Upon the Pier

Be still my beating heart
When the sun finally sets and the wind blows west
When among family we are cherished and beloved
When the night knows no thunder, no riddle left to solve

Be still my beating heart
When the pools of happiness spill out incessantly
When with passing years age becomes a wonder
When amongst endless hugs and smiles, we no longer ponder

If my heart were to be still, it would be then and not any other time
Before our loved ones are captured in the grip of fate
Before their time ceases and the earth opens its gate
It would be then, amongst the joy of their company

Be still my beating heart, but not quite yet
For the sun has yet to set
For they still await a new year
For we sit in brotherly arms upon the pier


Happy New Year's...cherish those who love you..

The Adversary

The design is simple. They hope. They lose hope. They falter. Only to gain hope again and subsequently falter. Some never lose hope. Those are the lucky ones I suppose. It is a crap-shoot as far as I am concerned. Some are saved, most aren't. The decision is left to no one. I simply swoop in like a vulture to feed on the carrion of humanity. The weak. The wounded. The ones that can no longer muster the necessary strength to live amidst the decay of their consequences.

Why do I pick them apart, like a fresh carcass. Because I can. Because I want to. I am arrogant. You are beneath me. You reside in the pit of what is most hated. His imperfect creatures of such fragile nature. I pick each and every one of you apart with my claws, with my teeth. I leave you naked and distressed in the gutter of your own despair. Your arguments, I turn into vessels of violence. I penetrate your innocence with my acid-coated tongue. You fall. I break you further.

He fights me at every step, at every corner. He has his vision of what the world should look like and I burn his blueprint, only to have him create a new one. His table creaks. He drowns in his own tears. He gives you hope. My words gain strength in the restless noise and wanton desires of your humanity. Your meek nature poses no challenge. He watches your cities burn. He watches while your loved ones cease to exist in the most random of events. Yet you pray. And you visit his house. And you hope.

I remain. The unseen puppeteer. Your unsung hero is slowly fading away. I am keen and I am cunning. I wallow in the greatness that is your necessity to destroy one another. I wallow in your hypocritical nature, your so-called acts of kindness. I know the truth of what keeps you up at night. Your fears are the sweetest of dreams.

Go ahead. Put up your decorations and spend as much money as you possibly can on gifts for the mockery that you've made of his birthday. Pile them up real high under the tree. Maybe then he will answer your prayers. I will continue to watch it all unravel as I pick you apart piece by piece.

The Unsung Hero

The unsung hero sits by the darkness of the kitchen table. Smoke wafts from his lips reminiscent of a midnight ritual in some godforsaken place. He watches the night and lingers to hear its calling and its desires. He understands its retribution. It is a song meant to be heard by those unfortunate souls who have yet to cross the edge. The ones which have sat at that same table and have contemplated many things. Thoughts remain adrift and sudden movements dance gracefully as if guided by an unseen puppeteer of rare and exotic talent.

The night in all its simplicity provides him with uncanny fortitude of spirit and cunning. His palms heavy with stains from years of turmoil. His eyelids paint the picture of a man physically broken. A man whose gun rusts away, coated with the salt of vitriol and wasted years. It has been his companion through episodes of melancholy and trepidation. Everyone else is no longer here. The table creaks with solemn sighs of weathered storms. It is his foundation, however brittle it may be.

Moonlight's glow bathes the barrel of his gun in a silvery streak. He holds his head in his hands, his hair long and disheveled. The look of a man that has witnessed loneliness for far too long. He longs to ease the pain but must remain keen and cunning. He must breathe and remove himself from that caricature that sits by the darkness of the table. Relentless must be his pursuit of air. His tears like molten silver etch themselves on a visage long eroded.

In some far-away land, his song plays in old villages and older spaces. The unsung hero rides again in silvery light. The table no longer creaks. The rust and heaviness washed away by the rivers of overflowing dreams. Those wasted years so familiar are like a knife penetrating his side. He rides beneath moonlight's glow. The unseen puppeteer moves about like a wraith. Tales of woe and lamentation are carried off by winds of storm. The unsung hero is once again keen and cunning.

