Verona - City of Balconies

Its not like entering a modern city in the US or flying over the horizon approaching a concrete jungle stacked with glass. Its almost awkward as you drive through monotonous freeways that look only mildly different from the East Coast US passageways. And, at the end of weaving behind trucks at 140km an hour you come to another gem in the middle of northern Italy. Enter Verona:

 “You take delight not in a city's seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours.” - Italo Calvino 

Pebble stone walking tone of a 

distant traveler 

underdressed to impress the 

destination of thieves stealing

kisses from Juliette

In a city of balconies 

shouting down for rescue

Marco polo, marco polo

is this not the your location?

Where the river wraps the 

pointed trees

shooting arrows to the sky

of endless blue

Omnipotent is he who 

can address such beauty 

in its temperate state

Void of temperance 

when the dry grapes of amarone

grab their name 

from the bitter grasp of its critics tongue 

Contrast

There is an unwavering violence to sadness. The increased heart rates speeds up the flow of blood in the pipes and pump harder to catch your breath as pressure builds in your sinuses and behind your eyes. Forcefully, water flows through an orifice not built to handle the volume coming through it. The body convulses and hands tingle, fighting for a limp cloth that cant sustain the blunt trauma of your dampened face driving through it. Like a true antagonist the suffering creeps in and utters words of woe into your ear, spiking up past hurt as if to start a vagrant conversation with the current issue.

At this definitive state there is no drug, no booze, nor medicinal therapy that can drag you out of the position.  With your knees held between your thin arms – as if to allow yourself to get closer to your insides that boil at 244, before the flame burns out and you sit luke warm, drained, and incoherently sad.

Why was the human body designed to respond this way? Im sure it’s a fight or flight piece of bullshit that makes complete sense, but that makes it all more the violent. Even to all the sociopaths in the room, this happens from time to time, I know, I am one.

There is an insatiable reaction that occurs when the perfect tune flips on a mobile device thrusting through your ear drums in beautifully compact buds. Everything connects, the wind off the ocean in a foreign country elevates the sound of artists momentarily delivering its beauty to you and only you. Taking the winding staircase down our ear canals and back up to your brain to give it an amazing orgasm, twice, and still have time for the rest of the body. The water amassing 70% of our bodies is effervescent and cool making out bodies fizz to the our momentary Jesus; whomever the artist(s) may be. Whilst completely being a slave to the music that embodies you there is nothing more freeing as you take light steps forward and let the music project onto others through your pores.

Again, at this state there is no drug, no booze, no fucking pric behind a desk that can fight this feeling and its electric as hendrix’s guitar.

Perhaps this is why there are so many dead musicians who have succumbed to the needle, the drink, the pills or the introvert hideaways. For maybe they delivered the beautiful sound that drove them to walk lighter, and fear nothing and when the music stopped and the heart grew weary, it made a vacancy for the sadness to creep in.

Thoughts on Flight Take 2

Another trip to Montpellier, 2 hour flights have become as commonplace as masterbation and I’m tired. My carry-on BRICS suitcase’s has failed to make it one year without the handle mechanism malfunctioning. There a few unknown stains that could be anything, and I cringe at the thought of security rubbing the contaminate swab over the top of it. Im sure there is nothing too explosive, i mean if its gone up my nose I doubt it can blow up an aircraft…you never know. 

Im staring down the barrel of this weak pessimistically optimistic. Excited to learn and develop new products to foster revenue, pessimistically unsure that any of the tech team enjoys my presence. In my 1st year here i have made about 20 people dislike me that I know of, and could give less of a fuck about what toilet paper is in the woman stalls. Ive realised that most of the time I’m an optimistic pessimist. Im excited to go on a date, but concerned about how her pussy may feel in bed or my the portentous gesture of whiskey dick. Im optimistic about my career but blindingly aware of its finite nature and  could end up handing out CV’s like Tmeout magazine on Tuesday morning. 

I’d like to blame 30 years as the main culprit; an amorphous one-third life crises  with a mind binge on ego driven compliments…but I have been feeling this way for a while. 30 just brings a couple antiquated high fives and glances to see how many grey hairs are sprouting on my thankfully thick bed of hair. I don’t pretend that my anxiety is genetic. No one in my family really behaves as I do. Its just a series of habits that have formed over the years causing me to be 60% neurotic, 20% smart, 10% crazy, and a smattering of other things. Im good at what I do but could be better. Im good at drinking but could drink less. Im bad at football so I don’t play. Its all all choice.

So as the land comes into focus in the 6x12 frame window if this budget airline flight - Im optimistically cautious about the next few days and those that follow. In one light i feel the most alive that I have felt in 5 years. But, on the contrary theres a craving for a benzedrine, xanax, bottle of wine and a room corner. Theres an urge to buy a guitar and get back to the music. Theres an lingering infatuation with the written word and the longing to be more like Mailer, more stoic and poised like Turgenev. So the fingers tap away and the google searches commence for an overpriced 6-string that Ill play worse than an 8 year old Justin Bieber. Thats okay though. Im optimistically excited to be free, play music, write, fuck drink, smoke and breath. However I’m pessimistically bound to the fear of solemnity and its transformation on my character and grip against sound sleep.