Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Friday, December 03, 2010
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
really not so far from the final stage, he just found nothing left in his legs and couldn't reach any further. after arriving to work on the rickety old bicycle, he found himself in front of the only elevator in the building and it was broken. there were a few people stuck inside the elevator between the 27th and 28th floor, and the technicians were just leaving their office 17 blocks away. well fuck, he thought, first it was the ignition in the car after my alarm didn't set itself last night, and now i have to climb all these fucking stairs. He had been meaning to get back into shape, but just found himself far too lazy every morning before work, at lunch break, and every evening. and plus, there just wasn't enough time in the day to do what he really wanted to do.
the thing that he really wanted to do was to quit his job, leave all that shitty world of exploiting one person for someone else´s gain. not that it would have taken that much time to write the letter, hand it in, and wait out the two weeks of the mandatory notice. the starting of the letter was taking him more time than he had in a lifetime. often he thought to himself, i am compromising my beliefs, why? so that some fat and happy man, his unfaithful wife, and the children who might not be his, can all go on another 2 week vacation to aspen, drinking wine that is more expensive than my bar tab for the month, and sleeping in their fifth home that he paid cash for. but he was still working on starting the letter.
after waiting fifteen minutes for the elevator mechanics to arrive, he finally gave up on the hope of avoiding the grunt work, let his head drop between his slumping shoulders that struggled to fill the over-sized suit, and began to shuffle (as much as one can) up the stairs to the floor where his office was, and the floor where his immediate boss was sitting in the office across, staring at the empty chair in tony's cube. it wasn't even remotely entertaining to stare into tony's cube, there was a picture of his ex-wife hanging crooked in the corner, a few scraps of disorganized paper built into uninteresting stacks, each just slightly less colorful than the last, a map of his sales territory with a few lines drawn, delineating the boundaries that seemed to be continuously retracting, and a cup for his coffee with his college football team's logo. after each step, he began to question the previous, and started to note that, although he knew he was going in the right direction, the numbers did not pass nearly as fast as he was expecting.
Since in the rush to get out the door, he had forgotten to put on his watch, he had no clue the amount of time consumed by this climb, and he was starting to get hungry. he hadn't had his typical breakfast of honey ohs and a glass of don diego's pre-ground coffee. on an empty stomach, there was no way the energy was going to be there to make last the rest of the flights of stairs, so he sat at the landing where he found himself, and buried his head in his hands, running his fingers disgustedly through stingy hair. without the energy to move for the next several minutes, and with a pad of paper that he had in the briefcase, he found a pen and just began to doodle, the doodles became words, the words became musings and the musings became justification for another step. really, what the hell am i doing. slinging myself left leg then right up flight after flight of stairs, to throw my pride to the wolves around me, and sell their feed to the sheep for a better feast. and one that i don' even get to taste.
taking out another sheet, he began writing the letter that he never had time to write. he finished the last word and finally had the energy to climb the stairs to hand in the literary masterpiece and wait out the two weeks, then he realized he was actually two floors above his office, and walked sheepishly down the stairs with his paper in hand. his boss, waiting for his just as he had expected began to pounce, when tony handed him the letter. his boss read it, and calmly explained that letters of resignation had to be accompanied with a form, and in addition to being typed and placed in the slot in his door, they were also to be filed electronically through the human resources page on the intranet. he placed the paper, just as the last in one of the lifeless piles on tony's desk, gave tony a pat on the shoulder, and turn back towards his office closing the door behind him, knowing that tony just didn't have time to write complete the steps necessary. just too much work to be done.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
reflections on a post-thanksgiving dinner:
i had the opportunity to have a couple drinks and dinner this evening with a good friend, her fiancée, two of her sisters, a mutual friend, and a few other friends in the crowd. sifting through the details of the evening, i finally happened across the topic of importance as i sat quietly observing my surroundings: i did not belong. it was not the lack of intellect, it was not the lack of class, nor the lack of the care of the people around me; it was that i simply to not fit with the "independence" and capabilitty of savoring the higher cost joys without finding the sum in the background dwindling, diminishing significantly, maybe a more accurate word would be noticeably.
i cannot blame them for accepting a challenge placed by peers and the predecessors of peers, nor can i say that the luxuries should not be enjoyed. what i can say is that i really no longer have a place in the festivities of a voluptuous bacus and her rowdy entourage. what was once a place that i belong without any doubt, has now become the figure that casts a shadow over my corner of the table. bacus now appears to have slimmed greatly, becoming a near anarexic shadow of the lover who prostituted herself to the mortgage of a man.
