Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Muffins (this one kinda sucks)
The lackadaisical security guard bid me no harm with a mere nod as I slid through the door on this cold Monday night. I was missing the colts game but work needed to be done. My flip flops bounced off the floor and slapped the face of my heels as I made the left down workman’s row (its not really called that but I like to). Three familiar faces all bright and new lined the avenue to the glow board that I needed for tracing. Some hellos, some handshakes but business as usual. The assignment was simple yet it was thought provoking. Find alluring forms of typography and traces their skin. I took an easy road but soon grew bored. The serifs, the leading letter body build, the swoop of a “J” all combined to make my wrist a little less interested and my mind a little more distant. I thought of muffins. I have no idea why, but the sweet soft caresses of its dough coupled with surprising nuggets of tangy fruit enticed and allured me. I was stuck molding ink into dances of language. Why is a muffin a morning snack? Dough and fruit taste great at all stages of the sun, but yet it remains an a.m. treat. Somebody needs to make a dinner muffin. One packed with beef, vegetables and other staples of a family meal, yet still having that humble and loveable shape. Starbucks could make a fortune, so could I. Taste meets practicality and muffins can finally know the wit of a steak knife. I don’t even know how to make bread.
311 on Halloween
The concert was fucking loud. I’m talking 1,000 plus rock coinsures banging their lungs to their genetic capacity. Indoor venues make your ribs shake. The dark lighting and the overwhelming stench of joy stretching from speaker to back door ripped the airwaves into a new sensation. I couldn’t hear myself pee when I went between sets. My lobes throbbed and my smile screamed. Incandescent characters dressed in holiday garb lined the bars and the beer never stopped flowing. People don’t give a shit on Halloween and it shows. The one time of year you get to wear your great idea and laugh at the others. Its reckless and loose and everybody gets it. I actually felt bad for the plainly dressed clowns who let their inner child pass away. Standard street clothes displaying blank slates of the creativity. BOOOO! Weird is king on the 31st! Somewhere in-between the maniacs and the methodical thump of the bass, glow sticks exploded against the dim background of the chicly lit stage. Hoards of them blooming in schools and raining joy. Cluster bombs of light and streaks fantasy falling on unsuspecting dancers. Nobody gets pissed when a concert comes to you. I bopped my head, snapped my fingers and watch the stars fall from the sky. I closed my eyes and absorbed the echoes of awesome.
Today it rained (on the 24th)
Today it rained, let electrical flashes fly and even got humid. Sick from a red eye, hung over from a wedding, my weary bones climbed in bed every free chance it got. I slept like a rock.
Her heavy sad eyes were surrounded by those she had known for only a brief while. Their spirits, laughter, and conversation filled her tiny apartment, but not her heart. She was lonesome. The simple creaks of her door, the clink of the silverware against an empty plate and the ambient sounds of the flashing television were puppets in a theater playing host to no one, only a pair of attention craving cats and an empty bed. I got a text on the way home thanking me for nothing. I felt humbled and alive.
When we grow up your friends get married and settle into patterns. Not denim or plaid but rotations of the ordinary. It made me a little uneasy to swallow the thick air of the predictable. The lack of unknown, the distinct sense of control and the speed of which life drains from our spirits was enough to make me feel old. I never want to feel like that again. I never want to wake up and learn what I had been told I would. I never want a fortune cookie to be my only source of inspiration. I never want to answer the same phone calls and drink the same beers. I never want to give a fake hug.
