Gabriel DeLeon
Gabriel DeLeon
Recent Stories
‘Blood’ is thicker than wiser
Nothing’s quite as refreshing as the bizarre: a temperamental spring layer of sprung March snow, the tailored heart of a deceased superstar, the thwarted shots at Toads. And behind the haunches of this threatened frog, the cooled, warbling veins of “Wise Blood,” slinking through the cold.
You're a New Havenite too
I am from where I live. I live where I’m from.
Worn extremities remind us of camp
We’ve had our grace period. For a full campy week, eyes have been averted to the illegal. Red cup parades halted traffic. We had paradise.
Into the Woods: New Haven summer
This summer was going to suck. I was ready to be stuck in an empty New Haven … even though, admittedly, it was my prerogative to stay. I was, for the school year, a persistently penniless freshman who spent cash on the tsk-tsk-worthy. So, as the days grew longer, I was full of a certain dull expectancy for heat waves and a yawning (paying) job at the Beinecke. I was. Then, I opened my eyes. Immediately, I saw streets whose veins are usually clogged with the thick blue of Yale memorabilia suddenly stream beautiful black faces in what is (lest we forget) a beautiful black town. I saw Old Campus deserted at tanning hours, leaving it open to speculation. I saw ambitious shades of green that left daguerreotypes hanging on the back of my eyelids. And, most importantly, I saw a pocketful of posy people, who happened to be very cozy coincidentally. New Haven is a summer paradise (all crime rates, poverty, scandals, politics aside). We all have our flaws. I exclaim it proudly.
Dear mama
Just know, Mama Globe — if you are literate, that is — my apology, for yesterday and tomorrow, has been registered. Forgive me, for I have littered — and probably will again.
Smokin’ hot
People like to ask me (or rather berate me) about my burgeoning smoking habit. A reasonable question — it is the progenitor of rather inconvenient side effects. Until recently, I really hadn’t had an admirable answer. I’ll admit there was a (brief) period where I was easily influenced by the vogue, drawn by the sheer social power of a measly tobacco stick (the same can be said of most things I now do in excess…). But now, I can’t even offer that excuse. And I know I don’t have a death wish, nor an addiction, nor a brooding desire to relive the oral phase of my youth. So, why? To be perfectly honest, I think I may just have an (near) orgasmic fascination with smoke.