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.

A Night of Jazz in Amsterdam

Looking out the window in the morning after the hangover and sweat has dried, sleeping on your couch, you are gone but left a note on the towel. The grey clouds pass outside over the city, the sirens sound. I feel lonely, I am attracted to you but it’s a flash. I don’t know if you feel the same way. And when you dance: dark, thin, smile, mysterious, sensual. I can’t get enough, can’t take my eyes off. I dreamt of sleeping with you. But it wasn’t meant to be.

And my lover, the one who’s heart I was starting to understand. Something beautiful started, but unable to bloom. This is what they mean by tragedy. You are married, have a comfortable life. Soul mates indeed.

And I’m learning about destiny, or what it can mean. Learning to believe in more than myself, and my decisions. Things are connected in strange ways that I can’t see now. Believing that everything will work out for the best in some way, some day. This is faith.

My ears are ringing in the early morning, as I write this. The wine has yet to take effect. Soon I will wake early, and continue on as I should.

A Way to Happiness

Happiness is riding on a bicycle in the sunshine with a heavy pack on your back weighing you down, full of food and you have an empty stomach but you know you’ll soon be back to your flat. No worries, just the sun and the cobblestones. A connection to everything, you can feel it. the lady across from you, peddling away on another bike, she’s not so different. It’s all written by the same hand.

Happiness is enjoying black coffee while soaking in the Portuguese conversation all around you, the Brazilian diva on the television, and a white terrier resting on the carpet. Sharing laughs and smiles.

Happiness is laying naked and panting in the dark, holding each other, and finally realizing that this moment is eternal. That you feel love with this man, as brief and impossible as it may seem. That love comes in many shapes and you shouldn’t be so concerned with trying to find that perfect one. Enjoying what you have in the moment is much more important.

Electrify Then Think

Remember my son, that after the rush and the excitement, things come into focus again. Do not get caught up in the rush of things.

What I want to say is.

Read. Expand your mind. Understand what you thought you couldn’t. Open up. There’s more to you than a

What I mean is

I love you, keep going, you’re on the right track. And he’s out there, but think of yourself first.

Remember what I told you, and what you’ve read. Everything will work out, you are unfolding it all just as you’ve been meant to.

Thank you God for the storm. Flashing, cleansing, cracking, booming! I lay awake holding myself, and smiling in the dark, knowing that I’m dry. Naked, I look out the window and feel nature again. The rain cannot pound hard enough.

The Echoed Call

I had a vision this evening. I saw the children chasing after our white, dusty mini-bus. The black children with no shoes, begging us to stop. These boys are always running and they grow into the men of Africa, always left behind. Our white bus is abandoning them, but we can steal a photo before we go. We leave them alone in the dust with their tears. This continent is playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can with the West, but they will always be the losers in this game. Our bus rolls on in the dusk.

The trees stand singly, blurring into one another if you focus on all of them at once. The grey, black, white, dusty trees with a shrub every few metres. These trees are bare and slender. In the distant hills they point up to the sky, to the first shy stars of the evening. Look they say, look there is hope for this rolling, starving, broken country. Don’t give up, because we won’t.

Can I commit myself to this sort of life? Do I have it in me? What can I do that would satisfy? I have a vision, years from now, of a lonely bachelor living in this strange world. Can I sacrifice the West for a chance to be fulfilled?

I think of our mini-bus and tears come to my eyes. Give me your hand, brother, I’ll help if I can. I have no money to give, but maybe I can give you something else. I know it’s not easy. I know you are broken and afraid. But if you take my hand I’ll do what I can. Consider it a promise.

It makes more sense now, if I realize that I’m answering the echoed call. The dance is in me, I see your smile, I see your face. I’m not a saint, and I don’t want to be. I just want to find meaning in this confusing world of smoke and mirrors.

Golden Kiss

Hold me when the sunlight is slanting, reflecting golden off the windows and through the bare branches. With the sky still blue yet failing fast, I hold you, baby, a secret kiss against the cold and I am laughing. The sky is on fire, and the shadows lengthen. We are walking hand in hand near the water, the ripples reflecting like tiny windows or pieces of the sun. The sky lit the water on fire.

Hold me when I sigh deeply and trace the flock of geese with my eyes. But it’s not just about holding. It’s about feeling. Receiving. Loving and listening. Can I ask this of you? Of course I can, we haven’t met yet, but you’ll understand my questions without me asking them. You’ll know how my mind swims in this flickering, burning sea.

