Tout Est Merde (excepte vous amour)

The faithful bar, how easy it had become to make the dark spaces his home, and his stomach the home to dark ales. His affinity for alcohol had always been satisfied by old age tequila and Irish whiskey, and maybe he drank beers more often now because they reminded him of her, maybe this was his way of punishing himself.
He saw her walking out of the bar, her arms intertwined with those of another man, and with guarded eyes did she look at him, a mixture of hope and apprehension watering out of the landscape he was so used to getting lost in. Everything began to slow down and blur as a torrent of memories flooded his mind, and this poor bastard began to imagine that her swinging arms had begun to wave at him, maybe through the beads of sweat did he fail to see her smile in his direction, she may have even called his name, he was sure of it, her lips did move, or did they only quiver?

This scene caused the man sitting alone at the bar to clench his teeth and close his eyes. A sudden bitterness filled his mouth, his face began to warm, and a drop of blood found its way to the edges of his lips.
To jump and call out her name was an idea, but he was a gentleman.
Maybe if he went ahead and grabbed her, even kissed her with the bar patrons as their audience, maybe this would change her mind.
No, what a silly idea.

With a barren face he looked down to the bottom of his glass and felt that familiar rage and disappointment begin to overcome him and suddenly nothing in his life mattered more than for her to say his name; to acknowledge with full certainty that the drunken man still existed.

In one swig everyone around him began to dissolve and as he planted his empty glass to the bar his mind stopped wasting energy recognizing the people around him.
Standing deliberately from his chair and with his right hand bloodied from the broken glass, he threw himself to the exit and stood in their way. Too drunk to stand on his own he used his bleeding hand to lean against the jambs, winced and dropped his fist for a moment, then lunged it straight for the mans smirk. A trail of tinted red painted the air as the mans face descended and with both men on the ground the drunkard launched a volley of punches that surprisingly hit their given marks.
Two strangers tried to pull him from atop the beaten man eventually taking a total of four people to successfully strip him off the other man who was now showcasing bruising, bleeding, and the sporadic spray of blood from his coughs.

This is what he would have liked to do, but he didn’t make a move. The couple had long left the bar to enjoy their night all the while the drunkard was becoming lost in his own imagination.
He paid his tab and left.

Outside, the only thing that caressed his lips were intermittent cigarettes, just as the one that lay in his lips, just like the ones she smoked. Cigarette in mouth and he walked down the street. They skies were grayer than they were earlier that day, and what perfect weather, he thought. He stopped across the street from the apartment of a girl he cancelled plans with that night and proceeded to wait. Out of his dark jeans he produced a lighter, with one puff the smoke began to swirl across his cheeks, streams of smoke traveling through his hair.
The coiling smoke, holding on tightly, whispered warm lies to his skin, saying it will never leave his side.

- – -

There glides along a ghost in his mind, the girl that won’t grant him peace. A shapely figure, better than he remembers her, she’s forever waiting for him to close his eyes so that she may see him for what he is, the wretched fool who trusted his hopes to her. Maybe it’s his regret that keeps her around, maybe he really did love her. His own mind becomes unfamiliar as he avoids reminiscing whenever he can, leaving his thoughts to fester and rot; stagnant they lay and begin to meld with one another. But this leaves him vulnerable to the traps she sets, because she knows he’s only human, and in his dreams she will catch him, and with his permission rip away at his heart.