Youth is what we’re all made of. Even the 92-year-old man whose sunken shoulders no longer fill out the jacket he had bought a decade ago. His wrinkled hands palming his cane and missing his dead wife. He doesn’t think of her anymore, it hurts too bad. But that ambition for life, that crisp sense of friendship with the sun is what I’m after. I could sleep myself to death in a matter of weeks. I could fall into depression, sink into a slumber of nothingness and eventually die. And so could he. But my feet itch for more. My eyes burn for what I can’t see. And my heart is still learning to read. So is his. If I had all the answers, I’d be boring. If I could sleep with any woman, I’d be jaded. If my soul were at peace, I’d smoke more pot. I don’t want the perfect sense of self or the cookie cutter experiences, I want ride that will leave me booting with knowledge, and laughing with immaturity. If I live in a perpetual state of routine and fulfilled expectations then I am already dead. My shell shakes the eager hands of those who think I’ve made it. I smile back and whisper of escape. I pray my word remains mine, and my story a mess. Free verse, no paragraphs, no periods, no ending. Just commas and quotes. My fingers feel free tonight.
Her heavy sad eyes were surrounded by those she had known for only a brief while. Their spirits, laughter, and conversation filled her tiny apartment, but not her heart. She was lonesome. The simple creaks of her door, the clink of the silverware against an empty plate and the ambient sounds of the flashing television were puppets in a theater playing host to no one, only a pair of attention craving cats and an empty bed. I got a text on the way home thanking me for nothing. I felt humbled and alive.
When we grow up your friends get married and settle into patterns. Not denim or plaid but rotations of the ordinary. It made me a little uneasy to swallow the thick air of the predictable. The lack of unknown, the distinct sense of control and the speed of which life drains from our spirits was enough to make me feel old. I never want to feel like that again. I never want to wake up and learn what I had been told I would. I never want a fortune cookie to be my only source of inspiration. I never want to answer the same phone calls and drink the same beers. I never want to give a fake hug.
Youth is what we’re all made of. Even the 92-year-old man whose sunken shoulders no longer fill out the jacket he had bought a decade ago. His wrinkled hands palming his cane and missing his dead wife. He doesn’t think of her anymore, it hurts too bad. But that ambition for life, that crisp sense of friendship with the sun is what I’m after. I could sleep myself to death in a matter of weeks. I could fall into depression, sink into a slumber of nothingness and eventually die. And so could he. But my feet itch for more. My eyes burn for what I can’t see. And my heart is still learning to read. So is his. If I had all the answers, I’d be boring. If I could sleep with any woman, I’d be jaded. If my soul were at peace, I’d smoke more pot. I don’t want the perfect sense of self or the cookie cutter experiences, I want ride that will leave me booting with knowledge, and laughing with immaturity. If I live in a perpetual state of routine and fulfilled expectations then I am already dead. My shell shakes the eager hands of those who think I’ve made it. I smile back and whisper of escape. I pray my word remains mine, and my story a mess. Free verse, no paragraphs, no periods, no ending. Just commas and quotes. My fingers feel free tonight.
NY summer with my ball
Today I thought about summer time in New York City. I loved the tunes of the sparrows, socializing on the maple tree sidewalks. The way my mom’s high heels clicked on the wooden floor of our Brooklyn brown stone. The humidity dampened its tone. The pale skin of winter was still fresh on the faces of office zombies. Nobody in the city ever got tan. The Italian pizza man had a thicker laugh when he wore his purple shorts. God that pizza was good. Flour still fresh on the crust and the sweet grease that only seemed to come from his oven. I killed napkins as a kid.
I had a blue racquet ball and I envied its energy. Nothing in the world bounced higher or faster than this humble blue companion. The promise of the park still fresh on my mother’s lips I remember I bounced that ball as hard as I could. I wanted it to show the joy I felt in my legs. It hit the edge of our stoop and shot forward into the busy yellow street. I heard my friend grope the undercarriage of an unsuspecting cab and disappear into the gutter. Shocked, stunned, and alarmed at the possibility and reality of loss, it was the first time I can honestly recall a sense of mourning. Death to a ball, death to a boyish comrade. But before my bereavement had a chance to kiss my bones, a bigger, less enthusiastic ball stumbled down the street. Even at that age I could appreciate the taste of fate. I took my new ball and lost it within weeks and my memory of it shortly thereafter. I remember it more for its birth than its life. God taught me about circles that day, and I didn’t know it until just now.