This time of day, this moment passes so quickly. And yet it’s my favorite time of all. It never lasts. One of the poets noticed this, Shelley or Keats…I forget who. But I know what they mean: the sweetest kiss is the one you know will end. Longer, a little longer, hold it still.

And we separate, the sun goes down, the wind picks up, it is over. The water is dark and the sky as well. I hug you from behind and realize that my life is complete.

A Portrait

It’s all that I have. And I put it out there and ask the world to love me. Maybe he’ll find this digitized shadow and reach out. Yeah, right. I think it’s a bit more than that. Not just for him, but as a statement. I lived, I struggled, I’m here now but will be gone someday. Send this portrait out in bytes into the tangled electric mess that we’ve created. Something to remember me by, or to see this person through a lens. What does this picture mean to you? Does it intrigue? Is it sad? Is there hope? Is it a plastic xerox? Nothing remarkable, probably. Another face in a million. There’s more behind this face than you can guess. How can you know what’s going in this jumbled head, the aspirations, fears, trepidations, elation.

This is a stab in the dark, throwing it out there. Maybe no one will see. It will be lost in the back shadows of the network and forgotten. But it’s me.

Thank you for listening.

Stretched Mind

Days pass by and there’s no work, nothing to keep occupied. Things drag, time is wasted. I see my empty, pale green bowl on the table every morning, flash, again. Repeat and there’s milk and cereal left in the bottom, the spoon hangs from the side. Mornings roll over and the room is stained red, sunlight filtering through the curtains. This room is never clean, I’m living here, where else can I go? I want more action, so my answer is dancing and sex on weekends. A quick fix is porn. This is a cheaper drug.

I’m searching and searching and searching but then I start to think. This dangerous thing. The one I really want to be with won’t be found in the pubs and clubs and sites. He’s going to hit me out of the blue from behind when I’m least expecting it.

With the dragging days my morale dips lower. This foreign country is not so different, yet different enough. The equilibrium swings between love and hate, although it’s becoming less with time. The continuous grey of the rain clouds and windstorms doesn’t help, either.

I’m excited for a date tomorrow, but will it be just another passing phase? I want to know him and laugh and be with him and talk politics and history and music and languages. With luck, he’ll have a personality. With no luck, I’ll be stuck making cheap conversation in a trendy restaurant in Amsterdam. With luck he’ll come back to my place, after my weak attempt to offer a ‘movie-night’ from my collection of 4 DVDs. With no luck he’ll pretend to smile, thank me for the night, go back to his place by train and never talk to me again. Block and delete. Breathe deeply now, and try not to think about it. Pull out the designer underwear and bleached jeans for tomorrow. 6pm at Amsterdam Centraal.

Marie Caissie, Ode a L'Acadie

Waiting in the dark for the train, the ode is pulling me on, cry to the wind, I am a part of the dark. Darker, and darker still I am the dirty green train seats which are so lucid in the morning. Throw it all away I am free the night is calling, I will dance. I will dance, I am coming, I answer the song of the winds and the train pulling me on into unknown darkness. Darker and darker still. And I’m dancing, at first shy, but the song gives me courage it is my strength and I find that I will always love myself. Even after a night of screaming. I want to scream so bad. Hidden in dark corners, the darklight illuminates us in the corners. I didn’t know him but it doesn’t matter this is what I do. Ode to the wind that I am. I’m throwing myself into it and it feels so good. Abandon morals at the door. And if I hurt myself, I will still love myself in the end.

Wake up confusion. Head hurts, ass hurts. Was it good? I can’t remember and he tries to hug me. I can pretend that he’s the love I’m searching for, for awhile. Let’s hold each other and forget everything. This is such a powerful drug. It almost makes you believe. But the morning brightness brings things into focus, slowly. You’re not so good looking. And that’s all that matters for now.

The sunlight is slanting, blinding in the kitchen with mirrors and planters in an alley. It’s so cozy, I want to imagine it’s mine and we love each other. But the ode of the wind plays on and I know it’s not true. I can pretend for now, but always? I trace the Dutch whitewashed ceiling with my eyes, and follow the curving patterns. Over coffee we share some laughs, I deepen my voice to maintain my manhood. Don’t think I’m a fucking twink. Just because I let you fuck me…don’t think I can’t stand on my own.

The lilting music entices and entrances. I’ll dance out the door, down the stairs, thanks for the night I guess. I’m still drunk as I walk down the street in the midday sun, looking for the train station. Oui je peux vous aider, monsieur, la Belgie? on peut y aller directemente par traine, mais tout d’abord il faut aller a Amsterdam Centraal. And the Dutch words run through my head as the train rushes me back to the apartments. Hoi, alles goed? Goedenacht, avondmelange, ik heet Doug, ik kom uit Canada. Overveen train station?

