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Posts Tagged ‘musings’

It was one of those break ups that leaves you a bag of bones. An empty vessel of a person, where all you get to be is mash up of organs working lethargically & only because they have to, long & stretched paled skin, sad mush brain, empty tired eyes, charred flaccid  heart… The kind of sadness remediable by one thing and one thing only. One golden word: vacation.

So, Mexico, eh? $400 some odd bucks to get myself from the dreary rainy season that wrapped itself with prodding, icy fingers around and throughout the town that my ex and I shared that felt frighteningly small? Oh God- yes, please.

So a plane. And then some wayward nights spent in a few different places. Increasing fun. Throw in some new travel friends. Sprinkle some hitchhiking adventures in. Put me on a beach with my home girl in the middle of a stashy surf hub, full of sun-kissed surfer-boy babes and feed me a couple of drinks and you got yourself a real good story on ze boiler.

caracol

I shook my ass. I let my hair down. Real Julia Roberts kinda stuff. I was holding that. If I had to wear a neon sign reflecting my mind-heart-soul state- surely it would have flicker-buzzed that tricky, multi layered word: Healing. And with the all-too-common recklessness that accompanies a proper heartbreak, I got mine.

And I met Ernesto. His tall shadow across the sand taking over my memory. His flash of black curls. Big, knowing hands. Sexy swagger. Of calculated movement. Eyes open. He had game & was connected. He was street. He was bad. So good bad. He was in a gang… I did not realize what this meant. Either way he was very yummy. I liked him, though I was on vacation- don’t forget. So naturally I dispersed my time in many different ways…

And so Ben. Another local. A lone-wolf surfer. Compact body carved by the ocean. A total romantic. Dark & deep… In a rival gang. Who knew? And I thought he yummy too.

And so haay rebound. And so you go girl n’ shit. Allathat. And ride that wave until it crashes & lord watch for the shore.

My time with Ben turned out to be probably just four intense days together before he was convinced that he was in a painful kind of love with me, which I found quickly terrifying. He went off the deep end when I cut him off, the little bit of what we had. I’m not qualified to diagnose, but still maintain that homie was certifiably crazy, & I pity the woman who may very well be stuck with him somehow at this point of life. Needless to say I spent long days after avoiding him, which was no easy task, as there were only a handful of places where the nightlife action was. I just wasn’t ready to leave.

Truth of the matter is that either of the hes’ are not what or whom I think of when I think of the week & change spent in this spot. This little beach town- a town that healed me, gave me love, restored my spine, provided amazing times, helped me develop a shining (over) appreciation for tequila… I think not of that so much. I think of one night where the boomerang effect hit me smack in the face.

zapateca

It was another night music & friends & Ernesto. Another night of avoiding poor Ben. Another night with the perfect salty air enveloping me and putting me in tropical trance… The way that breeze skimmed across my skin… I found myself on a rooftop bar where people were dancing & drinking. This is where memory & accuracy begin to get muddy. I remember free flowing, generous mezcal shots. I remember feeling annoyed that I had to keep running away from someone who wanted to work out nothing workable. I remember needing a cigarette & asking some local guy if I could have one. I thoughtlessly asked him for one in Spanish but instead of responding to me saying a simple yes or no, he chose the unscripted option of inquiring aggressively in English about where I was from. When I responded, slightly taken aback- about being from the states, he got up in my face, pointing his stranger hand right up in to my nose, to say the following: “You are from the United States and you are asking ME for a cigarette?!” And then, whilst furiously shaking: “FUCK YOUUU. FUCK YOUUUUU.” And on and on and on, with this weird stupid finger in my face, fuck youing me to pieces, backing me up until I was smashed up against the side of the building, with his terrible, angry, misdirected, spittle-maker-face against mine. And I blacked out. And did I hit him? Push? Did he push me? I’m not sure because don’t give me tequila & yell at me for your hang ups. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of the floor but getting pulled back by two or Ernesto’s boys, while others from his crew swoop in on this guy and remorselessly remove him from my sight, pushing him down the stairs, taking him out the building, far out of my sight or anything I would ever know more of.

I remember yelling because I was shocked & drunk. Yelling because I was bugged out & confused. Yelling yelling yelling in English because I’m more used to speaking English now. Who knows what was conveyed, & I was being held back by these guys, & then there is sad, crazy head Ben with his boys, in my face- from where anyway? And now would there be a rumble? Ben- telling me to calm down and trying to hug me & drunk drunk drunk me, no memory.