Doppelgänger

It has now been thirty-seven solitary consecutive days that I have not left my room and already my double is staring at me from the other end of this small enclosure. Maybe I should be worried that I only find it slightly unnerving to see my face looking down on me, his eyes fierce and his stare deliberate.
For the most part he doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he just stares and every once in a while will light up a cigarette and begin to pace the small room, a glass of whiskey mysteriously in his right hand. Sporadically will I get up to grab his attention but he only stares and I give up as I take to the seat behind my desk and a swig of whiskey to help calm the nerves. I suppose I’ve gotten used to his appropriate company by now. He wears a gray v-neck sweater paired with mustard colored jeans, no shoes seeing as we’re indoors, but a mustache does delicately sit atop his upper lip, the ends carefully twisted into a familiar handlebar shape.
I don’t have a mustache, I think to myself, but much of my person has gone to the gutter and my entire face has begun to take an unkempt appearance.
He will look outside through the only window in the room, a certain distancy on his face, the look you would expect a child with newly injured ankles to stare out his window on the morning of a snowfall. I don’t know exactly what he might be thinking, but I can only guess, I wonder if he wishes to be outside with them and be the only boy on the block with a red scarf. Maybe then, and for the first time, would I get to see him smile.

Only a few minutes ago as I laid in my bed hoping to fall away into the comfortable desolation of my mind—the only other place besides this physical enclosure that I could visit—did he stand beside my head, thoughtful, he took a knee and sighed. Rubbing his temples with the most miserable look on his face he stated the following, “You’re a sick son of a bitch to have thought me up.”

I closed my eyes and tried my best to fall asleep.

The Writhing Life

His arms, now exhausted from thrashing around belligerently without thought to reserve energies, were left dangling from his body, at the mercy of undersea currents. Serenity had literally washed over his sun scorched face as thoughts of a soon to come death, one befitting an expeditionary life, began to creep into his ever silencing mind. This bliss, he thought, this embracing warmth, how he had never felt anything so disarming his entire life and how he now closed his eyes and smiled so effortlessly only to cling even tighter to dearest death. A wince. He could feel his lungs give way to pressure and the reminder of pain ripped him from the coddling arms of an imminent afterlife. A cluster of bubbles rushed out of his gaping mouth as his eyes tore wide open. Sinking further away from the surface his body had since begun to trade in the familiar warmth of an existence for the caress of an advancing chill.
A reverberating thud sent nearby sea life scattering only to have them return shortly after to inspect their new neighbor.

Excerpts

“Do you think I’ll be all right?”
“You’re going to be all right. You’re a good man, you’re smart, you’re kind. Good things are going to happen to you. You deserve it.”
It is now a day before my flight and he tells me this with a sincere smile. We would meet on a regular basis over cups of good coffee brewed from beans of prestigious descent, not because we had planned to meet, but because our location produced it.
After immigrating from Russia a little over twenty years ago, the first place he lived in was New York City and his accent was a mixture of his former and latter homes delivered in a deep voice enveloped in certainty and fixed in reality. Very few things could surprise him now, yet he had not seen everything.
During our meetings he would give me his perspective on life, on being a man, his thoughts on women. I guess, he was like a father to me, and I wouldn’t second guess anything he said.
One of the earliest memories I have of him is of us sitting in front of a coffee shop on a day slightly overcast, a day we both decided was “a perfect day.” With his faithful Camel cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, he began to tell me about how through his job as a mechanic he was presented with the opportunity to buy a pale yellow 1966 Volvo 144 in near mint condition. According to his story, the car belonged to the late husband of the lady whose car he was currently tuning up. She considered it a clunky thing taking up space in the driveway, though I suspect memories had a hand in this deal because her monetary gain was negligible. As he told me this story it was obvious he was proud of his car and of his European ancestry. He then advised me to owning a European car should I ever decide I needed a vehicle.
He was the last person I spoke to before moving to New York City.
He was the man with the pale yellow Volvo; the man I looked up to for almost a year; the man whose name I have forgotten.

- – -

It’s now been a few weeks since I’ve met her, and I’m listening to the gift she gave me on my laptop. She’s named it “Somewhere Else” and she’s right, I really am somewhere else right now.
Where exactly?
Somewhere better.
It’s nearly three in the morning, I’m still awake, and it’s very easy to guess why. My laptop has been unplugged for some time and it’s power has been dwindling slowly. It’s down to one minute before the computer shuts down automatically. I’m finding myself smiling as she dances around in my mind, smiling back at me, waving me closer, telling me anything.
(Thirty seconds.)
I’m so comfortable in this state of mind. It’s such bliss having her in my arms. How comforting. How perfect a fit her body is to mine.
(Ten seconds.)
I close my eyes and lay down.
The computer shuts down.
And I can still hear music, and in the darkness, all I see is her.