How Deep is the Ocean

Notes from the Stark and Decadent Desk:  It is dark, it is gloomy. It's time to start thinking about where to travel come 2014. Revisit Paris? Shack up under palm trees and steel drums? Hike Mount Everest? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 2013 was...well ..is still...a banner year for travel. Took several mini-trips around the continental US and then tore off the bandage with a fury not seen since Brando danced his Tango...Paris beckoned. 

I guess that sort of trip whet my appetite for more International type travel. I long to see architecture and castles and surround myself in centuries-old customs. Perhaps a blend of both the ocean and the old world... somewhere in Western Europe. Away from the Vikings... 

Travel is as vital as oxygen. It is the proverbial pressing of the eject button to somehow escape the routine, the mundane aspects of our day to day. I want to get lost again in some city's streets and stumble upon empty bars and street musicians. I want to ride on the waves of its ocean and plunge into its depths and have it plunge its knife deep in my heart. So very deep that it will always stay with me. 

The need to be elsewhere is of utmost importance. It must be fulfilled by any means necessary. We cannot afford to languish under solitary roofs and meander soulless streets and stick to empty companions. Life is so much more than this. 

How deep is the ocean you ask...? Its acceptance perhaps weak and weary at time. I guess it depends on the individual and how far they are willing to go to shake off despair. To cleanse the rust and dust off familiarity. It is within familiarity that we fall victim to shallow shores, drowning us in its shallow waters, continuously scraping off the luster. It is as deep as you want it to be. Swimming lessons not required.

Reflections from the Tower

One of my very first entries on this site, titled "In An Elevator", written back on Aug 10th, 2010, remains one of my most emotional pieces. I oscillated between trepidation and rejoice so many times, thinking the worst, thinking the best. It was truly one of the longest nights of my life and perhaps the most exhilarating. It is a piece I wrote while looking back on that very night my oldest child was born.

Since then, I've dedicated similar entries to my son Alex. His first day in First Grade, his debut as a pitcher. I've thought about Alex more than usual as of late. He is now 9 and in three months turns 10. I look back at the struggles faced since his birth, weighing only 3 lbs, living his first few weeks in the NICU unit, the staples on the back of his head after a fall off the monkey-bars, and so on. He just recently got braces, something he's not entirely happy with..

I look back at myself as a Father throughout these past 9 years and hope I've done enough. Perhaps I am tougher on him than my other two because I see so much potential. I see so much brilliance and wonder and unbridled joy in the most mundane of things; a rubber band, a broken pencil, a small rock. It is truly a wonder to see Alex in action, architect and master of his kingdom.

Soon he will turn 10, and he will move on to those dreaded middle school years, full of complexities and turbulence. On January 24th, 2004 I found myself in a metal box of trepidation. The restraints from that box have slowly eroded, yet at times they pull me back and cloud my judgement. I'm still learning. To be a father. To push less. To sit back more often and watch him in all his wonder. To listen more about habitable planets and galaxies and far-off stars.

Perhaps I will never fully leave that metal box. Perhaps that is my role, to be both his protector, his tormentor and his guide. For now, I enjoy those mornings where we simply sit on the couch while everyone else sleeps, listen to jazz, drink chocolate milk/coffee and talk about the simple things in life. I love my boy.

Something Wicked This Way Comes....

Sneak peek at something I've been working on.... 

The morning after, everything was drenched in a carpet of rain drops and cobwebs. It was a surreal canvas to wake up to after last night’s events and its ultimate finality. Narrowing in on what we deemed to be impossible, we discovered things that ought to have remained hidden. Perhaps in another lifetime progress would have led to much needed freedom, the type which is almost inaccessible in most places; the freedom of the soul.

Languishing before us was the statuesque and ethereal silhouette of one Gretchen Harris. Her hazel eyes brimmed with tears reserved for lost loves, in this case in the form of Sam Parker. They’d met long ago when they were wild eyed kids ready to take on the world. At some point their paths diverted, one destined for despair, and the other leading to certain demise. Their story is the type written about by lost dreamers and subject matter experts in the art of melancholy.