I feel so dirty now, yet alive. Take a shower, clean my underwear, take out my contacts, brush my teeth, wash my face. The drops fall from my eyelashes. In a towel and glasses scribing last night. Was it worth it? Am I learning who I am? There is no answer.

Frustration

Another night in another smoky bar, music and beer and boys grinding, flirting, strutting. And yet I get lost on the train again, the hunger clawing at my brain with the neon signs in the shadows where I missed my stop, and the throbbing continues. Hard and fast in the night with a stranger. Why do I expect the stranger to care? Sometimes I want it raw, and other times I can’t understand why they won’t hold me; they, the faceless number of midnight encounters. I try to make them meaningful, but sometimes it’s just a fuck. Meaningless in the morning, but focused in the moment.

It hurts to be alone on the other side of the world. Crying silently to yourself when the moment is quiet, and hoping nobody saw. You feel weak. The world is twisting and twirling out of reach, nothing is for certain, feeling depressed. What have I to say right now that would make any difference in the world? It hurts, that’s all I know and I’m tired of it. This loneliness is back, it never goes away. Twisting into fantasy with every passing day. I think I’ve been here before. The lyrics flow like I wrote them yesterday.

Do I know what I’m searching for in the darkness, when I look out across the water and see broken pieces of the moon swimming away? Or when I stand in a quiet moment and look down on the park from above, see the black birds fly like a mob, see the plastic garbage caught in the trees, see the millions of other apartments with millions of other half-hearted lovers like me? What do I know? That love is elusive and tricky and can’t be found in passionate sex. And yet here I am.

Gay Vancouver

There’s four days till Christmas and it’s raining in Vancouver. I’ve got a boy on my mind, and sushi in my hand. A smile and a lingering kiss are on my lips. Last night’s sleeplessness was worth it, so I tell myself as the tiredness creeps in. Traveling by skytrain, bus, walking downtown in the drizzle with my rushed breakfast and leather jacket. This is my winter of twenty-two.

The streets are not so wild in the morning. They are tame and boring. By day, Davies is a gay ghetto, with convenience stores and foreign food restaurants along the strip. Rainbow flags are plastered on every door front, but I find them meaningless. By night, the music in the clubs can be heard, the swank restaurants are calling, the dance floors are dancing to the beat, and I’m there. Buying new underwear with confidence. Knowing I have the power. The city feels like I own it, it’s there for me. Adventure.

I meet up with friends, Starbucks it is. People-watching. People-judging. Shooting the breeze, who slept with who? Listen to my ipod, this song’s the best. Oh my god, that’s horrible! What did you do? You should just forget that guy, he’s not worth it. Did you see his penis at least? I’m a graphic artist. That guy’s looking at me. Ya, I’d fuck him if I didn’t look at his face. That is so not a woman, I see stubble! I want to move downtown, but I need a job. I really like your shirt, where’d you get it? My underwear’s riding up, check it out, Ginch Gonch. I’m so horny you guys! I ended up at my ex’s last night, sorry.

And the rain keeps falling, and the boys keep passing by. Pretty soon we three join them, back on the bus, back on the ferry, back to the island, away from this gay hub. We’ll dream and plan our next Vancouver adventure soon.

Idiot Room-Mates of Last Summer

And the red rage burns in my head as these bastards play their World of Warcraft and rustle in the dark with flashlights waking me up. Death metal is not music. Quit pouring your god-damned ice-tea, if I hear that gurgle one more time I’m going to scream. Stop crunching your Doritos, close your mouth. Slap some more of that aftershave on, won’t you? I love the sound as you pat and pat and pat every single day. Oh yes, and don’t forget to use the hairdryer, it’s better than an alarm clock. Please don’t close the blinds either over the window, bright burning sunlight in my eyes is the best cure for a hangover in the morning. Stupid idiots. Don’t be such a fat slob; you’re stinking up our room. Will anybody clear the garbage, or am I the only one? Let’s not even talk about the bathroom, with piss all over the floor, shit stains on the bowl, and nasty black marks in the tub. Is it so hard to close the shower curtain when you shower, or do you prefer water on the floor everywhere? I’m going to unplug your laptop so you can’t watch the stupid show 24 anymore dubbed over in Korean. Speak English. Don’t be so mad at the world. Respect me.

