Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

Have you tried sleeping eight hours a day?
Have you tried eating three times a day?
Have you tried maintaining a routine?
Have you tried a new occupation?
Have you tried volunteering?
Have you tried exercising more?
Have you tried warm showers?
Have you tried supplements?
Have you tried sunlight?
Have you tried journaling?
Have you tried mindfulness?
Have you tried changing your thoughts?
Have you tried crying less?
Have you tried moving on?
Have you tried trusting people?
Have you tried antidepressants?
Have you tried making lists?

Originally written on February 10, 2020.

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Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

Personal Essay

A chairlift machine slowly carries Karina and me from one side of the amusement park to the other. The night sky, with its salty breath, nibbles our ankles.

“Haven’t you felt weird being here?” I ask Karina as our two-person seat creeks and hums to its own rhythm. “Like, I miss home, and being here makes me sad.”

“Not really,” Karina answers, our feet hovering far above the ground.I like the freedom here.”

I stare at Karina and her sunburnt cheeks, then at all the people below us. Loud music and flashing lights swallow the life beneath. Embarrassed by my own sincerity, all I can reply with is “— Oh.”

Originally written on May 5th, 2020.

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Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

Prose Poetry

I’ve dreamt of my teeth falling out as early as I could say my own name. Scattering like coins on a sidewalk. Chin painted red. No one ever helps.

Maybe, this is the body’s way of remembering itself. The toothless infants we used to be. A time where we didn’t carry danger in our mouths.

And if this were true, then I wouldn’t be so different from my body. Returning to a past over and over again. Hardly recognizing the present because the present often feels modest — the way that home won’t feel like home until you miss it for the very first time.

Originally written on January 21, 2020.

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Poem

Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

You,
with your back on my chest,
unwind
to the magic
of a late-night movie.

My bottom lip
half-kisses and half-tickles
the skin behind your ear.

You
laugh.
And I
almost say:
I love you.

Almost.

Originally written on December 18th, 2019.

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Personal Essay

Originally exhibited at the Orange County Center for Contemporary Art

Many years ago, my mother shows me photos of her home in Guadalajara, México. Mementos of a life I never lived uncurl between her hands.

“This is the pueblo I knew before coming to California,” she says while holding rustic colors and strange architectures. “I inherited a home here. If God wishes, maybe this will be yours one day.”

“But what would I do with your home?” I ask my mother, uncertain of this home outside my homeland.

“Appreciate it,” she answers.What else is there to do?”

Originally written on December 27, 2019.

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Originally exhibited at the Warehouse of Contemporary Art

Prose Poetry

Despite my years of hurting, I could not tell you the first thing about callousness. My skin is soft and the people around me seem to pronounce this condition with bitterness.

Looking at my scars, I can’t help but feel ashamed for having loved the way that I did: so frequently and so carelessly.

Originally written on November 20, 2019.

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Personal Essay

Originally exhibited at the Warehouse of Contemporary Art

Several years ago, my sister moved out and never came back. She left California to pursue her career. Often, she misses our mom and dad. And some time ago, I’m sure she missed me too.

“It felt like I lost a brother when you stopped talking to me,” my sister says one night through the buzzing of a phone call.

And knowing what I know, I know that she’s right. If running away at the sight of hurt was a sin, then I’d be a sinner. Somewhere in Dante’s Inferno, there’d be a place for me.

Originally written on June 13, 2019.

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Originally exhibited at the Warehouse of Contemporary Art

Poem

Like food, you filled me.
Like warmth, you filled me.
Like hope, you filled me.

The world turned so slowly,
and the sun,
for the first time in my life,
felt like the happiness
that everyone else
had cited
year
after
year.

Originally written on November 11, 2019.

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Scotty Escobar

Scotty Escobar

Un perfil donde puedo compartir mis escrituras.

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