- – -

This last Saturday we went to the P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center located in the bowels of Long Island City. We both had the thought of food rushing through our minds and I did my very best to conceal actions on par with jumping around in the middle of the street yelling, “feed me!” while simultaneously undressing myself for no apparent reason. It may or may not have been a hot day. Luckily, a lack of energies enabled me a mere “I’m hungry…” articulation. It was my first time setting foot inside this massive building, which we both conjectured to being the first school, and we were right! P.S.1 served Long Island City up until 1960.
That was such a great day with food ending the museum’s visit.

And somehow I ended up on the second floor of a restaurant in Manhattan with an open bar and a seemingly endless supply of food. It’s Tuesday and I’m still stuffed.

- – -

Let’s Share

The current economic situation sits on our faces out on the blacktop just like that third grader we never formally met did, but later in middle school through the utilization of teenage hormones, found out that she now has a crush on you. So, as any normal eleven year old would do, you outrun that girl as she falls to her side after you’ve effortlessly swooped around a sharp corner and you stop—though only for a moment—you look back and you don’t feel badly; you feel as if she deserved it. You didn’t hurt her, but it was also you who didn’t help her up. 
Honestly, I was afraid she would sit on me again.
I was a lanky kid.
She wasn’t. 

In any case, my surroundings belie what I’ve conjectured to be an army of humans selfishly keeping to themselves and selfishly living in their minds that they’ve completely lost track of time and so that now their main function, and to a lesser extent, purpose, is to go on “living” through every single day as if taking one sluggish, forced step after the other down an escalator going up, always maintaining the same speed as the backwards path they walk on.  

- – -

The photos of Flickr user ir_photo_gallery (Ibán Ramón), whose images portray a life worth living, remind us of what we’re all capable of and where we’d like to be. It’s a period of hope in this world, and we all certainly hope for the best regarding every knowable aspect of our lives. 
If you’re lucky, you have someone to pull the covers over you in the middle of the night and hold you close to keep you warm.   

If you’re feeling happy, share it with a smile =]

- – - 

This is what goes on when you’re asleep:

 

- – - 

So far, in this blog, these are the words that have been used more than others.  The most often used words are graphically represented in this word cloud. 

Check out the website at Wordle.net.

Here’s a Night

Walking around a freshly snow covered Brooklyn you’ll not only experience a sudden sense of calm, if you let it, but the cold weather also has the added benefit of calorie burning! Buahahahaa!
I want to find as many little hidden natural spots (or unnatural, i.e. bars) around here as possible and take in the moments of solitude and heart wrenching cold before slowly dissolving back into the warmth of familiarity—and food.
Recently I heard of a behemothic flock of wild parrots nesting in the spires of Greenwood Cemetery found through their main gate off 25th and 4th Avenue. Although, seeing as how parrots are a tropical species I doubt they would be there hanging out this second. (I ran away in excitement upon hearing the phrase, “wild parrots in Greenwood Cemetery.” I should have asked for details.)
At any rate, cemeteries and spires are always interesting to look at. 

- – -

Are your eyes craving something fun?
Then feast your eyes on this video, a song by Oren Lavie.
A singer, songwriter from Israel.

Her Morning Elegance – Oren Lavie 

- – - 

I’ve been having more dreams lately, one more unusual than the last, each apprehensible regardless of their dystopian nature. 
Granted, there are no absolutes in dreams, but in their atypicality I can verily dissect their subjective meanings. And what I find fascinating is the idea that my own body is talking to me through the buffer that is our subconscious dreamland.

