Citrizene

How many seconds does it take to know someone, how many to fall in love? My guess is just as many as it takes to break a heart - one. Like the flick of a light switch , a bat connecting with a ball,  a finite moment. (break in thought) enter through curtain into bar (late 1950s)

The lighting is dim, the atmosphere is “showy.” You can tell the owner is a pretentious gentleman who sits high above his adoring guests and accepts compliments like flowers on Valentines Day. There is a comfort in the scent of sin surrounding an often “stuffy” community. The half-naked dancers come as a surprise, burlesque is sort of outdated, but found in some trendy northeast locations. Inhibitions were falling to the floor like the dim light from the classic chandeliers. The place was sexy, pompous, entertaining, and above all, new.

The entry way, as I was escorted through by Jacob and his tall obnoxious friend who had skipped telling me his name, was a velvet curtain. I believe his name was Alex. You had to whisk your way in and move the heavy garment. The curtain was behind an empty pawn shop that was used for show and décor, giving the appearance that you were in a dead, outdated store, but they gave way to an extravagant lounge.

A thousand figures moved in a jackson pollock like formation, ebbing and flowing to the tunes that moved them

She didn’t seem real to me at first site. It was as if something was created right there and then but I was all knowing of its fallacy, all believe of its impending malice. I knew it was delusions of grandeur, the way the light dances off her skin and acted as an accent point to her pearls draped elegantly around her neck. She was Marilyn Monroe without the smoke, she was beauty with no the filter. She was a Bukowski novel save the booze, hatred, and pain that he carried in his words – leaving only pride, description, and clarity. Like a child taking his first glimpse around the corner at a Christmas tree spilling out gifts, I stared in awe. She was a figment of my imagination, I was certain. Nothing this beautiful could live, nothing like this could last – just a momentary blip, a confirmed oasis in the sand.  

At this instant, the daily dose of cynicism, forced in a pill or heaved up my nose had dissipated, I was no longer dependent or influenced. I had taken the Frostian road less traveled - the guidance of optimism had blown me in the right direction at the forked road. Soon my nerves will take over and I'll take to the bottle, drip they syrup like an elixir to a cold. But she makes me want to feel the air crips and clean, dark and cold and perfect all in the same breeze. And before my heart goes up in flames and i start throwing stones, I need to speak to her. 

A few steps and the crowd takes on its raindrop form, thousands of ants marching to the beat of of testosterone and estrogen bubbled up and releasing. 

Pegged Holes

In my short time here my mind has acted like a 14month old tri-lingual babies mind; taking in everything but not yet finding too much use from what I have grasped. Its a process, a bit slow and arduous, but tiny break throughs come about like oil swirling in a bucket of clear water.

I have learned these admittedly over generlized truths; Italians are the most loving, welcoming and kind. The British will warm up to you as soon as they start having more than two season all year round. The scots talk political and persuade you with their booze, they sing like the boy on the futbol field, forever blowing bubbles. The nordics are thick-skinned, intelligent, and their humour is the closest to american I can find.

The sun is strongest in the morning as the skylight opens up the windows in my cylindrical living room. The light creeps in like a candle lit behinds cracked door and before you know it you find the need for sunglasses. As the day wears on the clouds from thicker dulling out the light but creates no worry during a busy work day.

"Cheers" and "mate" have replaced "thank you" and "man" while merci tips its french hat into the ring from time to time. The black crows left for murder scare the shit out of me as my leg appears to be their next prey. 12 degrees celsius is when the tops come down on the lamborghini's and porche's around a crowded oxford circus. Young musicians take to their six strings collecting three pence from those just happy to catch a sunny walk, joyed by youthful melodies.

I've thought about buying a 10 pack of smokes, but pass it up every time. For now I'll stick to having one too many espressos a day and tinting my teeth that way. Tea will be coming next, but my coffee addiction doesn't love company. Out of all these truisms, the one I find most often is; no matter where you are, where you go, you are you. Because you go to another state, another city, another country, you don't change. Experiences alter the way you see things, taste things, feel them, but you are you to the core.

I still can't help but to feel as a tourist, trying out foreign prepared meals in the food shops and listening intently to isolate an accent that seems different in each and every neighborhood.
From Oscar Wilde; To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. There is no shame in living a simple life, but there is regret in time poorly spent. 

Ode to The Air We Breath

I've been thinking a lot lately about the human senses. The fragile nature of them all and their lack of dependency on each other. We ebb and flow through our days without a hint of recognition for what they bring, until one of them is taken away momentarily, and are left with an irreplaceable absence. The brisk London air irrigates itself from the inevitably damp pavement. It twists through espresso shops and curry kitchens. Then weaves its way through oriental grocery marts packed with rice noodles, american potato, gnocchi, fois gras and enters back into the open atmosphere decorated with more width of culture than the store it came from. Later this evening I'll share shisha with a pakistani dubliner with a gaelic accent who left his family who relocated to Russia for university in Whales. The air he has consumed was never the same for longer than 3 years.

We cannot know what will make our stomach turn at the drop of a dime or make our tongue drip like a pup with rabies. Can we make assumptions? Yes, but haven't we all been wrong? The Italians here want to fit in more than ever, at least I gather that from my first couple encounters. They mask their accent and remove telling facial hair that would have been trending in Naples. With this, they take away an extra opportunity for an American to press his harsh english accent on them, which they understand better than the Brits; since American's speak slowly and with less fluidity.

I can only hope as Notting Hill turns into blue overground trains in Montpellier, France or to the floating docks in Hamburg, Germany, that the people allow my senses to consume their life. That they dont hold back and let me understand them, or at least try. It's is no secret they will either try to interpret me or view it as a useless platitude.The only real risk in a life worth living is is not to be present. Breathing deep, tasting long, speaking true, and seeing far, can make for a beautiful way to feel human. For those out there with one of these senses gone, certainly its a shame. But as the human body fights for equality, the others will pick up the slack to make you feel whole. Breath life.