The Journey

Do I know where to go, where to flow?
The current moves so fast and I am lost again
Are you my friend?
Show me, love me, help me, know me
My journey through the dark
Pink sunset beaches
Red paths beneath the haze
The crashing surf of destiny
That’s where you’ll find me
My ship sets sail and waits for no one
The salt spray pushes the sails
And I’m off on the crest
Pointing towards opportunity
Flash green dolphins leap nearby
To cheer me on, they are friends
And the tears fall like so many diamonds in the ocean
Flickering and flashing in my underwater world
Where the air turns silvery and strange,
Dividing the two seas
The ship sails on above, on due course but I’m among the dolphins now and they share with me their secrets.
Flipping and turning in the deep emerald waves, the seaweed pillars betray a submarine palace with purple and orange jewels pulsing and feeding.
This world fascinates, yet above I see the white foamy trail of the boat
It’s leaving me, I must catch up
And breach the silvery divide
Airborne again, dripping and trumpeting
The journey continues towards a shore as yet unknown
I feel comforted by the enchanted sea and my friends of the deep
I fly now with the birds, soaring and flapping, diving from the highest mast to watery ripples, skimming a wingtip and watching the bubbles appear
This is freedom in a sense, yet I am bound to the ship and it’s destination
I must not lose sight of the ship
Even with shores as yet unseen
But I imagine that those shores will be pink and red in the sunset upon arrival
Waiting for me at long last to disembark and feel the wet sand again in my feet.
I will have returned.

Xibalba

Walking in the dark along starlight paths, the mist swirls and billows in the rusty light and I smell the wetness of the rains. Rays of lightness and darkness emanate from the prickly silhouette of a spruce, caught in the mists and vapors. The air is cool and the lightning is now far off. Above the sky is clear, yet not clear enough. I can see the stars but I know that there are many I can’t see, they are drowned by the streetlights. And a yellow one, Xibalba, is it? A dying star surrounded by a great yellow galaxy, where the Mayan gods go to be reborn.

But I’ll not be floating on a dying tree in a sphere towards this star, this is not my mental journey. My place of solitude exists underwater on a great coral throne, which I float above cross-legged in contemplation. The throne itself is curved, and consists of corals of dark green, purple and blue. The corals are intertwined into one living organism, on which I rest and cry and love. The throne is luminescent, and there are small fish which flit in and out of existence. Flash fire-orange, ice-white, star-blue.

Aside from the fish suspended around the throne, there is darkness. The lights surrounding me pulse and I dance to their rhythms, swimming and twisting in response. It is the music of the cosmos. Dark green and silvery seaweed lightly fans me.

I feel as a god must, as if the world exists only for me. But I know that it does not. I am just a part of something larger, something which I am not meant to understand fully. But I begin to understand, as I visualize the smallest organics and the largest galactic walls, and realize that they are one and the same. Such a resemblance. Existence repeats itself. And there are so many planes of existence, of which I only begin to touch in my dreams. But this underwater throne is my place of solace, solitude, solidity.

Rush back to the misty paths and the wetness under the stars. Down the lane in the glow and shifting of the gases, I hope to see a figure. In this elevated awareness it seems only right that he should appear. I’m not yet sure who. And I paused to consider the dying yellow star and the lure of black wilderness against the lighted paths and ease of routine. Should I return home, head down, plugged into electronic music? Or does the wild intrigue?

And I made my choice known by leaving the lit path and following the yellow star. Looking up again, I see the smear of our own galaxy arc across the sky. I am still afraid, I tell myself. I should like to envelope myself in this beauty and continue further into the wild, yet that’s just it. I’m still afraid. There are cougars and wild things out there, and I am alone with my thoughts. One day perhaps I won’t be afraid, and will continue on, and receive my reward. This spirit is clinging to this body still. One day it will learn the benefits of release. I know it.

My Eyes

You can’t call my eyes blue. They are tinged with green, maybe of the sea. They are wistful and grayish-silver sometimes, just like my hair can be. I look into my eyes and I see longing, and wanderlust. Sadness and mystery and daring. A hint of yellow marks adventure. They are confused yet probing and deep. They change color. Sometimes they are deep greenish with blue if I’m feeling creative, or gray if I’m wistful.

My eyes change with the seasons and the weather. They change like my heart. They have stayed the same over the years, but have grown wiser. They are not so round and full of wonder as they once were, but are more angular now with some knowledge of the world.

I don’t think about my eyes often, but people complement me on them. They are beautiful, they are deep. I thought they were functional. I never realized that they reflect myself to the world. My eyes see many things, but sometimes forget to look within.