I felt an ex girlfriend kissing me this morning. I woke up to the clink of eggs in a pan and a blank beige wall. Her scent slept in my sheets. A lucid sex dream spoiled by breakfast.
I had a blue racquet ball and I envied its energy. Nothing in the world bounced higher or faster than this humble blue companion. The promise of the park still fresh on my mother’s lips I remember I bounced that ball as hard as I could. I wanted it to show the joy I felt in my legs. It hit the edge of our stoop and shot forward into the busy yellow street. I heard my friend grope the undercarriage of an unsuspecting cab and disappear into the gutter. Shocked, stunned, and alarmed at the possibility and reality of loss, it was the first time I can honestly recall a sense of mourning. Death to a ball, death to a boyish comrade. But before my bereavement had a chance to kiss my bones, a bigger, less enthusiastic ball stumbled down the street. Even at that age I could appreciate the taste of fate. I took my new ball and lost it within weeks and my memory of it shortly thereafter. I remember it more for its birth than its life. God taught me about circles that day, and I didn’t know it until just now.
I felt an ex girlfriend kissing me this morning. I woke up to the clink of eggs in a pan and a blank beige wall. Her scent slept in my sheets. A lucid sex dream spoiled by breakfast.
My Bed
My mattress is hard. It bends slightly but holds my spine with a stubborn shape that seems to rock me to sleep. My ugly brown sheets dance with the rivers of impressions carved by the pillow pattern on its crust. I’ve never seen its organs, but they never grumble because they feast on sheep. My pillows are thin and cheap, but they match and come in pairs. I drool during naps, but never during sleep, and I can count the stains of my daydreams. They give me directions to midday escapes. My feet hang off the edge and the light in my loft is too heavy to ignore, but my cradle invigorates my eyes and highlights my most intimate thoughts. Vivid flashes of what was, what is, and what will be. They pull my eyes when I rest.
I honestly believe Dejavu is when a past dream unfolds itself the tangible world. A living memory that you can feel with your finger and soul.
I honestly believe Dejavu is when a past dream unfolds itself the tangible world. A living memory that you can feel with your finger and soul.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Writing in different styles
A writing assignment insisted I read pieces of 8 famous books and mimic their writing style. Here goes:
Motherless Brooklyn
The incessant jogging that tatters my mind keeps the ideas rolling. I guess that’s how I get creative. My feet shuffle along the boardwalk, glancing seawards every six seconds to affirm its existence. You never know when the sea might disappear. Still I walk, mind walking faster, and think to myself about the pretty blonde 10 feet ahead. How did she get her socks to match just so? Where did she come from, where was her first kiss? The sea is still there. I catch a whiff of some white castle and keep the engine of my head greased for some fresh ideas. Six burgers, six sets of 2, that’s 12, but a perfect multiple of six. Nonetheless I walk by, still dragging my left heel ever so slightly. It’s a complex of mine, I wear out the back side of each shoe long before a new pair is overdue. The blonde is gone and so is that tense smell of overproduced hamburgers. I feel at east if only for a second. The seagulls have gone amiss and the dim outline of my shadow has faded into streetlight puppetry. I feel the breeze and the squawk of a lonely seagull, I know its still there. I look anyway.
Fight Club
The waxy black table of the Barnes and Noble makes my elbows feel at ease. Their robust shape and color attract only the most humble of readers, those who have no business at a bookstore. Tables start out as a block of wood growing with its family in the safe ecosystem of an anonymous forest. Then an overweight, stained shirt-wearing lumberjack wages a war of man and machine against its trunk. Gasoline, cigarettes and somebody with a fat wallet who has a need for tables is all it takes to bring down a dream. Shipped off to a lumberyard, then to Sweden where Ikea makes it into a beautiful little piece of bullshit we all want and need to make our souls sing. I look at this table and smile. At least my life stood a chance. This one never had that luxury, now it’s my nothingness, a piece of furniture free to be forgotten. If only I were so free.