In 1911, the Davis mine caved-in, killing 120 men. By the mid 1930s only the blacksmith shop and 150 cellar holes remained where homes once stood. The mine is the epicenter of all things related to Gretchen, Sam and myself. The aftermath of the cave-in is embedded in the residents of this remote town. The once prosperous area is now occupied by shadows, silence and desolation. And it is in the midst of this desolation that our story, steeped in melancholy, begins. 

Dim light of my despair

Restless in nature

Intimately aware

That my departure is unlikely

That I can no longer breathe air

In shadowy corners

In paths we’ve crossed

The allure seems brightest

The emptiness divorced

Dim light of my despair

Stay awake for me

Stay always with me

Till I can once again breathe air

Battlefield

In light of recent events, I've developed a profound belief that life is not only unfair, but unjust. For the grand majority of my years I've felt like there are reasons for everything that happens; reasons why bad things happen to good people, or why horrific acts of violence against humanity are allowed to continue. I am sympathetic to the human condition. I am sympathetic to the fact that essentially we are creatures that struggle to commit acts of goodness daily. Many out there, fully aware of evil or unjust acts that they are about to commit, commit them anyways, and then lament the fact that they gave in to their so-called evil ways. We are flawed, I understand. We struggle to find within ourselves reasons to commit acts of goodness.

There are no reasons and I also fail to believe that there is a grand plan. It is a simply a matter of free will and our continuous descent into the proverbial rat-hole. Blame parental guidance, blame society, blame mental illnesses. Those are the popular ones amidst the laundry list of excuses we tend to come up with daily. I am no angel by any means, nor do I pretend to be. I am who I am, a flawed individual who struggles daily to commit acts of goodness. Some may say I need to pray more often, others may say I need Jesus in my life. Those are the same excuses given to the rapists, the sex offenders, the evil doers of our world, who wake up every morning with one thought and one thought only; I will give my all to do as much harm and commit as many horrific acts as possible, simply because I can and am inclined to do so.

A friend of a friend is dying from cancer, she has but days left, and will leave behind two young children. She is someone I have never met. Having children of my own, my thoughts immediately gravitate towards their well being. I feel sick about it. Her despair is my despair, because I am a parent, because I am human. Because we are connected. It is not fair. It is not just. Is it then all a crap shoot? Is it a random generator of alternative endings for anyone and everyone?

The suffering, the horrific acts we commit towards one another, the early demise of some for no apparent reason. Where does this all lead?  How can we as humans be expected to better our condition, when all around us despair and lament take center stage?

How deep does the rat-hole go?  We simply continue to descend into sub-human levels. We are losing our humanity. We are losing our ability to simply help our neighbor. We are losing ourselves and devolving. Young and old alike, we suffer, some too young, from one day to the next it is all lost. We are losing the war.

Paris Day 1 - The Arrival III

After our first meal in Paris, we decided to go for a stroll around Avenue Termes and meet up with Nahomy and Kelvin at the Metro station. This was our first chance to really see how the locals act, passing many cafes and boutique stores along the way. This is rush hour and there are plenty of local Parisians strolling the streets, some holding on to a briefcase, while others simply carry a baguette. Eventually we reached the Metro on Avenue Termes and met up with our fellow travelers.

The cavernous Metro system in Paris is one of the easiest / accessible transportation systems in the world. It is dependable and fast. I recommend buying the ten ticket pass, which comes out to a little over 11 Euros; trust me you will need them. With ticket in hand, we swing into the Metro for the very first time. A good mixture of locals (who want nothing to do with tourists) and cheery tourists from all over the world await. As the Metro hums along, we notice that there is a three piece band playing music towards the back of the cabin.  This is one of many encounters with musicians both on the Metro and outside it. Music is certainly not frowned upon in this great city.

We get off near Rue de Rivoli, adjacent to the Tuleries Gardens, and check in for our scheduled boat tour of the River Seine. With some time to kill, we hit a cafe for a quick drink, after all it's 90 F and humid. We bid au revoir to our fellow travelers and on we go on the massive bus that will take us to our boating destination.

