moon Rising” today, I feel my anxiety heightening because of its lyrics, and knowing that an entirely different generation of Americans have gone through a similar tumult that I’ve endured these past four years.

And my takeway after a couple of repeat listens is that life persists despite of it all. 

Then I eventually come down and think about this pandemic, the racial divide being wider than it has ever been, the election so vital and crucial to our immediate future, climate change, and wonder if death is in my room, and maybe, it’s already holding my hand.

I press play again.

Categories
Music Poetry Vignettes

G Chord to C Chord

The C chord is a magical chord

powerful from the get.

I struggle with its shape

but when my fingers nail it

it defines the moment.

It’s present.

The G chord is just right

like the swish of a basketball through a net.

When it’s strummed

reverberations flutter through my heart.

It echoes through time.

The guitar, like water from a spring.

The guitar, where have you been all my life?

Categories
Notes

Positively No Filipinos Allowed

Black Lives Matter protest sign in Long Beach, California. June 2020.

There was one day, one era, in the past where anyone who looked like me was considered to be alien, wrong, and unwelcome.

There are times today when this sentiment seems as raw as it was during that day and era, and there are feelings that perhaps nothing has changed at all.

I think, if anything, this year’s Filipino American History Month should be a reminder that, more than ever, there is an urgent call to deliver a stake into the ground to let others know that we — Filipinos and peoples of color — are here to stay and that — in no time — we’re here to take over.

One way to do that is to create art, to tell stories, to reconstruct our identities, and push the boundaries of what’s expected. For me, it’s about writing fiction.

I look at Pulitzer Prize winning author Viet Thanh Nguyen who, as an Asian American, became one of the most revered writers of our time. There are times when I feel like I can be like him, that I can pull off the work, get published, win prizes, and find an audience who will find my writing to be pleasurable. Then there are times when I just feel like quitting and feel like my writing is complete and total shit.

But as I think about what this month brings to Filipino-Americans and all peoples of color, I simply cannot let the idea of quitting take over because there is an obligation, that urgent call, that forces me to think beyond what I can or cannot do, that there are generations beyond mine and yours that will one day look back, as I look back now, at this time and wonder – can I do what they can do?

I’ve been imagining and dreaming of becoming a fiction writer since I was a teenager, having written plenty of works in progress but never anything to completion, and it’s really only been two years since I’ve started writing fiction in earnest. There have been many times where I feel broken and feel like a failure, and there are times when I see writers of color like Mr. Nguyen and say, yes, it’s definitely possible.

I had bookmarked and recently summoned an article Mr. Nguyen wrote for the L.A. Times in 2016 that have two awesome quotes that I need to share to remind myself that quitting is not option and that the road to becoming a better writer is a long one:

“The constant reworking of sentence and narrative through writing short stories was my version of rubbing two sticks together. Suddenly, at a decade’s culmination, the fire started, and I could write with greater conviction and concentration than I had thought possible.”

And:

“The scale of the audience bears no testimony to the worth of the work.”

I relate to Mr. Nguyen because of the color of his skin, and I want to be on his level of writing one day. And with the context of this month and with the urgent call constantly ringing in my head, I don’t see why I cannot be like him one day.

And that what’s important is not who’s reading my work but it’s whether or not my work is valuable to me because if it doesn’t sting or hurt, make me cry or laugh, make me want to jump or crawl under the bed, then what’s the point? It’s called “life’s work” for a reason – it’s work that’s most important to me.

Filipino American History Month is a celebration of what we’ve done in the past, but it also is a reminder that we should never stop chasing what’s most important to us — for the next generation’s sake and for those who sacrificed so much in generations past.

Categories
L.A. Notes

The Reason Why I Fell in Love with Words

I gave my money to the Los Angeles Times today.

When I was growing up, my parents read the newspaper religiously.

The Daily Breeze when we lived in the South Bay.

The Press-Telegram when we lived in Long Beach.

My mother had told me: “Read the newspaper. You’ll be smarter.”

And so I did, and so becoming, I fell in love with words, sentences, bold type, small type, bylines, and stories.

So when I first moved out of my parents’ house, the summer after I graduated high school, one of the few bills I paid every month was my subscription to “The Press Telegram.”

I remember how proud I felt writing that monthly check and mailing it to the subscription department, adulting like a motherfucker.

Then every morning I’d see that folded up paper on the front door of my $350 per month studio apartment right next to the Green Leaf Motel in downtown Long Beach, and I’d take out the sports section and check the boxscores.

Eventually, my love for the medium drifted away and my need to get informed was satiated by many other outlets.

And up until this day, I had subscribed to nothing.

I don’t want to forget — ever again — why words matter to me so much.

Categories
Notes

An Ode to Dave Chappelle

Dave Chappelle in "For What It's Worth"

In one bit on Dave’s Chappelle’s groundbreaking For What It’s Worth comedy special, he reminds us, right before he breaks into his famous Ja Rule bit, that we should stop worshipping celebrities.

If I had the chance to go back in time and catch Dave writing that bit, I would’ve said, “Hol’ up. I’mma let you finish…”

You see, I’ve been worshipping Dave since his Comedy Central show for being hilarious, of course, he’s one of the best to ever do it, but also for always keeping it real when it comes to politics, society, race, and class. He somehow intertwines both like perfectly braided Manila rope, and each time he does it, I come out laughing my ass off while coming out smarter and more aware in the process.

“That is a very subtle psychological nuance of oppression to have a dictator on your money. Our money look like baseball cards with slave owners on them.”

— Dave Chappelle, For What It’s Worth

So when Dave Chappelle received The Mark Twain Prize for American Humor, which is currently available on Netflix, I was reminded of a break-up with a girlfriend.

It was a lonely and dark night in December of 2005 when I had broken up with my girlfriend, or rather she had broken up with me, an 8-year relationship done just like that — dead.

We had lived together for nearly as long and she kicked me out, gave me like a month to get out of the apartment, and the only thing I could find in that short amount of time was an apartment that was right across the street from ours her’s.

That’s right, I fucking decided to live right across the street from my ex, like a mad man, and for the first few weeks of my living alone, I was not only depressed, but I was also broke as fuck. I couldn’t afford shit, much less cable TV, much less the fucking internet — all I had was electricity, a TV, a DVD player, and one DVD — For What It’s Worth.

“It’s either you fuck monkeys or you fuck people. There’s no in between.”

— Dave Chappelle, For What It’s Worth

Until I had enough money to afford cable, I had Dave’s stand-up set from San Francisco to keep me entertained night after night. That was like a two-week-long binge of the same jokes, the same laughs, and the same Dave every night until pay day.

All the while, after each viewing, I grew less and less lonely, slowly forgetting about the woman across the street, and I began to appreciate myself again, I began to have hope again.

For two weeks, I had a friend in Dave, and so today, after realizing that my favorite comedian is getting recognized for an award named after one of my all-time favorite writers, I just wanted to tip my hat to him and thank him for being who he is, for sharing his thoughts, for sharing his life, shamelessly, without fear, and he definitely doesn’t know it, but he helped a lonely man out when he was drowning deep in the throes of the deepest of oceans.

One love, and thank you.