past "lives" have offered me events hosted and attended by only the elite, being a guest of distinction at one, a simple wall flower at another, and at best a buzzing fly for a third. a question comes to mind: what story is it that age then begins to tell? is it the same story of a progress toward "greatness" that just doesn't fit without the tight confines of the ĂĽber elite? or just finally being able to recognize where it is that one actually fits within these crowds and mini-classes? the reflections of this evening bring me closer to a moment of understanding an "artists" discomfort with the world of "fine" things when those things are not something that should be so easily attainable for such a short period of time.
they are the shadows of the ghosts of what could have been at that moment, under different circumstances and with different influences. born to more over-worldly pleasures, and distanced from more grounded, simple joy. how long can you belong to something that cannot possibly imagine you within it before it recognizes your presence and spits you out the rubbish discharge, trash not dissimilar to the worn cog, that always refused to fit properly wearing the edges of its own cogs, as well as the cogs that tried hopelessly to fit against it, and finally being chewed and spit by the machine for which it was supposed to be a functional part?
not really a relevent photo
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
the (w)hole of chet baker. his life was not perfect, nor was it really all that beautiful, but what it was was memorably tragic. a beautiful and delicate voice, it revealed his vulnerability, even to himself. to whom are we suceptible if we are not [exactly that] to ourselves? but to let one's-self search for an internal disappearance...
his existance became a hole, and it was in that hole where he was able to bury himself, hiding all that was his self-perceived identity, until unable to even recognize himself. in that hole he was able to slowly destroy everything that he was, all that created him and everything there was around him; except for the two things that were the true outward presentation of his complete internal vulnerability: his voice and the trumpet, both calling out with a joyful melencholy that was his expression, but that he couldn't seem to even claim as his own. they too belong to the pieces of his creation. he contained himself, but somehow had no control of the contents his soul consuming everything that made it, and held it.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Thursday, July 08, 2010
come find the sea
come float with the seaweed and me
so strange to be
floating with seaweed and me
the depths of the waters are so profound
and the fishes they nibble the kelp
they carry the bits to the darkest depths
where you can drown searching for help
come find the sea
come float with the seaweed and me
so strange to be
floating with seaweed and me
the waves are crashing, over the wiseman's head
and the water looks into his lungs
come float with the seaweed and me
so strange to be
floating with seaweed and me
he found the sea
and sunk with the seaweed and me
come fly with me
and seaweed in the eternal sea
come find the sea
come float with the seaweed and me
so strange to be
floating with seaweed and me
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
almost forgotten
I cannot remember your squint after a long fit of laughter
nor the touch of your hand as we sit, awed by the fire.
The color in your eyes has sunk deep into an old photo,
and the corners of the photo, reminders of your forgotten your smile.
Reminders of the days, when I awake with your warmth.
Gone are the days, when we occupied my spaces,
warmth now disappeared from each corner and each nook.
There is, but one place where you remain sharp and alive;
one place where your hands still pull at my heart.
But gone are the days, when I awake to your warmth.
As I return for a dream between morning and snooze,
15 minutes to recover a loss that should never have been.
Behind a fountain your figures disappear into shadows
and the figures in silhouette grow closer to one .
You return to speak, awaited words also seem to arrive,
slowly and with clarity the unknown seemingly released.
Then just when you are ready to tell me your truths…
15 minutes are gone and your voice turns to what wakes me.
Also gone are those days, when I awake to your warmth.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
at least he was able to swim.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
I don't want to clean
.
I have cleaned, again and again,
each part of my external eye
with the sweet saline of a cry
only to see it will need to be cleaned
again.
I have also cleaned, with the same
frequency, the part seen through my eye.
Wet, drenched, and sopping; with its trouble
it slugs, burdened, through my new, internal sea.
Tell me that my eyes are not
the only to see what looms ahead,
nor what weighs, like a plow, behind.
Were these tears not caused by the future,
forged in the fires of past mistakes?
My heart begs that neither is too true,
that neither is our present.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
This was the answer I had, close the book that I had started so long ago. I was hooked on the memory of the time that past between Agust of 2002 and May of 2003, and it seemed as if everything had pointed to my finally being able to walk through the door, with S, closing it behind me and leaving all the insecurities of that period behind. Now, I am forced to ask myself whether I have made a mistake and let someone that means so much to me get too far away. Her words are very reassuring, they give me hope: her actions are cause for concern, they seemed to have cooled with the Spanish air. 5 months here and five months remain. They have the possibility of being five months of near bliss, spending time with my love, but they too, have the possibility of being a natural pergatory. I do not believe, or at least do not want to believe that the latter is a true possibility.
One phrase, to (was to) be uttered in a restaurant in Rome, (was to be) really, the asnwer.