- – -

“Hoy quiero saborear mi dolor.”

My Dream

With a slight hint of red the moon was full and bright, seemingly engorged and low to the ground as if desperate to lap up the earth. Brash in my driving of something reminiscent of a gunmetal black 1966 Pontiac GTO, my mind selfishly hoarded memories that took place only minutes ago. And on stone paved streets of a town forever trapped in late seventies clichéd horror atmosphere, I would find myself staring at the delicate, svelte body seated in my passenger seat, laughing, smiling, her lips swollen and thirsty for my own. Her long, slender legs wouldn’t stop reminding me of what happened only moments ago; how they were so recklessly wrapped around me determined to push me deeper inside her.

Without reason, we took upon a paved road with hairpin turns winding through a plain evocative of grasslands in the savanna. We were going faster and faster, the rumbling of the engine shaking the entire car, wind howling past us as fog rolled in out of the ether only managing to rise a few feet above portraying theatrical stage smoke. Without warning a figure appeared meters ahead of us and I immediately stopped. The ostensible reaper began to chase us, oddly enough the “grim reaper” could not ride his makeshift scythe or even simply float off the ground as his clasp clad Gothic motorcycle boots fell heavy on the pavement road. In an obviously contrived voice he asked me my age, I lied and mentioned a younger age, but he was certain I was several years older than even my actual age. After rearranging his costume and revealing it all a joke we had cake and ice cream shortly before I stabbed him in the heart.

Her Dream

Silence broke the mental darkness in which the recessions of her brain frolic and call their playground during those hours that she’s asleep. Awake, she found herself sharing a small room with an unrecognizable body conjecturing an unrecognizable face. Heading to the bathroom in a garb of moderation she proceeds to change her clothes. Further inspection of the house would reveal two other, much bigger rooms. The first showcased high ceilings, expansive walls, and unusually small windows. The confined feeling the room made her feel belied it’s massive size and how the light only trickled through those tiny windows only served to provide a creeping feeling of uncertainty. The second room, naturally lit and light, seemed still unfinished with spackle sporadically filling the holes that a well built house would have. A balcony that would graciously provide only a glimpse of New York city’s skyline was readily accessible across the room through it’s glass doors. That same balcony stretched across to meet with the room of imposure. 

What did it all mean. 
What was her subconscious trying to tell her. 
Was a newer room being built to abandon the darker room?

Seven Days Overdue

A mirror sits to my front captivating my every move and needlessly returning it, never asking that I ever accept its supposed proposal yet my curiosity begets a glimpse every now and again. Only sporadically do I need reassurance of my own existence. I sit drunk and naked on a bed that doesn’t belong to me, going over in my head only imposed images of moments that took place only hours ago. New Years came and went and I continuously found myself scanning for a cue from my male brethren a hint as to how my body should have been moving. [UNFINISHED]

Keep Forgetting

I type this message as I sit in a dimly lit corner on a chair beside a desk flanking the kitchen. The outside light from my snowy scenery is everything I need to light the inside of this apartment. The snow. It’s finally falling from the sky faster than it can melt. Since six in the morning I’ve been awake, desperate with hope; anxiously awaiting the arrival of the heavy snow promised to me by the locals and newscasters nationwide. The snow being something I’ve never really seen in my entire life, and being something I don’t completely understand, I wish for it full force. ‘Let it hit me with it’s best shot’ I metaphorically proclaim to the skies as my eyes shine brighter than they have never before in anticipation of getting what I’ve been waiting for and am so certain to receive. 

Arcade Fire’s ”No Cars Go” plays in the background. The breakdown I take to mean desperation; my favorite kind of desperation. The kind where you’re working so hard to get what you want and you’re so sure that you’ll be getting it soon yet there still exists an almost forgettable possibility that everything might go horribly wrong and somehow you’ll end up out in the middle of the street as snow covers your entire being and you can do nothing more than watch your life fall apart.