I know I ran. I ran I ran I did not stop until I had to because I contained breath no more. I had run to the beach, ignoring peoples warnings against going alone to at night for various unheard, far-from-convenience-reasons, but reckless & still somewhat broken, I did not care. I needed ocean solace. I ran onto the sand & I melted. I cried cried cried cried. For more than that night or the moments of shit roof. I cried out of frustration for Ben; cried for loss of my boyfriend & how the fracture was my irreparable fault; cried for fear of/for that merciless seeming roof guy who was so angry at me who was nobody to him, & how much bitterness one must carry to hate strangers. Plump drunk dehydrating tears, bent over, standing in a loosey goosey forward fold, until I felt a sudden excruciating pain grip my legs & run up the length of my body faster than lightening. Tsunami faster. I felt like I was dry brush on fire, the flames licking me, twist biting at my skin- everything terrible. Fire ants. I had chosen my melt down spot to be perfectly situated atop a hill of fire ants. Hysterical now, in retrospect. Just perfect. But holy did they hurt so unbelievably bad. With out thought or alternative I found myself bolting-same-time-stripping soon-to-be-diving into black night ocean.

By morning the bites no longer bothered me. At least my memory does not hold that. I don’t even remember how I saw Ernesto, but I know that when I did see him, did ask him about what happened to the man from the roof, his eyes serious & fast- told me never to ask about him again. Impenetrable. I remember feeling Latino 90210 town on steroids. Tired. Drama lama ding dong.

I was done. Full. I’d had enough. My heart had been restored. I’d filled in the gaps between my vitals. The blood coursing through me- purified a la beach mode, despite the maybe murder… Ready to go home.

viva mexico

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Crazy West coasters,

Putting Ranch on everything-

Shaming your pizzas.

 

Filled to the brim, I’m

fit and tied to team over

with proper fodder.

 

When the petals fall

on my head and in my hair,

that’s where I want them.

 

Is there a better

marriage of words than FUCKING

LOVELY? I think not.

 

party car(ty)

 

We must reclaim the

word constipation. Has

untapped potential.

 

Riding my bike brings

peace to all the right places.

What a love machine.

 

Sometimes you got it,

sometimes you don’t, but don’t fret.

Can’t all be like me.

 

Talk to me only

in minor chords. Sullen speak

goes right to my core.

 

There are no boxes

that can contain me. I’m an

irregular piece.

 

neca

 

They need a contract

making antiperspirant

mandated at gyms.

 

Somnambulant is

my new vocabulary

word. I woke up with it.

 

Just wait, icicle

Don’t pierce my heart before

I melt my own way.

 

You’re not a true friend

If I look in the mirror

to find spinach tooth.

 

Pavlovian proof-

I hunger at sitar sounds

for good Tandori.

 

One day I’ll travel

the world in the name of sweet

poetry. Just wait.

 

When it rains it pours

and your still my favorite

puddle to jump in.

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At the mention of pelvic floor to any woman, an instantaneous muscular response ensues.
The hint of simple nod towards a kegle creates a domino effect in us ladies more contagious than a yawn. ((It’s happening right now ladies, isn’t it?))

And so, as such, I glide my coffee, straight backed, unshakable thighs,  tight pantied- to my haven table amidst the oceans of tantalizing print literature and calling, glowing screens a sparse cafe does hold on a rainy day.

My potion, viscus, flirting just above the brim- my tool to groundation and focus. A cheap, less monitored effect than Adderall or common prescribed pill-tools over my dawdling head. One can hope. The barista gifted me with a frothy heart atop my hot palmed mug, much like my own sometimes, all afloat and warm with a penchant for the grand spill. Oh coffee, why mimic me so?

A power outage led me here today. With a swift flicker, the glow of my alarm clock- a decisive two to three electric attempts at resurgence- the whole house- as if to settle all at once with some hefty exhale- gave up it’s connection to contemporary lifestyle and customs it thoughtlessly holds. And I- up with bright grey sky hinting- arose to a more simple portalistic time. Way backish.