This is where it truly hits me, on a boat down the Seine, watching the scenery all around me...the Eiffel tower in the distance, Notre Dame pillars, ancient bridges, lush residences, the way the sun lights up the city. It's all magical. It's hard to explain unless you are there and experience it. This part of the world with so much history, resonates with magic and a clarity unlike anything I've ever experienced. This isn't just some old world city, this is magic, this is beauty, this is exactly why I needed to be here, this is Paris. It is charming, it is ethereal, almost like a fairy tale. I thanked God countless times while on that boat, thinking how lucky I was. Never will I see the sun set like I did while on the Seine. And still..this is just day 1. C'est tres bon!

Paris Day 1 - The Arrival II

We decide to explore our surroundings a bit and quickly notice a few cool things. We have a butcher shop, a small grocery market, a wine shop, a bakery and a pastry shop wrapped around the hotel. Additionally, there are two cafes conviently located in our vicinity - L'Arc and Le Grand Carnot.

As we continue our stroll past our newfound neighborhood, we pass numerous residential areas among a slew of other boutiques and cafes. Crossing into Avenue Mac-Mahon we come face to face with the deranged Parisian drivers and the after-work crowd rushing to grab a smoke, a baguette, a coffee, anything they could get their hands on. Finally, hunger sets in and we settle on a cafe called "Beer Station" , and walk into the place signaling that we desire to sit outdoors.

The cool thing about cafes in Paris is that they outnumber people and their chairs all face away from the cafe. It is a vital custom in Paris to people watch, check out what's happening at the cafe across the street, and essentially be a nosy oogler. Parisians love to watch people, it is in their blood. They must stare and mutter something unintelligible. It's part of the game. A thousand stares come down as we sit in a Parisian cafe for the first time, as the natives react violently to the tourist threat. Parisians detest tourists...but more on that later. When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. Order wine - which is exactly what we do. Along with beer...1664 how I miss thee

We take a break from chatting about what we are going to devour to just take in the scene around us. We are in Paris, at a café, how cliché perhaps, but it must be done. Life goes on all around us. Rapid fire Parisians, drinking their coffee. Others staring out into the Avenue. One guy is reading a newspaper. Cafes are like a second home in Paris; a place to kick off your shoes, put your feet up and just unwind a bit. The table becomes part of your real-estate as far as the waitstaff is concerned. They don’t come over and inquire about the quality of your meal, or if you need another beer. They simply let you be. And you can literally sit there the entire day. Bliss.

Cote du Rhone is the wine of choice. Simply gorgeous. Our meals arrive – ‘still alive’ cow with buttery pasta for moi, steak and frites for Melitza. Decent meal with the highlight being the pasta. Delicious. After devouring everything including the bread basket, it’s time to just linger. And that is exactly what we do.

Paris Day 1 - The Arrival

Wednesday July 24^th – Paris Day 1

It is 11:45 AM Paris time, and we’ve finally arrived from Madrid. I actually gasped when the plane landed…Am I really here? Craziness...It’s a hot one today around 86 degrees, and the distinct lack of air conditioner is noticeable at the Orly airport while waiting for our luggage. Melitza had no hope that the bags would arrive given our tardiness in getting our boarding passes at Logan. Luckily, I did not have to wait long. The bags arrived quickly and off we were to use the ATM! Took out 200 Euros and off I went to make my first purchase – an orange soda and a red bull. Yeah, I l know, exciting! Luckily we had already paid for admission to the bus which if my calculations are correct, would drop us off within 5 minutes walking distance from the hotel. 

 

Off we go, on the road towards Paris. Traffic is so weird here… lanes are narrow and cars are small. The bus trots along like an 18 wheeler and I just hope to make it in once piece. As you enter Paris from the South end, you notice tons of graffiti and run down buildings. Looks like a bomb went off here and vegetation has taken over the buildings as its new tenants.

Once we leave the artwork scenery the real Paris comes to light. The buildings, the tiny apartments with their balconies, the tourists, the cafes…! The closer we get to the stop I begin to recognize some of the highlights of Paris.  Pont Neuf, Le Grand Palais, Musee D’Armee and then the Eiffel catches the corner of my eye and that is when I suddenly come to realize, I am actually here. The stop comes to a halt a few feet off the Arc de Triomphe. What a majestic view. Melitza reminds me that I am actually walking in Paris. I just nod my head. There are 6 avenues that end at the Arc, with one of them being Avenue Carnot, where our hotel lies.