Middlesex
The lush rolling hills of greenery informed my senses that spring had indeed arrived. The light wind of the open car window brushed through her coarse hair and I knew then and there that I needed her. Her soft, pinkish lips and strong cheekbones carved out a treasure map to her love. I watched if only for a second too long, when she caught me in a daze of romance and lust. She smirked and acknowledged the chink in my Armour of indifference. I wasn’t indifferent at all. My heart collapsed in the bed of my chest as she blinked her deep brown eyes back to her rearview. She had a way of letting you believe, even if only for a second, she felt similar. I felt the blood from my feet sprint up my spine and fill my arms with a tingle unimaginable joy. My mind raced with boyish dreams and mature realities. She was older than I was, but somehow lacked the fear that experienced hearts know and live by. Her destiny was hers and hers alone and she wouldn’t let her mothers teachings deter her from pursing that which felt right. I longed to see her legs wrapped in the coils of sheets still tired from a sleepless night. My eyes ahead, I noticed her arm sweep towards mine. Her soft hand gripped hard on the gear stick. She released pressure from the clutch and gave me one more reassuring glance, before letting full-blown smile swallow her face.
Trainspotting
Oi ye cunt! Jaysn screms as he wooks steady toowars me. Av a smoke wit ja ol friend? He ass in a stoopid tounge. I indoolge in a puff an umor tha bloake. He pools owt a cig n lites it wit tha crack of a mach. He brefs deep and rools back his foucked up eyes until he looks like hes asleep. He goes awn n awn boot is fockin bird whose gawn n left im for some cunt from Liverpool. I swar the shite makes me sick. Ere I am habin a smoke wit an ol friend who I ain’t seen in ears n aowl he can taulk boot is a fukin bird. Ow bout a fouckin’ how aw ye mate? Or a wats new in ye life? No instead I git some mownin n grownin boot some bird I ain’t eva erd of beef-or. Is grumbling makes me sick n I dside tha ell wit it. I put out me cigarette and clok jaysn in his jaw. Me bowns feel fit as I wawtch his beck it tha grownd. A fouckin bird.
Cathedral
He walked quickly down three flights of stairs only to be met by a man clad in denim complete with a barking hound. They exchanged the briefest of glances before he proceeded to his car. Something was strange about that unleashed beast, he thought as he started his red SUV. Pulling out quickly and with purpose, he left the entrance of his building and sent blazing down Piedmont Boulevard. He dodged pedestrians and traffic police with the utmost care but still managed to reach the hospital in ample time. Jumping from his chariot, he left the car running and began to sprint into the emergency room. Florescent lights hummed overhead as he grabbed the first woman in scrubs he found. “Where is my wife? Where is Annabelle Jones!?” The nurse reviewed her clipboard and pointed him down the hall. He could hear screams of pain as he neared the door. He burst into a room filled with doctors and caught a glimpse of his laboring love. She was 9 months pregnant and had finally started to pop. Angry with how coarse the doctors tone was, he pushed them aside demanded respect be paid to his woman. Knowing he had overstepped his bounds as a concerned lover, he released his grip on the doctor’s arm and indicated his was sorry. The doctor nodded and returned to the swelling tubes of Annabelle. Three screams later a soaking baby boy now echoed the cries of his mother. She fell silent, as the baby grew louder. She had died, but the baby lived on.
