Piano Dance

I’m looking sideways at the keys, and watching my fingers move by themselves. They are off on their own, and it’s my heart that I’m listening to. The wooden bench welcomes my weight with a creak. The stillness of the house enhances the notes. Slowly, focus. There is nothing for me to read. A single note, holding itself, ringing. Joined by another, a duo, in harmony. A perfect second, augmented third, reaching to a sixth. Contrasts and balance. Dissonance and correction. Triplets and quartets, counterpoint, climax.

It would not mean the same in any other form. Words can’t describe the dance of my fingers, if they could, there would be no point in playing. Self expression, merging into the moment, losing yourself. Mimesis. This is how we truly learn. And hearing my unconscious in such a way is quite refreshing.

The notes echo anxiety, with a flourish and correction. Regret, with descending minor chords. And opportunity, with major rising arpeggios. Unlearning strict patterns and playing something new. Everything taken together is beautiful in itself as this song unfolds. It is still unfolding, as different themes emerge, and each day builds on the melody from yesterday, but adds a new twist. This is creation.

My spice tea comforts, as the moon rises over the valley of lights. Yellow and white dots in the blackness, shimmering in the steam from my tea, and a cocker spaniel lays at my feet. The summer mountain air is chill, and my feet are bare. I am here, now. Smiling to myself in the night.

Green Spaces

Squeezing my emotions and thoughts out so others can see and understand them, like a tube of toothpaste. As if, by doing such acts you pass quietly into other dimensions. There is more than one way to look at the world.

Some might see this and call it a sunrise. Box it in, label it. Just like the British dominion of nature. The cement and cobblestones strangle. We found this lone green space and made it ours. Some would call it a sunrise. But I cannot name these passing things. I see the sky turn pink and yellow, the darkness lifting, and his face outlined slowly, flashing white teeth as he smiles at me. We are under a large tree, and earlier my sandaled feet passed over the dew-wet grass. I notice the colors in the sky, and the sharp outline of trees breaking the horizon as I happen to glance sideways. The lawn stretches before my eyes to the left, and the sky on the right. He is magnificent, and it doesn’t hurt. Boyfriend for a night, yes, I think it is possible. We embrace passionately, tenderly. He sighs as I bring him in to my chest, exhales and smiles. Our bodies contrast. His dark hair, liquid eyes, and musky smell whispers of Arabia. His furry legs and chest recall – why not! – Persian carpets. Beautiful man. And me: sun-touched hair, fair, and not so furry. We realize we complete each other in the morning, and this place we have made our own. Taking turns, we enjoy each other. Some recklessness. Some adventure. Much passion. And now I can really say that I know the soul of Hyde Park, London.

A lazy cigarette afterward, as we sit naked on our clothes. We are alive this morning.

For Camilo

Swimming through the years, breast stroke. I feel calm and more sure of myself now. The flashing lights and thumping music, smoke and beer seem a part of me now. It is the usual. The ups and downs of life, he is teaching me about this, as we sat together on a bench in the rain, with our flip flops, camera, and tears. And then I realized it while in his shower, with sunlight pouring through the skylight and the warm drops rolling over me. This cycle is ending, but others are beginning. Do not be sad, for this is how it always is. He loves me, and I love him. He says it’s like a flame, let it never die while it burns, but don’t pretend that it is immortal. All things come to an end. I am more sure of myself, now. Knowing the pitfalls, and when to catch myself. I know the dark emptiness, and understand that I must face it still.

Destiny. This he teaches me as well. Perhaps we could be together, maybe not, as the trails of the future billow out like rising waves in a dark sea, rippling through each other, of all the possible paths that could be, or will be, or should be. Spread out before me, I feel myself cresting the whitecaps, slowly now at the tipping point, descending in the surf of this ending wave. Again, I will be brought up again. Circles, waves, logarithms, chaos into patterns. In his sunlit bathroom in the shower I had an epiphany, while the grey cat was scratching at the door.

Wandering in Paris

On a bench in Paris the non-writer sits. Free association. Did my soul-mate pass this way, and if so, did he look up? I did, and now I see the tower through the trees and scattered shadows in the coolness, with a breeze. How did this big piece of twisted metal inspire so many artists? What does it mean, what is it for? Magnificent, yes, but not meaningful to me. Triumph of the French economy. This artificial thing is not romantic, on the contrary it repulses me, as it is now a circus piece, with crowds of people lining up for the lifts, ready to witness something that others have told them is special. The breeze agrees with me, as it picks up and loosens some raindrops. A ringing of some bells in the distance. The wind picks up dust, and blows through the crowds gathered on the dead grass, who are paying homage to the twisted metal. Is this the height of culture? But I don’t claim to be an artist, what do I know? Now the idea crosses my mind. Do I see the world through different eyes? Does it require me to ‘out myself’ for a second time? Did I alone notice the people on the metro, and do I find this more interesting than the Eiffel tower?