We drag our luggage downhill towards the Hotel Astrid, our bones barely hanging on to us, and within minutes we enter. To our left is a cozy room where they serve breakfast. The hotel attendant (I never caught her name) greets us with the ubiquitous Bon Jour. I respond with a Bon Jour of my own though not as guttural as hers. It actually sounds like she ends it with a ‘grrrrr’ of sorts…She quickly surmises that we are tourists. Referring to us as Monsieur and Madame Lopez. This is awesome.  She hands over the key to room 527 (cinquant veinte-sept), which weighs as much as a 20 pound barbell, and off we go.

The elevator is more like a coffin than an elevator. Fits at most 5 people…I take the luggage with me while Melitza decides it’s best to climb 5 stories. Once we finally figured out how to open the door (by sheer luck…), we head in. The room is tiny but cute with a closet, a mounted TV a desk, a small table and a pretty big bathroom. But the highlight of the room is its old style window which opens into an awesome view of the buildings across the avenue, with its red-tiled roofs.  I stick my head out and look towards my right, and there it is… the Arc de Triomphe in all its glory, welcoming us to Paris.

The Art of Falling

We all fall at some point in our lives. From the time we first attempted to walk to the time we tripped over our own feet staring at someone or something of interest. As a matter of fact, we fall a lot. We have mastered the art of falling in our face, falling down the stairs, falling out of the bathtub, falling out of favor; falling into sharp objects, falling out of love, falling behind, falling out of grace. Well... you get my point.

The narrative suggests that something causes us to fall, and in this context, it is that something that is the driving force behind our many falls. What would happen if we never fell? Would we remain in motion eternally? Would it violate the laws of physics and cause some sort of cosmic tear? Interruptions, that is what I will refer to them. These are the ones responsible for our many falls. These interruptions run the gamut from simple objects of interest...that redhead walking down the street sipping her coffee, a '69 Ford Mustang, the way sunlight reflects off a window, thoughts about the past, worries about the future, betrayals, broken hearts, clumsiness, dishonor - they are pervasive and effect our normal way of walking and of simply being.

Some will say that these are necessary elements of humanity, to fall and rise, like the sun. That these are lessons in courage, hardship and the pursuit of something greater, ingrained in our conscience through generations of missteps. Perhaps all of those are contributing factors to our limited mobility. But what is truly the purpose behind our many falls? Is it our inherent fragile nature, our weak selves? Because in essence, we are weak, we are fragile, as fragile as rose petals. Our perceived strength and drive is rendered obsolete. We drift by like a ship on stormy seas.

It takes so much to fulfill ourselves. It takes such a small misstep to cause us to fall, to feel hollow, to harbor emptiness, to rage against humanity and the gods, to envy. All around us lie simple delights that can overwhelm us with fulfillment and continuity.

Inspiration. Cerca trova "Seek and you shall find"

Quick Morning Thoughts

Illusions                                                                                                                                                              
At some point, the shadows receded and revealed a poignant figure in their mist. Inevitably, one must ask, why does the mist linger? Why does it disguise our fears inadvertently? In disgust, we made our final descent towards the mist and the gaping abyss it represented. Were we to live, we would always look back at this moment, as the moment which bested us - the moment which obliterated our dreams and aspirations. A somber reminder of oppression and despair fully committed to the shattering of our salvation.

From Within

A final look provides solidarity, perspective and affirmation that today’s intricacies are all intertwined. Identities seem scattered, grasping hopelessly for relevance and a renewed sense of self-worth. Increasingly, hostile attempts at combining efforts are proving to be futile in nature and in their inception. To what end do we allow floating memories to simply collide? Is there an ending to collusion or are we merely fighting an uphill battle? Certainly best efforts are being made to protect and shield the successors from the malcontents. Still, the failures attributed to this dilemma are endemic and frightening.