Atonement
I have this memory from my carefree days of summer when the shadows were long and the grass even longer. My dog, Max had fur as golden as the evening sun and a smile that screamed “I love you.” We were both young, and the advancing feeling of night was still an exciting prospect. We walked through a gigantic field ripe with grass and full of the symphony of insects. Max was too tired to chase the families’ deer feasting on the crust of the forest and he ignored their presence. It was around this time, every walk, that his erratic and excited sprint had dwindled to a content trot that seemed to brush one of my legs, almost to assure him I was still by his side. His tongue hung low and pink, and he drew deep breaths confirming my suspicion that he needed a drink. He had already walked triple what I had and took pity on him. We always rested on swing bench that sat beneath a mature oak perched up on a hill. Its steady wooden arms wrapped us in the cool dim silhouettes of its foliage. A calm and steady boulder balanced its roots and offered a table for the tree’s fallen fruits. Distant stonewalls outlined with ribbons of a fading daytime glow set the stage for the crickets that had already started tuning their legs. Max struggled with the persistent buzz of mosquitoes feasting on his defenseless backside. His breathing remained heavy. That relentless pant and the fresh breeze of night always reminded me of tomorrow. Soon the proud moon would rest overhead and we would be late for dinner. I could feel Max’s restless eyes on me when it was time to go. We rose together and I unhooked his leash. He knew he was free for the last mile home.
Less Than Zero
Fuck its hot. I roll into an ice cream shop complete with AC and Casey just sighs in disbelief. “Get a grip dude, its only like 80 degrees out.” I think about what she says for a second but convince myself that she’s an idiot who has no idea what she’s talking about. The guy behind the counter eyes us with suspicion and I just look back knowing I have to buy something if I want to remain in his oasis of refined air. I thumb my pockets for half a second before producing the smashed up dollar I got in change from convenience store 6 blocks ago. $13.50 for a pack of cigarettes, what’s the world coming to? I throw it on top of the display case and ask for the smallest scoop of chocolate he can muster. He looks at me and plainly says “$2.25.” The price of relaxation in an otherwise unforgiving city. I oblige and surrender a crisp 5 from my wallet. The pitiful dollar goes back into my pocket. Casey face is illuminated with the screen of her iPhone and I can tell buy her expression she isn’t doing anything meaningful. She’s probably still fucked up. I snatch my ice cream and let the guy know I’m not happy about having to pay for this bullshit. He doesn’t care, it isn’t his store. I can feel my blood pressure pushing at my veins and I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help. I’m still stuck with my shitty ice cream and a girl I am growing less and less fond of. I wish I had some sort of skill so I could escape this malignant maze of crap. Instead I look outward and watch the homeless man across the street suffer 3 rejections in less than 30 seconds. It takes balls to swallow your pride with such reckless abandon. I guess we all have our limits. Casey still sports a bluish glow, and I can feel my ice cream melting in the wax cup, and I push it aside. I can see the heat coming off the asphalt. Little waves of misery escaping the man made boulevard. “80 degrees my ass.”
Old Man and the Sea
The dim cloud of smoke climbed from his heart and I could see in his eyes he was dead. The short breath and the small trickle of blood from his mouth dripped slowly onto the floor. So many questions I had, so many thoughts. Why had his life ended with guns when he had lived with his heart? Where will his wife get the warmth of a lover without his body? When will his children learn the rest of the Spanish baseball song? The shadows awoke and I felt more at ease. His soul had left us and traveled to the hearts of his family. The short but strong walk of his spirit now lived in his son’s memories. It was a comfortable thought. No man ever dies, just his body. I climbed back into my truck and put the keys in the ignition but did not turn. I let the desert breeze wrap my cheeks with the distant sun and inhaled its heat. I closed the window and chewed on my tongue. I was lost yet I knew the way home. I twisted my wrist ignoring its pain and felt the hum of the engine under my seat. I stared into the empty eyes of the corpse and remembered his face. Sand now filled his pockets.
