When I see rain hitting a window, I see this world blurred. Same as when any one emotion overpowers the all others. Same as when I drink. As if the world I had known so calm became a vague recollection of this’ and thats. The feeling where rote knowledge becomes something else completely. The capriciousness of it all refreshes and rejuvenates this indelibly cloy world I see which in turn reignites the soul, preparing it for the next definitive reckoning, which inevitably gets washed again somewhere down the line.
Fuck the rain, I’ve never liked it.
Maybe this time coming down the mountain, I’ll apply the brakes, yet I don’t see the point in it if I was out here looking for a rush in the first place. Thinking about applying the brakes now would simply be a form of regret. It’s already done, and that’s the way it is. I don’t have room or time for people who use brakes. Well I do, but solely because they help me appreciate the people who don’t use them. This world is speeding up by the second and mistakes are being made left and right. It’s almost a wonder for those who never make a mistake taking the turnpike at 90 miles an hour. An art even. Living fast is an art.
Of course, there are some things that should be taken slow. Savored. to really enjoy it’s intricate charms like a wine tasting. No one ever gulps a ’19 Veuve Cliquot. That was a good year, despite only tasting a teaspoon of it. The trick is to know what it is in your life that needs to be savored. If this doesn’t make any sense to you, “just point, pull the trigger, and let’s see what happens.” -E. Hemingway.
The Swordfish. ...and GO BRITAIN apparently...
After the three gray days of tumultuous rain, the sun finally decided to stop it’s indolence and shimmered it’s reflection amongst the wet pavement. I threw on two sweaters, a thin green one and a thicker striped one on top of that. I jumped into the gray jeans I wore the night before, still a little damp from the night before as I tried to dodge the barrage of raindrops like a hail of gunfire from angry clouds. I ran down the stairs cackling like a witch past the rooms of my room mates and grabbed my brand new old bike that’s been meticulously positioned at the top of the stairs. I zoomed off as soon as the new tires kissed the cement outside, Charlie Parker on my Ipod.
My friend and I rebuilt the bike. I’m sure a bike worth seventeen times the price I paid for the spare parts would have ridden better, but it would not have felt better. The dollars I put into it was nothing compared to the slaving sentimentality we put into it. And by that, I mean watching my friend rebuild it in a matter of hours, tools in my hands, ready to be handed to him. He was the expert, and I may or may not have been studying his tact through the glass I had full of mimosa.
Taking a stroll through your neighborhood is one thing, but there’s just something I can’t quite put my finger on about riding a bicycle through town. Effortless, carefree, hair swaying in the wind. The sheer pleasure. It was about 54 degrees out but colder with the wind poking you in the face, but I didn’t care. I made love to the road with the bicycle as my manpiece. I could see everyone’s face, and couldn’t do anything but grin. I got a few looks from the ladies, but I wouldn’t have gotten off the bike for anybody. Maybe Cate Blanchett, but I doubt I’d see her walking my street anytime soon. There was one thing that I’d noticed. Going twenty miles an hour down a busy street and listening to Beach House, you start noticing no one person is like anyone else. Everyone is different, and at that pace, they flickered in my mind, reminding me of all the things I could be. But I wasn’t one of them. I had a bike, sixteen dollars in my pockets and an I.D. that says I’m allowed to have a drink with you. “Pull that wine out of the river and let’s see if it got cold enough while we fished.”
“I haven’t had a drink in four weeks.” uttered tall and skinny Hansel, as he took a drag of a light cigarette. He was only halfway done with it as he put out the lit cherry in a neglected can of Natural Ice Light. He then stowed away the cigarette into an empty cigarette box that he rummaged for in the trashcan. “Cutting back on those too?” I said as I nodded my head in praise. He smiled and gave me a questionable poke on my chest. I smiled back because he knew I was proud of him, and he knew that I was proud of him. I waltzed back into the living room to join tiny little Duckie and his two beautiful friends from San Diego. He was being overtly confident in his words, and forcing me to try a mole-bowl his two stunning friends had grounded into a Jim Beam shot glass. I joked and told them I was afraid of change, and that a mole-bowl was a direct personification of that, while grabbing ahold of the bong from their slender fingers, and took a hit. They directed me to hit the bong a little faster, and to pull the bowl out and clear the bong. I regretted following their directions immediately. A mole bowl was a combination of hash and tobacco, almost like a spliff joint, but with only the direct effect filtered through the water. My lungs felt as if they had burst into flames, and I coughed and pretended to cry, only to draw out a laugh and a half. I half-heartedly waltzed into the restroom and wiped the convincing tears from my eyes.