The Nightmare                                                                                                                               
I did not know what time it was. All I knew was that the windowless room presented minimal opportunities for escape. For once I was at a loss for words. I questioned my hearing at first until I pounded on the wall and was able to distinctly hear the hollowness of the wall. I yelled, yet no words were audible. Frustrated, I pounded on the wall some more, angry and helpless, until I felt the wall give a little. Perhaps my instincts were kicking in. All I knew was that I did not belong in that room. I continued to pound and kick the wall, until I felt air rushing in. As I continued to make my way through, it became apparent that I had entered another windowless room. I cursed and was able to hear myself finally. Then the room went dark, and I could no longer see.

Change Your Stars

One of my favorite quotes comes from Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist, “When you really want something to happen, the whole universe conspires so that your wish comes true.” 

How do you go back to your life? How do you train yourself to breathe again? You question everything; the meaning of you, your memories, everything that has shaped you in one way or another, lost loves, lost dreams. It is startling to feel as if you have just opened your eyes for the very first time. Your center has been found.

The experience was overwhelming. Everything was positioned exactly as it was supposed to be. Riding on that bus towards Paris, I knew everything would change. All I knew or thought I knew would be questioned. And then the Eiffel sneaks up on you. You catch it from the corner of your eye and you finally come to the conclusion that you have arrived. Aside from my kids' births there has not been a more powerful moment.

I sat on that bus dumbfounded. I sat by the banks of the Seine river inspired by the sheer simplicity of that moment. I prayed at Saint Severin's and shed tears overwhelmed by its beauty and serenity. I rode my bike through centuries old gardens and just breathed. I stood by Marie Antoinette's tomb and paid respects. I saluted Napoleon at his. I sat on street cafes and simply observed the city and its inhabitants; their rituals, their joys and despairs written in their faces like faded graffiti. I'd wake around 3:30 in the morning every day and observe the city as it slept from outside my hotel window, wondering if others were doing the same.

For all its gimmicks, the tourist games, the overcrowded Metro, the thousands of steps taken through its honeycombed neighborhoods, one has to simply let it come. Let it embrace you wholly and unequivocally. For that is its legacy, its allure. You simply fall in love.

I sat on that bus at 5:30 in the morning, moving away from Paris towards an uncertain future. Yet, my present was certain, perhaps more certain than ever. Everything I am made of collided with something greater than myself, something magnificent and glorious and inspiring and blissful. And I am a better human being for it.

Thanks Paris.

No Words to Describe

Exactly a month from now, I will have arrived at a destination most elusive and desired. A place that for the majority of my adult life, has mesmerized me in ways I can barely understand. I can't pinpoint exactly when the love affair began. Perhaps it was a movie or a travel blog I read somewhere. Perhaps conversations with former European co-workers fanned the flames into a raging bonfire. When it was all said and done, something inside me clicked and I knew that there was one place in the world I needed to visit and experience before I died. That place my friends, is Paris.

Just to clear the air, there are no ill-conceived assumptions or cliches to blame. It simply happened. Just like when you first catch the eye of that certain someone and that feeling overwhelms you day and night. In this case, it has never stopped overwhelming me. But what is Paris in reality? The cliches are ridiculous in their enormity and popularity.. One of the most visited cities in the world renders its visitors helpless and penniless all at once! Some fall in love to the point that they leave their possessions astray and make the permanent move. No matter how much reading or prep work I've done, it will never fully prepare me for what I am to experience. Paris is an idea, an idea that seems to move like smoke, and like smoke, it lingers all around me.

This is the third time I've planned a trip to Paris, with the previous two occasions being hijacked by either finances or pregnancies. This time I am going. And I know I will come back changed. I know that the smoke will clear and give way to something otherworldly, something beautiful. As I think about the upcoming journey I feel a landslide of emotions. I can almost touch it. It's almost there, in front of me. It was meant to happen this way.

Those closest to me know how important this journey is to me. Hell, I've even dedicated blogs to Paris on this very site. At this time I will be cruising the Seine during my first night there. I will marvel, I will eat cheese, I will drink copious amounts of French wine, I will ogle at everything and anything, in awe of the City of Light. I will come back changed, for the better.

Paris is an idea. It becomes a reality July 24th. For seven days, everything else is on hold.

I actually Googled "words to describe Paris", and one of the first recommended links said "No words to describe". That is probably the most accurate depiction I've yet to hear.