The little boy, light skin and dark hair. Is that black man his father? He looks tired, disinterested. A few stops later, he gets up and leaves the boy. A new man, Asian, medium height, young, with some rolls around his middle. Sits down by the boy. Deep in thought, traces his mouth with his fingers. In a few stops, gets off. Tall man in a black leather jacket, white, long brown hair sits down. Does the boy acknowledge these passing ghosts?

What is worse: having no mother, or having one who ignores you? The garish smiling faces of hamburgers, French fries, and fairies on the girl’s lunch box seem to contrast sharply with her drugged mother’s indifference. The girl’s smile makes me smile.

Does black nail polish make you serious?

An unseen man behind me begins to sing on the metro. Why does it sound like an old French folk song? Stories and impressions I’ll uncover as I go, but I won’t hold on to them, they are not mine. This notepad is only here to clear my mind, so I can start to see the world clearly.

I’m tired of living in someone else’s reality.

People influencing each other, and not even knowing it. Thank you, stranger. Whether you are gay or not doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter if that little black boy on your shoulders is your son or not. You made me stop, and gave me hope.

Seeing a pigeon struggling with a French fry. With a prize so large, it doesn’t know what to do. Walks in circles, shakes it. Finally pecks the fry into more manageable pieces, and swallows them down unnaturally. It looks up at me, asking for more.

I seem to miss having someone by my side, as I wander the streets in Paris, past the statues, facades, and monuments. Someone to laugh with, and hold their hand. The windswept dusty square of the palace echoes my heart. Even the roses here are dust-covered.

Italian Impressions

An open balcony with wooden shutters overlooks this alley of Turin. The damp air is soft and warm. Noises of the street: cars passing, Vespas revving, conversation in Italian and French from the pizzeria to the right. The sky is painted with clouds, navy and iron. An unexpected moment away from the others allows me this moment of reverie. An aging building with worn metal, iron-wrought balconies I see from this vantage, and wonder at the lives of those behind these shutters. A line of children’s clothes, jeans, a small bright orange bathing suit, lie stagnant on a laundry line.

A sign of life that brings a smile to me now: the next balcony over, with potted plants in the sill, forgotten junk, and a faded Italian flag stirring now and then, as if also in contemplation. A strong statement of life and belonging, that which I’m looking for. What does it mean to live here? A discussion across the street, animated and lively, with kitchen staff from the pizzeria. Who are these people? How do they spend their days?

The building facades, although now faded with time, remain impressive and perhaps even more so, now. Time has not been easy, yet they stand still, and bear the grime and dirt of the years with grace and elegance. A yellowish light is cast over the street, cars, and buildings. It will not lift until the sun rises.

Drops of water still lay on the cars, and the streets are still splotchy as they dry. I wonder if the summer rains will come again. A neon sign, steady in its orange glare, beckons me to Hotel Nizza, three stars. A competition for survival, to win the ignorant transients. Who do they think they are? They cannot know the soul of Turin as they move their worlds with them, appearing worldly and wise, yet afraid to actually connect with those of this place. A sad commentary, but a business model nonetheless.

Wooden shutters, doors, brickwork arches and supporting balustrades above. The buildings themselves are works of art. How would it feel to live in a work of art? Would you feel beautiful too?

And all too suddenly I realize the yellowing night light reflected on this paper, and it’s dancing with the shadow of my hand as the pen lays these words. A romantic setting, yet what does it mean for one who doesn’t claim to be a writer? Is the answer reflected in the open window to my left, or just the deconstructed shutters and shops? Glance to the mirror in the darkened room, and I see the slender silhouette of a man, with a touch of the street-light on his angled cheek and nose. Deconstructed indeed, thank you Picasso. Hair swept back, Bohemian, a dark striped shirt and the faint outline of pale underwear. Such contrasts. Singularity, longing, strength, and beauty. But this is just a reflection, never forget. Narcissa is smiling.