My thoughts went to oil-lamps. My thoughts to sweater layering. My thoughts to non-perishables. My thoughts to generating internal warmth in the loved/hated yogic chair pose. My thoughts to what if this is it and our reliance upon modernity now severed, and be damned with the freezer goods, and the ability to operate appliances like an emergency drill, or entertain myself with my nil-discussed-distracting online video shorts addiction. My thoughts to I must be more prepared for the Big Shut Off. Big Cut Off. Water supply extra and perhaps time to start canning. Not really canning, but some sort of Oregon Trail-y preparatory shit.
My thoughts to common baby light my fire. Or really more that- I could or should light a fire, but when is life not fit for a surprise song?

Back to the big Turn Off. Whilst I sip at my warm, opaque choice.  The northeastern half of the city sits in the dark and still in Little House on the Prairie mode and I wonder, as I should: what if. If when. Cowboy coffee is easy enough, but basic power is past me. I can’t coerce a bulb to brighten even though I am so so very beautiful. My own craft, how I make my bread and pay my bills- beyond limited, considering my heavy reliance upon today’s conveniences. I am ever/ we are ever~ just. so. acclimated. In time we would find our way back to elementals, but until then… amazing adaption and  tremendous tyranny.

Crossing town had it’s own absent-minded loveliness to it. The stop lights being out, forcing people to work together. Zippering. My turn your turn my turn your turn. And on so.
Despite the rare sense of cooperation, the act of the 3-D shadow of dead incandescence all but lingered upon us, overarching, with a menacing feeling. Blackened, hanging stoplights. Firelights void of heat. Red yellow green colorless, sucked dry. Swaying lifeless like rot fruit bewitched to the vine. Soulless. Burnt out and in. Nothing left to keep those lights alive passed a rewiring if possible, or our brilliant, once upon a time, memories. “When I was young, child, we had great lights that hung above the streets and told us what to do. It was beautiful. Especially the rain part, child. Especially the rain”.

What might it be like, imagining we were prepared for it. Imagining the Big Shift did happen. What would it be like? No more voltage. Sleep you electrons, so little. You’ve done so good. Thank you thank you.
Now what? Our city’s minds, our ways; back to scratch. And then? What now? My thoughts? Time to prep. A resurgence of survival skill knowledge. Time to tighten up.

dark

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Soft breath came out in undulose roll, a serenity given to understanding incidences of stolen moments receding. Time time time, just a moment away.

All she ever wanted was a muse by her standards which were seemingly not set too high. It didn’t take much to ignite the visionary exacting that lay inside her, but love was indubitably, formidably, the key. The world could speed up for all it wanted, or creak slowly in orbit, if-to-when that one would enter stage left. Or right. Or come climbing down downy, silken spun, dream-fire-escapes and just come on in. The water is oh so fine.

Her inner workings were a scramble. Try she might, but the holes inside were waxing and waning with the tides and the moon. Her fits of full and lonely nipping at her heels just the same.

Sometimes the vibe was self-evident. A physically provable thing, probable thing, displayed in sights of messy hair, tired from tugging. Showed up in baggy eyes, bruised from booze. Achey muscles, self-induced over-workings, awaiting their holy massage.

Thank the greatest ones for her breath. The flowers were with gratitude. The trees felt younger for it. Where she could finally slow her roll and simply believe… just a moment away.

xo

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Phosphenes. That’s what they’re called. Seeing light without light entering from a source outside of ourselves. “A luminous image produced by mechanical stimulation of the retina, as by pressure applied to the eyeball by the finger when the lid is closed.” Or- you know, sitting bent over, or lazing dreamily and jamming your palms into your sockets. Your choice.

That was my first trip. I would lay for what seemed like hours in kid-years. Staring at rainbow pinpoints that would reliably scurry off once I would unsoften my focus. This I learned: to take in this self induced beauty, one must look ahead and not direct into the source. Those dots would always disappear before me if I got greedy and tried to look right at them. Don’t look at the amazement head on, but gaze ahead, knowing it’s around you, and absorb. 

And isn’t that the catch? Couldn’t this be the world’s most tragic metaphor? ~Babies first transcendant experience~ teaches that beauty is not ours to hold, but to be in, without attachment. It all keeps moving… Tragedy is a mere definition according to the beholder, sure, true. One can say at least there is beauty. At least we can retreat to our own minds and watch the show. Our own private viewing. Available at any time. No screaming children or lousy large popcorn to reckon with. Just the thin veil of splendid. Yes yes- your argument is fair.

