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.