Back in the kitchen, I spoke to Vivian who had also taken it upon herself to stop drinking because she had to, get her shit together, which I accepted with skepticism. I immediately assumed her endeavor was a direct effect of Hansel’s decision in not drinking. This only confirmed through their unspoken romance in which they both like to deny, which only exacerbates the situation. I’m a very big fan of theirs and still wish them the best. All the while the mole-bowl still singed in my esophagus, causing only brief spurts of intended conversation that graduated into coughing attacks I tried to play off as I sipped a sad can of Natural Ice Light. “Do you live here too?” asked Vivian’s Indian friend Nancy with the knee-high suede boots. “Yes, I’m the Captain of this ship.” I coughed. Their attendance was privy to my conversation with Hansel about his cigarette in which I had awoken from a nap just moments before. I gave Nancy and Vivian a tour of the apartment, making sure to show them my roommates rooms, to further glamorize my room, which was the last room in the hall upstairs. I’d always been proud of my natural kinks in interior design, and have an obsessive compulsive affinity for straight and perpendicular lines to thank for it. Everything was cubed and at right angles in my sanctuary, where smoking was allowed so long as you ashed in the proper designated areas. My aerosol can of Febreeze does nothing to discourage this. After the compliments, we went back downstairs into the rigmarole of crowded mixtures of roommates and acquaintances and laughed hearty laughs. That’s when I got the phone call from my mother whom I haven’t spoke to in months. She did not call with good news in her agenda, but with a sardonic greeting and news of my even more estranged father.
It’s been undeniably dear to me, the collection of the moon in different phases, different nights. Split the bottle of wine in half, watch our bodies crash into the floors before the liquid. Sacred parts, your get-aways. You come along on winter days, tenderly, tastefully.
It’s different now that I’m poor and aging, I’ll never see this face again. I’m okay with that, I never was too fond of it. Though I can’t say the same about yours, I want to… no, need to see yours again and again and again. Lit in different lights, different feelings, different events. You’re bad news, but I won’t be saying hello to any angels anytime soon. Slave to details, well then hook me up and throw me, baby cakes, cause I like to get hooked. I hope you don’t get any sleep tonight either.
Did you know there are people that judge people based on their cover? Not just that, but they make it a rule of thumb. I just had the worst lunch-date with a person who seemed to truly believe she was above everyone else, through class, and separation of church and state. Didn’t we abolish these small-minded persons when we elected a black president? Even when gay marriage was being fought for, or even with Run DMC and Aerosmith’s fusion of rock and hip-hop? Her exact words were and I quote, “Why the fuck would I waste my time being nice to people who are below the food chain.” She had just finished being unnecessarily hostile to the hispanic waiter, and ordered a Chicken Tandoori curry, after exclaiming she was a vegan in the car.
That’s when I got quiet and just watched her go off onto a tangent that led into not believing ingestion of alcohol or drugs as acceptable by laws of human existence. I laughed and did not reply, but it wasn’t a laugh with her. Then she mentioned how she loved Vico-tuss; a prescriptive and highly potent bronchitis remedy only accessible if your family makes five figures or more. “That’s okay because it helped.” Now I spoke, “oh, like the 2500 dollar extensions in your hair? They worked and have altered your body.” Then she muttered something or other about the two being different subjects. I uttered back for her to point out a single difference. She said she took debate and that my argument was out of context, and I responded saying her having to point out my argument without a valid difference was deflective and submissionary. She was not aware I possessed knowledge in the annoying art of debate.
How can one not believe in the kindness of others? She firmly believes that people are naturally conniving through her experiences, which I believe she is entitled. But I believe in the goodness of people at times, and to pay it forward if I receive a touch of good karma. I used to believe that the world was dark and random, but in reality, it IS what you entitle it to be. I’m no “happy feelings for everyone” preacher, believe me on this one, but I believe good things can happen, and bad things can happen, but the right things always happens, they’re like steps on a staircase.
I paid the bill at that mediocre Indian restaurant because I felt I offended her, but I’m certain I won’t be calling her anytime soon. I just gave it chance because she was named after a popular fruit. Now that I think about it, I was never really fond of that fruit, it was too aggressive on my palate and gums. Nope, couldn’t chew and swallow that shit.
Over the years, fighting became a condition that afflicted us as opposed to an exception. Of course, things like that don’t happen overnight, but overtime. Just like a natural disaster; high winds, low temperatures, birds fleeing, dogs barking – warning signs. It used to be that no matter what fights we had, no matter how loud out shout-o-meters got, as long as our feet found each other under the covers, you’d know that you were okay, that the weather was just windy and we overreacted. But we never suspected they were symptoms of another disaster that was ready to rumble.
You’re oblivious to the fact that you’re spending every waking hour with each other, and especially not noticing you’re making less and less eye contact. Eye contact psychologically helps a person feel they’re peering into another’s soul, a sense of connection. but as time goes on, you even start going to bed together facing forward. Maybe at a television, or a laptop, or even a book by Kierkegaard. But you stop facing each other when going to bed because you secretly believe that if you looked at each other, you’d notice there was nothing there. You’d have to schedule an appointment for affection.
When you start trying to justify what happened, you start to truly believe that love is something you were allowed to just fall in and out of. Highs and lows. The lows just get lower and the highs don’t peak like they used to.
How did it get there? Time. However, through that thick aggravating haze, you’re blinded to the fact that you both went through it together. You don’t talk much anymore but that’s because you can literally read each others minds and become stubborn when the other doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He’ll remember to schedule an appointment with the plumber while she remembers to pick up the dry-cleaning. She wakes up grumpy in the mornings, and he knows she does so he compensates. He leaves the new roll of toilet paper on top of the finished cardboard one, but she knows it only takes two seconds to change it; she huffs, he puffs. But you were both responsible for getting to where you both are, grew old and boring together, but you took that journey together. That, in the end was a greater trip than a weekend in Venice, a drunken night out on the town, or even a season pass to Cartoonland. That was a trip you took as an us.