A sigh, and a glance outside again. People leaving restaurants, conversations picking up, a bag of empty bottles clinking and clashing as they are dropped in a bin. The cars pass. These rhythms continue.

Restlessness in the night seems a futile thing. Best wait until the morning to continue on, and achieve your alchemy.

Mischief in Barcelona

Barcelona. What is this city teaching me?

To live it is to feel it. The cats were an omen. Two Catalonian cats, midnight black. Divided by a twisted gothic metal fence with spires. The angular faces are beautiful and slender. How many times can a face be deconstructed, and yet still be recognizable? When he kisses me, I can feel his whiskers. We are spinning together, I hold him, a close embrace, my heart is exploding and the Latin music moves us. Tenderly, softly, then forcefully and flirtaciously. We want each other.

The following night, the omens are there. A rattling bus pane when there is no wind. Missing my ride again, yet again, yet again. But persistency, desperation, and longing win. The city is empty tonight, but I’m going, I promised. Did I? Was my Spanish understood? Mañana, sí, hasta mañana. In a hurry, maybe it’s too late, I’m sure he’s waiting. Past the shops, cafes. It is Sunday. And I snuck into the city. Past the fountains and balconies. Crosswalk after crosswalk, losing count. Referring to the map, was it here? Torre de qué?

A single black cat, waiting for the other. Its beauty is amplified by its loneliness. My focus is there, we connect. I slow, peer through the dark metal bars. Our eyes meet. Such sharpness in those yellow eyes! Head turning with me, we acknowledge each other, but I have more pressing matters to attend to.

Streets and crosswalks, boutiques, farmácias, and bike racks later. Here! I think I can remember the… of course it is closed. What did I expect? Cold metal shutters cover the entrance, yes on both sides. Damn it. And click, I realize. Flashing to a point. The cat was me.

Running back down the deserted street, I must find it. Tears in my eyes. It was waiting, and did I notice what side of the fence it was on? Of course it has no choice, it meets whoever passes by. Its partner goes where he chooses, comes and leaves again. There are no rules for him. I am panting, and my jacket starts to stick to me in the deep Mediterranean summer.

I spot the building, with curved balconies above, yellow lights, spirets, and towers. And the gate, with the ivy, yes. Looking, searching, hoping. Not here, maybe a little further. Where is it? Further nothing. At last I am leaving, looking back, where is this cat?

And once again, focused, rushing to a point. Yes, I understand now. Meeting and waiting, disappointment, the cat is no more. Broken souls can only withstand so much. I love this animal, the one waiting and now vanished into the emptiness. Too late, for both of us.

A quick stop in a café still open at this hour. Tired Spanish, a gulp of Fanta sitting in a corner with my back to the wall. These people are drunk and noisy. I leave quickly.

Walking back to the Plaça d’Espanya, I wait for my bus. Foolishness. All of it. And as I lean against the signpost, I glance upwards. What is that I see, a movement in the terrace. Lit from behind, I spot them. Together, holding each other, enjoying each other. How do they define love, I wonder? Is it the comfort of being together? Is it unexplainable happiness? Is it passion and lust? Is it a chance meeting of two strangers? I have no answers, and again give my tears to the cat as tribute.

Insomnia

Jagged white and black flashes across my eyes, I can’t sleep, the coughing worsens. And he’s not here, but does it matter? This world I’m living in, superficial? It’s tilting on its side, diagonally shifting me. I thought I was lonely and unhappy. But Coelho says that we don’t have time to be unhappy, not for such a luxury. Live in a state of war, and love is present. The tao te ching says something like this too; you can’t know and understand one without the other. In that case, everything is a meaningless construct. How would you truly know you love, if you have never experienced loneliness and pain?

This literary tirade is not so interesting to read. As if someone will ever read these thoughts anyways. Does that scare me?

Writing to impress someone, in the far distant future about how interesting and tragic and full my life must seem. Or writing to pacify the random firing of neurons in this pulpy mess? Or writing to channel the divine; how, when I write that, it seems like such a load of crap. Because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how I can be connected to everything, because I still feel so lonely.

Cycles beginning and cycles end. Thinking of love, finding it, then turning it into a ghost and a dream. Goodbye, I whisper, and then you are off into the world, exploring and living your life without me. I kiss you on the wind at midnight, and I hope that you receive this. And think of me, every so often, promise me you’ll try.

I cannot complain forever about how unfair the world is, and how I am not finding love when I look for it. So what, then? Forget or accept. Neither is easy.