Motherless Brooklyn
The incessant jogging that tatters my mind keeps the ideas rolling. I guess that’s how I get creative. My feet shuffle along the boardwalk, glancing seawards every six seconds to affirm its existence. You never know when the sea might disappear. Still I walk, mind walking faster, and think to myself about the pretty blonde 10 feet ahead. How did she get her socks to match just so? Where did she come from, where was her first kiss? The sea is still there. I catch a whiff of some white castle and keep the engine of my head greased for some fresh ideas. Six burgers, six sets of 2, that’s 12, but a perfect multiple of six. Nonetheless I walk by, still dragging my left heel ever so slightly. It’s a complex of mine, I wear out the back side of each shoe long before a new pair is overdue. The blonde is gone and so is that tense smell of overproduced hamburgers. I feel at east if only for a second. The seagulls have gone amiss and the dim outline of my shadow has faded into streetlight puppetry. I feel the breeze and the squawk of a lonely seagull, I know its still there. I look anyway.
Fight Club
The waxy black table of the Barnes and Noble makes my elbows feel at ease. Their robust shape and color attract only the most humble of readers, those who have no business at a bookstore. Tables start out as a block of wood growing with its family in the safe ecosystem of an anonymous forest. Then an overweight, stained shirt-wearing lumberjack wages a war of man and machine against its trunk. Gasoline, cigarettes and somebody with a fat wallet who has a need for tables is all it takes to bring down a dream. Shipped off to a lumberyard, then to Sweden where Ikea makes it into a beautiful little piece of bullshit we all want and need to make our souls sing. I look at this table and smile. At least my life stood a chance. This one never had that luxury, now it’s my nothingness, a piece of furniture free to be forgotten. If only I were so free.
Middlesex
The lush rolling hills of greenery informed my senses that spring had indeed arrived. The light wind of the open car window brushed through her coarse hair and I knew then and there that I needed her. Her soft, pinkish lips and strong cheekbones carved out a treasure map to her love. I watched if only for a second too long, when she caught me in a daze of romance and lust. She smirked and acknowledged the chink in my Armour of indifference. I wasn’t indifferent at all. My heart collapsed in the bed of my chest as she blinked her deep brown eyes back to her rearview. She had a way of letting you believe, even if only for a second, she felt similar. I felt the blood from my feet sprint up my spine and fill my arms with a tingle unimaginable joy. My mind raced with boyish dreams and mature realities. She was older than I was, but somehow lacked the fear that experienced hearts know and live by. Her destiny was hers and hers alone and she wouldn’t let her mothers teachings deter her from pursing that which felt right. I longed to see her legs wrapped in the coils of sheets still tired from a sleepless night. My eyes ahead, I noticed her arm sweep towards mine. Her soft hand gripped hard on the gear stick. She released pressure from the clutch and gave me one more reassuring glance, before letting full-blown smile swallow her face.
Trainspotting
Oi ye cunt! Jaysn screms as he wooks steady toowars me. Av a smoke wit ja ol friend? He ass in a stoopid tounge. I indoolge in a puff an umor tha bloake. He pools owt a cig n lites it wit tha crack of a mach. He brefs deep and rools back his foucked up eyes until he looks like hes asleep. He goes awn n awn boot is fockin bird whose gawn n left im for some cunt from Liverpool. I swar the shite makes me sick. Ere I am habin a smoke wit an ol friend who I ain’t seen in ears n aowl he can taulk boot is a fukin bird. Ow bout a fouckin’ how aw ye mate? Or a wats new in ye life? No instead I git some mownin n grownin boot some bird I ain’t eva erd of beef-or. Is grumbling makes me sick n I dside tha ell wit it. I put out me cigarette and clok jaysn in his jaw. Me bowns feel fit as I wawtch his beck it tha grownd. A fouckin bird.