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast." Ernest Hemingway

Compass

Enthralled by the light of it, I quickly got up from the dump that my pool chair had become and went after it. I was unsure as to what it was, but it dawned on me that perhaps it was important and that I should follow it. Initially, it looked like a bird with glass wings, refracting sunlight, causing it to look prismatic.  It floated around the left side of the resort and I gave chase, wondering in one hand, if I was the only one that saw this. Tourists and locals all around me just went about their business while I went head-first after some shiny floating object. As I whipped around the left corner of the building, I ran into one of the tiki bar waitresses, causing her to wear the drinks she was due to serve.

Great things happen in short bursts of time, sometimes too sudden for us to recognize them as valid moments in the lives we lead. We are too busy. We do not pay enough attention.  Whatever happens in those moments of greatness never surfaces to our comprehension because we lack the emotional stability to halt our pace and breathe.  Somewhere above the high watermark, we stumble.  Internally, our compass is not well-attuned, and that leads us to make rash decisions and ultimately take the wrong path down the road.

I never understood what I was chasing, or how great it actually was. In the end, I apologized to the waitress and life moved forward. Still, I made the move; I got out of my chair and went after whatever it was. Things are inevitably intertwined much more than we think we know. Sooner or later we realize that it isn’t about the length of time associated to an event, but rather whether we recognized its importance, its validity and its solidarity.

 

Total

She will hear you. Somewhere in the shadows of silence, she will listen. Attentively at first, and then her eyes, wet and dripping with nostalgia will signal that she can no longer listen.

She retreats to her day to day. Melancholy stops by from time to time, perhaps to keep her company. From time to time she dresses up and dances around midnight, twirling in her bedroom, between the curtains. She reflects back on those memories, deeply ingrained and always near her. Those are her scars, her friends in passing. Part of all the things she is.

But where would she be, without him. Where would the fire and song cling to. They may dissipate into nothing, into a collection of photos and scarves and the types of things men keep. A collage of forgone conclusions and tired acts that just simply don't mean as much anymore.

Well into the morning they blend into colors, unmistakable blemishes of truth, desire and romance. They reveal their solemn embrace, rarely seen by those who choose to keep their eyes shut. These stellar regions of yesterday and today become entangled in their own history.

He will hear you. Somewhere in the shadows of silence, he will listen. Attentively at first, and then his eyes, tired and burning with despair will simply succumb, into the horizon. He waits as does she, as does the world. Guardians of our dreams and desperation. Lovers of the fall and the rise.

Novelists and Dreamers

It's been a couple of months since we last spoke. I've been on a wicked writing slump the likes of which I've never experienced. Nothing has compelled me to write at all, until tonight. Alas, the writing gods are merciful and have scared me straight into never abandoning this road again...!

But, where do we begin? Well, the last few months have been quite eventful.  I visited family and friends up in Massachusetts for the Holidays, and things down in North Carolina are going quite well. I am back in school, will be running my first 5K come end of February and will be bike-ridimg 27 miles for a very personal cause come May. There's a quick recap of my state of affairs.

Shifting gears now...

Different lenses tend to fit when they want to, or rather, when they are supposed to. We like to think that we are always behind the wheel, in control, and that things get out of control only if we let them. But, what of those times when things become quite clear; when intentions are revealed, obfuscating the perceived truth? There's a chance that all of us at some point or another have or will be at that door.

Call it what you want - karma, God, Allah, Murphy's Law, fate; there are forces at work that have other plans in mind. I am convinced without a shadow of a doubt.

But we shall let those forces be for now, and keep pushing forward because it is necessary. It is in our nature to push forward, survive, not settle. There is a level of chaos that gets under our skin when we just let things be. It manifests itself in our day to day relationships and interactions with those close to us. It materializes in our dreams and perceptions.

The augmentation of the spirit. The absolution of our despairs, begins and ends with us. Chaos must be averted. Chaos in this context, becomes eradicated by our strength of will and mind.

Understanding that at the end of it all, we must become the sole writers of the novel, and the narrators of our dreams. To paraphrase the title of an Irish film, we must become The Wind That Shakes The Barley.

Feels good to be back..