Ulises Jack Fonseca

About me:

A little about me, well that something that you already know; How about I tell you things you don’t already know. My name is Ulises Jack Fonseca, I was born February six nineteen eighty-two. I was raised for the most part by a wonderful single mother who had the worst luck ever finding a father for me. My childhood was between bitter sweet and splendid. I bore the signs of a child who lacked luster but an external factor kept me from submitting to a mundane attitude. I’ve reflected on the past and how I was, and possibly I am happy on the outcome that I strayed away from that which I was. I may have the most patience friends who handled that awkward strive of an attention with lies and as well mockery or even untimely outburst and/or oddly said remarks. Truth is I went elsewhere that I could to get that family need. Adulthood came ten folds with alcoholism and physical and mental abuse. Maturity was not obtained by my own acceptance, it was dropped on me. Thankfully I realized the potential I’ve denied myself in previous accounts and stepped up to the game and took control. I now stand before my own shadow far above the image left by my wrong doing’s and endeavors. I am now a happily grown man with my first child on the way. My fiancée Kathryn is god sent and is a blessing. And this state which has been called home for the last twenty six years of my life is now coming to a close. Colorado Springs, Colorado is now my new chapter in this novel called my life. I leave nothing but happy memories with those I love as my own family. From the make believe radio station tape recordings of Ana and Vivian in the trailer park homes of yesteryear, the mock gladiator games (played by Robert, Raul, Ana, Vivian, Annette, Yvette, Guillermo, and many others), the school bus rides (from Sweetwater, Marjory, Ruben , and Coral Park), the fist fights with wanna be thug, the first cigarette smoked, the accidental gun pulled towards me by a friends grandfather, a brotherhood established (Danny, Jairo), the sights and sounds of being in a/part of a crowd/scene, the drunken nights of wonders (Jairo, Teresa, Jessica, and god knows half of Miami), the politically driven debates (Roman and others like Jairo in poor dimmed starbucks), the bar hopping, the beach renting, the bitching, the moaning, the love, the hate, past relationships, the oddly times to get lost in the ghetto, the first car purchased, the raise, the fall, the redemption, the acceptance of the University of Miami, the Boston college dream, the Harvard trips, the movies made, the start up of the professional hangeroutters, and this leading into the way up to the tears of a mother and son parting ways. Becoming a man is interesting to examine, this to can be seen by a woman as well. Close your eyes and life shall pass you by. "Why can't you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smolder with the desire for one who is not there? Why not let the days before you see her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick her up, you're nearly sick with anticipation? And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment throw it back in its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury. Then when you are together, it all matters. So that when you look into her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before. When she says your name, you think it was she who named you. When she is gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in her neck, her breathing and the amazing smell of her skin. Your eyes go wet because you want her so bad and miss her so much. Now that is worth the miles and the time. That matches the inferno of life. Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives. That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go. It's part of the world's sadness that's more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night." This is by Henry Rollins! ..