Cathedral
He walked quickly down three flights of stairs only to be met by a man clad in denim complete with a barking hound. They exchanged the briefest of glances before he proceeded to his car. Something was strange about that unleashed beast, he thought as he started his red SUV. Pulling out quickly and with purpose, he left the entrance of his building and sent blazing down Piedmont Boulevard. He dodged pedestrians and traffic police with the utmost care but still managed to reach the hospital in ample time. Jumping from his chariot, he left the car running and began to sprint into the emergency room. Florescent lights hummed overhead as he grabbed the first woman in scrubs he found. “Where is my wife? Where is Annabelle Jones!?” The nurse reviewed her clipboard and pointed him down the hall. He could hear screams of pain as he neared the door. He burst into a room filled with doctors and caught a glimpse of his laboring love. She was 9 months pregnant and had finally started to pop. Angry with how coarse the doctors tone was, he pushed them aside demanded respect be paid to his woman. Knowing he had overstepped his bounds as a concerned lover, he released his grip on the doctor’s arm and indicated his was sorry. The doctor nodded and returned to the swelling tubes of Annabelle. Three screams later a soaking baby boy now echoed the cries of his mother. She fell silent, as the baby grew louder. She had died, but the baby lived on.
Atonement
I have this memory from my carefree days of summer when the shadows were long and the grass even longer. My dog, Max had fur as golden as the evening sun and a smile that screamed “I love you.” We were both young, and the advancing feeling of night was still an exciting prospect. We walked through a gigantic field ripe with grass and full of the symphony of insects. Max was too tired to chase the families’ deer feasting on the crust of the forest and he ignored their presence. It was around this time, every walk, that his erratic and excited sprint had dwindled to a content trot that seemed to brush one of my legs, almost to assure him I was still by his side. His tongue hung low and pink, and he drew deep breaths confirming my suspicion that he needed a drink. He had already walked triple what I had and took pity on him. We always rested on swing bench that sat beneath a mature oak perched up on a hill. Its steady wooden arms wrapped us in the cool dim silhouettes of its foliage. A calm and steady boulder balanced its roots and offered a table for the tree’s fallen fruits. Distant stonewalls outlined with ribbons of a fading daytime glow set the stage for the crickets that had already started tuning their legs. Max struggled with the persistent buzz of mosquitoes feasting on his defenseless backside. His breathing remained heavy. That relentless pant and the fresh breeze of night always reminded me of tomorrow. Soon the proud moon would rest overhead and we would be late for dinner. I could feel Max’s restless eyes on me when it was time to go. We rose together and I unhooked his leash. He knew he was free for the last mile home.
Less Than Zero
Fuck its hot. I roll into an ice cream shop complete with AC and Casey just sighs in disbelief. “Get a grip dude, its only like 80 degrees out.” I think about what she says for a second but convince myself that she’s an idiot who has no idea what she’s talking about. The guy behind the counter eyes us with suspicion and I just look back knowing I have to buy something if I want to remain in his oasis of refined air. I thumb my pockets for half a second before producing the smashed up dollar I got in change from convenience store 6 blocks ago. $13.50 for a pack of cigarettes, what’s the world coming to? I throw it on top of the display case and ask for the smallest scoop of chocolate he can muster. He looks at me and plainly says “$2.25.” The price of relaxation in an otherwise unforgiving city. I oblige and surrender a crisp 5 from my wallet. The pitiful dollar goes back into my pocket. Casey face is illuminated with the screen of her iPhone and I can tell buy her expression she isn’t doing anything meaningful. She’s probably still fucked up. I snatch my ice cream and let the guy know I’m not happy about having to pay for this bullshit. He doesn’t care, it isn’t his store. I can feel my blood pressure pushing at my veins and I take a deep breath. It doesn’t help. I’m still stuck with my shitty ice cream and a girl I am growing less and less fond of. I wish I had some sort of skill so I could escape this malignant maze of crap. Instead I look outward and watch the homeless man across the street suffer 3 rejections in less than 30 seconds. It takes balls to swallow your pride with such reckless abandon. I guess we all have our limits. Casey still sports a bluish glow, and I can feel my ice cream melting in the wax cup, and I push it aside. I can see the heat coming off the asphalt. Little waves of misery escaping the man made boulevard. “80 degrees my ass.”