Those phosphenes. Their gentle model. Proof that entertainment lies within. Proof that we are mere continuums of space, a float. Proof that we can’t know it all, beyond a few syllables fortunate enough to be strung together and a limiting capper of a definition. Those dots of light showing us the fluidity of artistry. No more manmade brightness, kids. Retreat and test. You know you want to. See your science sleeping with your spiritual. Bare witness to the bed where-which they meet and get freaky. But don’t try to figure it out.

phosphenes

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She came in late because that’s what she does best. Looking for an open chair before looking around at the people there. Walking in after the momentum was set in motion always made the grade school feelings resurface of trying to peep a spot to sit in the lunch room, carrying this goofy tray that must have been dipped in anti-cool spray, seeing that it always felt dorky, and wanting to look smooth and like she had friends- a place to be or go to of importance. She had them, it was just one of her little quirks. She pendulumed between the now and triggers of the old. It was her bit. Anyway, she had to settle before she could settle.

There were probably 45 people in that basement. One quarter of them set to speak at some point in the night in front of the rest of crowd, present. The literary types. The solo ones. The ones who came to listen, to glean inspiration, to be alone in a crowd. These people, being under the cover of night, posting up in a dark, dingy Portland basement in Old Town- pretty much optimal for this chiquita.

When you think about it, people are just balls of swirling habits and needs. Some have habits to be filled outside of themselves. Some have that artistic fever. The kind that wells up and demands release. This one- she had the latter. Her need for speed showed up in the likes of pen and ink. Leaving the house without a writing tool would be akin to leaving the house pants-less. But colder. And stupider. Sure.

So boom. Her ass on the stool. Her eyes keen on the speaker. A plain-looking middle-aged woman, spouting off some biz about dragons in the Victorian era or some-such has-been stuffy topic. The woman’s voice- pleasant enough, and for that she could be forgiven for the fact that the sweater she wore was the deadly and dreaded ”skin tone” color- a mistake that no white person should make again; that and it made her boobs look terribly boring. Burn all these items. Ok ok ok- also the fact that she was creating– so for the subject matter she could be forgiven. 5 Hail Marys’, ma.

Our girl momentarily cut the physical  vision off to illuminate the inward visual potentials. What could come to light from the contact high of these people, in this hole in the wall full of wayward history? Well, I’ll tell you one thing- if you ever wanted imagine a ghost pinching your chichones, now is your time.

“Write about us, mija. Tell your people sobre nuestra historia. Tell them there are witches everywhere. Brujas rojas, blancas, negras.”

Damn, she thought. I open up to tap in and some ghost dude’s got me reporting on some bullshit that’s played and noone’s trying to hear. Give me something juicier. Witches are outta season.  Sassy bitch.

Give me fodder about funny things we do, ghost. What do you see? Maybe you gotta get over yourself in the spirit world. You lingering beings take yourselves way to seriously. Give it up. And don’t climb on my head- this writer’s block is already killing. Give me some ESP or something.

Well that ghost had it. Ghosty middle fingers on blast and the haunting was over. Sitting erect, intent on the speaker, open to absorption; She waited. Mother fucking writers block. Assassinate the maker of this beast. Who coined the term was coconspirator. Take em’ out, Darwin. Right? Let’s do this. Open up the channels. Stupid spirits flying around. Permeating the corners and hallways of this whole damn block. This entire neck of the woods. Old fodder was all she had for the now. Boring like those long mound- upstage sweater titties. Waiting for the perks. Ready ready ready.

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I AM NOT A HAMMER! Not a hammer. He screamed inwardly, directing his intentions at the tall, rough-brick buildings, the foreboding, overlooking passersby, the ominous, taunting sky. Screamed on the inside and what good did it do, but translate to another twisted face of his. The fear and anger welling up once again. If only he’d learned in time to pipe up, if only his voice could back him, if only the right person had asked the right things, if only. If only. If only.

Ah, but that is the curse of the foster kid shuffle. Is it not? The souls it claims tumbling out in ruins, vacillating between the unstoppable, menacing dissonance in splatter-surround-sound, incessantly playing between ears of the touched, and coming out loud, disconcerting… Or the quiet ones; The ones still entangled in the monster-under-the-bed deluded illusion of the “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” variety. Eyes averted. Lost beyond the depths. A despondency measured in dog years.

Herein is where our homeboy lay. He’d been pushed out into the sun under a bad star from the jump. Tunnels of NYC ain’t no place to form a baby, especially when a woman didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her until the day she uncontrollably wet herself, and was stabbed by alien pains emanating from the depths of her belly when she was mostly used to being numb.

