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 The half-naked dancers come as a surprise, burlesque is sort of outdated, but found in some trendy northeast locations.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curtain was behind an empty pawn shop that was used for show and décor, giving the appearance that you were in a dead, outdated store, but they gave way to an extravagant lounge.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.

How it usually goes.

Stop lying. You’re losing track. The weight is even on both sides of the bar but the metal hinges to a tipping point. Don’t think. Each twinge of thought reveals a maze-blocking wall forcing a search back to the start for clarity on what is real.

You have, a girlfriend.

No I don’t

Yes you do she told me so

I don’t know.

You’re lying, I know it.

Who told you?

I told you, she did.

Who’s she?

She knows, You know it.

No she doesn’t.

Don’t, playing dumb is below you.

Stop it please!

Why, do you do it?

Do what?

Cheat, lie, fuck..around.

Who cares?

I care, you know it.

Do you enjoy…

Excuse me, go on…

Wasting time?

Caring? Let me be a fool

I don’t want that.

And her?

She’s a fool.

You’re, wasting time.

I am young

Not that young

Yes, but bold.

Well, do you know him?

Who is him?

Your girlfriends, boyfriend.

Now you lie?

Well, you should know it?

And I don’t

Open your eyes

I’ll play blind

Then, I cant do it.

What is that?

Keep it, I can’t.

More clarity?

Your child.

Blood on the Print

I used to write a plenty and in full color. Sometime a bit purple, one may say, but nonetheless words hit the page in a loud Jackson Pollock like way. Recently then have been deflecting off screens, notepads, journals, and sticky notes like a limp dick failing to find a hole. I wouldn't call it writers block, but more - a writer in peril. If I didn't write something today, I felt I would die. Not in a heart stopping, brain-aneurism way, but in a life-changing, "shit my life is too uninteresting to talk about" way. I'm trying to locate the paradigm shift that slit the wrist of my creative writing prowess...if i can be so vain. When did the blade clip the vein that let the words bleed out of my mind and drift
aimlessly into the abyss?

The search didn't last long. My last entry was August 2014. That same month I moved into an apartment with my girlfriend. I spend a lot of time alone, but NONE of it feels alone. I am completely suffocated without being at all surrounded for the majority of the day. If I was Hemingway with Gellhorn I'd be balls deep in a bottle of scotch writing the next greatest novel about a post Paris fishing trip. Instead I'm saving sips for the sober me and looking for typewriters online, believing that a vintage tool may be enough to erect a sentence from my diabolical mind. Even now, as I type, the words feel foreign, and I am yearning for a thesaurus becoming duplicitous to my old self. Is it gone? Has this thing that has since long been a part of me leaped from my bedroom window in search of a better home?

I have tried drinking which leads to blackouts, lack of productivity, and emotional distress. I've tried Dylan but his songs make no sense. I've tried the Beatles and all I can taste is cliche. Jim Morrison makes me cry and Hunter Thompson makes me envious...Fitzgerald makes me all of the above. I read a little less since the print volume creates a visceral hate and a cramp in my hand for the lack of typing exercise. I've been working out but I'd rather be thin and frail and published than strong, full, and concealed.

Til' I figure it out I'll just keep peeling off the skin to find leftover remains of an all too distant past.

Smoking Gun

Evil is replaced by the beauty that remains

I shift my paradigm on a drop of a dime

Just to rewind the time but I’m a second too late

She lifts her harm grasps her hand around the barrel,

Finger on the trigger and she states:

Forgive me heavenly father, for I have misbehaved

I didn’t love him, and I truly wanted to wait

But as the world rotates a little faster, each and every day

I lost touch of its orbit and he made be pay

________________________________________________

Paralyzed by indecision; to catch the bullet

Planned for incision to block out her vision

Or, watch a beautiful creature fall before the ashes

As her body crashed emotionless before my feet

_________________________________________________

Her arm tightens up and her bottom lip quivers

Believes that she’s a sinner so she proceeds to execute the endeavor

A single tear falls on the cracked rooftop, beaten down by rays of sun

Barren, cold, and futile, like a battle that cant be won

________________________________________________ 

Just an hour ago I was walking down the street

Morning coffee smile and the wind behind my feet

I tense my legs in runners pose, but my efforts are muffled

By the subtle motion of a finger stroke

__________________________________________________

Smoke drifts soddenly out of the barrel,

a heat wave rises even with the horizon

Another wasted life, that was sure to peril

Fallen victim to the darkness of the world in which we live in.

12 years old could barely ride her bike or date

Stole a gun from her step-father

The same one he uses against her on the night she was raped

Destitute

Its not that he didn't like her, or love or even. Its not that she didn't excite him in the public eye and in satin seclusion. It wasn't that she fought him too hard, or complimented him too lightly. It never was about the ups nor downs, the centripetal rounds. There were warm embraces, cuddled and muddled on sofas dressed for kings like veneers resting on the caps of already pristine teeth. Love is just love, a tired expression and feeling that has been felt by almost all for centuries past and centuries to come. It has become a saying more often than a feeling as common as the beggar in the city, as the rich on the beach.

It was about the need for her that didn't exist. There was nothing that he lacked, that she could provide. Nothing that he longed for that she could serve on a platter and make him whole. Sex was ever present in a world of sluts and feens. Love was often given with the swiftness of the hands of a thieves; lacking no warmth of pillows or brightness in daisies. Never is it enough. The love glass full but the envy and longing for destitution bounces off the water like oil. The divide becomes ever more present as the two liquids cling to their ying-yang desire. Love is not needed from a man who has it all, nor is anything at all.

Unless there is something. Unless she can dive through the capsule filled with beaded medicine and find the missing ingredient to calm his senses and deliver him from hopelessness. Because the man who has everything is only blind to those things still obscured, those items unknown. Can she paint him a picture of a world that he cannot view? Can she shed light onto a surface that has since birth been masked?

A writer once told me that a relationship is over as soon as you start thinking about the first time you met and look back at "it" as a better time. Over time you realize that this person has nothing you need, and without that in this crazy world, why hold on? We move along through life, love, and existence looking to achieve a goal which starts with a desire. Once the desire is obtained, you continue on until the well is dry - then onto the next until there are 1million broken hearts and a thirsty world.