Old Man and the Sea
The dim cloud of smoke climbed from his heart and I could see in his eyes he was dead. The short breath and the small trickle of blood from his mouth dripped slowly onto the floor. So many questions I had, so many thoughts. Why had his life ended with guns when he had lived with his heart? Where will his wife get the warmth of a lover without his body? When will his children learn the rest of the Spanish baseball song? The shadows awoke and I felt more at ease. His soul had left us and traveled to the hearts of his family. The short but strong walk of his spirit now lived in his son’s memories. It was a comfortable thought. No man ever dies, just his body. I climbed back into my truck and put the keys in the ignition but did not turn. I let the desert breeze wrap my cheeks with the distant sun and inhaled its heat. I closed the window and chewed on my tongue. I was lost yet I knew the way home. I twisted my wrist ignoring its pain and felt the hum of the engine under my seat. I stared into the empty eyes of the corpse and remembered his face. Sand now filled his pockets.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Jazz
Jazz just makes it all feel so comfortable inside. The cool tiskta taska from drums with a fluttering bassist ironed out by the mellow mixes of brass. The warm arms of its thick vibrations and incomprehensible rhythms. The beauty of jazz is that its players are all a part of the whole while being apart from the whole. Each man twisting his interpretation of mood and melody and letting his fingers do the dancin’. The hazy light of the dim club and the tapping of the toes from the bystanders. We bask in their glory and smile with their freedom. Their notes float like the smoke from their waiting cigarettes. Music is their blessing and their curse.
A trumpet or a sax or any brass can be a crying eye, a joyful gut, or an earnest friend. Their sometimes fat and sometimes brittle sounds depict the raw simplicity of our lives. Why we whistle, why we frown, why we laugh. I swear to god I can literally feel my blood cells relaxing in my veins. Slow down and rest along the highway to my soul. They kick up their tired feet and absorb the pulse of my surroundings. A deep breath for all.
Never has a wave felt so good. Better than a cool ocean tide on a day too hot for jeans, or the warm coziness of a coffee shop on a wet and gray afternoon. Reflections of a city tremble in the street side ponds and twinkle with each drizzle of addition. My jazz is best served sunny side up. I like it when you can hear the band sweat. It chills me out.
That’s a lie, I like my jazz in nights with chocolate skies. The ones that ached with heat during the sun’s shift and teem with doom as it clocks out. You know, just screaming for rain. Jazz is served up best on those nights. The anticipation, the wait, the glory of the uncontrollable, the untamed. I sit on a couch and watch the chaos open is chest and pour out its heart. Jazz takes it all in stride and dances with the beast. Never missing a step. Dancing with uncertainty, we do it everyday. Jazz is the only one who knows it.
A trumpet or a sax or any brass can be a crying eye, a joyful gut, or an earnest friend. Their sometimes fat and sometimes brittle sounds depict the raw simplicity of our lives. Why we whistle, why we frown, why we laugh. I swear to god I can literally feel my blood cells relaxing in my veins. Slow down and rest along the highway to my soul. They kick up their tired feet and absorb the pulse of my surroundings. A deep breath for all.
Never has a wave felt so good. Better than a cool ocean tide on a day too hot for jeans, or the warm coziness of a coffee shop on a wet and gray afternoon. Reflections of a city tremble in the street side ponds and twinkle with each drizzle of addition. My jazz is best served sunny side up. I like it when you can hear the band sweat. It chills me out.
That’s a lie, I like my jazz in nights with chocolate skies. The ones that ached with heat during the sun’s shift and teem with doom as it clocks out. You know, just screaming for rain. Jazz is served up best on those nights. The anticipation, the wait, the glory of the uncontrollable, the untamed. I sit on a couch and watch the chaos open is chest and pour out its heart. Jazz takes it all in stride and dances with the beast. Never missing a step. Dancing with uncertainty, we do it everyday. Jazz is the only one who knows it.
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