this is osquito. he lives over a broad, broad, broader than broadway street in the bronx. his subway exit is the size of an underground stadium. urban underground sprawl. the details of who he lived with was completely unclear and actually still remain unclear. just details, i guess. from his window the intersection seemed full of nothing, but you know how when you first see a place if it doesn't dazzle you it sort of just is. then later, as you traverse back and forth, lugging this or that bag at this or that time the place begins to relay its nuances to you in a way you were unable to receive when you first saw the place. i bet 245th street in the bronx is like that; i bet it opens up a bit after you've decided to look at it. osquito works where i work, in the same building at least. what strikes me is how much easier it is for me to speak to him, or Cy, or Kiko, rather than the suits on my floor who do or do not say hello to me. i don't really care, to be completely honest, for in fact, those office lines and office-isms and office-dronery is still very much alive! and i would almost rather have a conversation about drill bits than be in another elevator, talk about how cold it is on the tenth floor, or hear the words 'circle back' ever again. yes, why don't we talk about drill bits - at least its very short, but hard assonance is interesting! (drilllll-bitttttz). osquito works in a blue shirt and black pants and often has to wear a black hat. his smile is broad and he walks with confidence. he is going to be an accountant, after 6 years of working for this corporation, he is off on his own. i owe him these pictures and more, of course, but so far every time i see him downstairs i go "ahhh oscarrrrrrrrrrrrrrr i have to buy a new hard drive and then i have to scan the negatives but soon i'm so sorrrrry!" and he is still that patient gentleman who walked me to the train station after the shoot and i find myself to be the same hectic motherfucker i always was running around from here to there, with a curly pile of beginning sentences and 1/2 phrases, comebacks, regrets, book cover ideas and titles, and rooftop fantasies of mine playing out in my head, a never ending film spool spooling shit out of my proverbial bag - all at the same time, everything always, everything always at the same time, for christ's sake. . . seriously though, i will scan those negatives for you soon, son. i know that the photo of you by the window with the cross on the wall behind you is all i need to know about your history right now. and your bed, dark thoroughbred brown, veneer plastine, like one of those fresh from the furniture depots on broadway under the J-train, next to refrigerator row! the furniture depots that look as though they never sell anything, to anyone, ever...and where every piece comes already built. but fuck, here is one of those beds. . . oscar and kiko and cy are the real stories in this building. the stories are not about how to get a flatter tummy in 8 minutes or how to cook a sirloin steak, no maam. the stories have nothing to do with 'looping' me in, about transitions, page views, acquisitions, or users, no maam. ugh, every ugly word lives in this building; they interact all day and make fucking ugly phrases, boring ass babies, irrelevant strings of words aimed at no one coming from no mother, ugh, every ugly word in the air, all day, in here. rather, the stories are on the 3rd floor with kiko and cy and osquito, whose very faces imply america in the realest sense. it always amazes me who i can or cannot, talk to. in every town of every year it seems to be the same.

every few weeks i see a sign in the lobby that says "blood drive today" and i scoff audibly wishing i could talk to someone about this. i, sahara borja, am going to give you my blood, in exchange for ningun pinche health care plan? incredible. blood drive! this is charity for whom by who for why? i am going to give you my blood?! i think this is incredible - does anyone else? i still scoff, and i spread word of this ludicrous suggestion over dinner with friends. blood drive. i can't get it out of my head! ! ! my blood! ahahahaha MI PURA SANNNNNNNNGRE! don't think so, william randolph. regardless, we are all embroiled and tangled up inside here. we leave and we make b-lines for our real lives, fine. to be expected, the usual, etc. osquito and cy and kiko and i work in the same building. i have a camera that they let me use to take their photos. it is not just that i am more able to speak to them than the suits on my floor who do or do not say hello to me, it is that they actually said hello.