Cries and primal, animal sounds rung the dark maze beneath the streets that morning, about an eighth of a mile shy from the nearest shaft of dusted light. A baby was born onto a worn mattress full of unspeakable stains. Picked up reluctantly by filthy, unexpectant hands, and held, finally, to a tattered breast on a tired body with a rapid heartbeat, and the first. blossoming. of instant. surprise. love. a person can only know once they’ve been left to bleed and all else had failed.

And speaking of blood, holy mother was it a mess. Messy from day one. This woman! She had no idea. She was just walking in the shoes that she’d been given a generation or two ago. She couldn’t be sure. Family history was never rich on the roster. But she’d stayed on the same path as her own mother. Tending her habits above all else. Passing them on to her skinny, miracle child.

It was novelty at first. Because she’d never really known care. Never really known responsibility. Didn’t know the first thing about child rearing but hot-damn would she do her best. Her capabilities were few- let’s not glorify. I mean, an addict in deep is an addict in deep. But little can be done to stifle that innate knowledge that woman share. The one that is connected to ancestry. To source. The umbilical chord of the universe. She tended best she could, long as she could, until the mouth became too needy. Her own needs too greedy, to give proper attention to a babe.

So off with it on the kind of hot summer night where the nail-exposed overhangs drip with polluted condensation and people move molasses slow to keep the heat at bay. Off with it, this kid, this monkey, this needy thing she never wanted, couldn’t even remember how it happened in the first place. Off with this and onto some store’s front stoop where come morning a startled Asian grocer would find a itty-bitty-stinky-baby in a box and stare at in amazement for one shocked moment, wondering how people could be so cruel, before picking up the entire box that weighed all of 6 pounds and bringing it into NYPD’s 5th Precinct on Elizabeth and Canal, to be stared at suspiciously and questioned with intimidation, armed with about 30 specific, limited to shop-talk- English words. Oh poor secret Asian mang.

Fast forwarding our tale and on with it. Our poor guy. Our poor baby who would be sure to grow slight in height, and not far in the mental. Our poor guy who was to be pushed, dropped, dragged, and kicked through an unchecked system of house after house and on. Filled with predator and mouse. Loud television and louse. Lack of love, direction, or reliable constant. The irony of taxing the shit out of parents desperate to adopt, and adversely allowing the shittiest of the lot to be foster parents. And paying their asses. The horror. No criteria having mother-fuckers. Something to shake your head at.

Our boy never developed much of a taste for outward speak. Didn’t have much to say. Maybe he didn’t know how. Perhaps he lacked the overlooked tools of expressivity or composition. Teachers thought he a lost cause. Not much you can do with a lump that sits in the corner, refusing to engage. So in he went and out again. And at the glorious age of 18; the ripe age where we are fit and tied to greet the world; the age where we no longer need guidance or help at all, ever, and are ready- all of us- for complete and utter independence- our homeboy was let out.

He was like an instant street rat. Literally like a fucking rat. Where he learned from the rodents basic survival. Eat what you can find. Drink where you can find. Sleep in the little nooks where people are not apt to disturb you. He took to the streets with arguable natal instinct. The streets gave him selective shelter, opened up his fuzzy focus. Taught him the freedom to sit and stare. The freedom to bark or growl or yell at random- all of which he practiced, just to see. But it wasn’t him. He was the silent type. You know. On the city pulsed and he felt off-shook by the beat. Our boy never had the luxury of feeling steady, really. His only purpose was today, I suppose. The ability to reflect on purpose is paired with those on the elevated levels of the comparably modern day caste system. Paired with those where the concept of hedonism can ring. Where people can afford sarcasm. His pockets bore holes and his currency nil.

Our boy. Left to eat the dust. Left an empty shell of nobody. He never got to be. Some people never do. They run through depleted soil from dia numero uno. No chance. Bleek grim. A sad ending from the beginning. A side bar. An untended, deficient weed.

In a world of hard focused happy endings I embrace the grime. Tip a 40 oz., a pinot with your pinky in the air, your G & T, your whisky neat, rip the tip off your blunt if you gotta- for all the living ghosts out there. They’re out there right now, shuffling, rocking, hiding. Tip it and sip it and know you got it good, and if not good, better than a lot.

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