Even birds couldn't stand these hot summer days. City surrounded everybody with its glowing from the Sun, stones, asphalt and annoying cars. The drivers stuck in the traffic seemed to be half-dead. It seemed like not only the water evaporated but also everything humane with it.
I was exhausted just by the thought that I would have to go to there through such weather. But it was not up to me to make a final decision. Sometimes it's a great experience when you find something valuable on a road you've never chosen for yourself.
Having strolled in a lemur like way through the spikes of the sun right into the car, I have turned the ignition on and felt the sweet airfall of the cold conditioner that fell right onto my face. I love such little but joyful moments. Passing trees waved to me as if they were asking me to help and save them and I smiled back wondering about my imagination.
He called me a week ago and wanted to meet me, but I was out of town with all my errands that new boss throws on my head.
We agreed to meet in a bar, not so far from the high school where we both used to go.
In my memories, he was a rock star, a sex bomb, a football player, a guitar solo. All the girls I knew wanted to have sex with him right in the locker room and most of them did. I never liked him for that.
He could not look straight into my face.
I remembered his eyes full of hell's fire, which you would never want to touch; some mad energy and an insane unstoppable will gleamed through them.
Now I could not see a single trait of a man that he used to be. It all was gone... Ashes and smoke took place of a young man that I used to fear and honor secretly.
He sat at front of me and started to talk. I listened to every word he was saying and without interrupting… learning what he had become.
Mixed feeling s were all over my heart. I have not seen him since graduation and we never talked to each other since then. He went to a med school and I started working as a salesman. He never called… And now I sit here and listen to all the stories he had in past ten years like I always was his best friend.
to be continued...
Catching a Butterfly
Catching a Butterfly
Two years ago I had a bad insomnia. As I remember, not sleeping enough led me to apathy and depression. Indeed, it was miserable time; I was lost in time and space, browsing through clubs and restaurants, looking for my medicine. But what I discovered was more than a cure from my insomnia; it was a life enriching experience that still brings beauty into my life.
It happened on one of those misty autumn nights. As I sat at the table, the DJ announced the name of a young performer. “This night will be just like all the other sleepless, long, and boring nights,” I thought, as she appeared in front of the audience. Seventeen or nineteen years old, dark blond, in a long black dress, a scared out of her wits conservatory student.
As I started looking impatiently for a waiter, she sat down at the piano and...
In the whole world clocks stopped. It was as if a colorful butterfly, following the shiny cold creek, flew into my soul, bringing the fresh breeze on its tiny wings. At her gentle touch of the keyboard, I got to see how beautiful she was. From the music she played, her face started pouring out light, and her pale skin glowed like the surface of the moon. Her music gushed into my veins infusing me with life. For a moment I thought, "She must be a goddess." The harmony of her music gave her confidence. She talked artfully to the black and white keys persuading them with striking chords. It reminded me of my childhood: easy, curious, satisfied and simple.
After she finished, she bowed down in front of everybody. Before disappearing behind the curtains, she looked at me and smiled for a short while, as though she knew me.
That night I came home and slept all night and all day.
I wanted to listen to her again, but I could not find that pianist anywhere; I did not even know her name.
After a while, insomnia came back.
Either in attempts to revive feelings of that night or just mere sleepless insanity, I had attended piano classes over one month, every evening. Considering that I was twenty one years old, it was not easy, but it was worth it.
Now remembering that one night when I saw the playing goddess, I understand what I needed. It was not a good restaurant, expensive meals, and drinks, but real beauty. Not the one that is on the surface of magazines, where everybody sees it, but the one that stems from the depth of the being itself, expressed in the art and love, that is able to go inside me and make me feel alive again.
Since that sleepless autumn, every time I practice my piano, the magic butterfly comes back, and when I go to bed, I sleep as sweet as a child.
Two years ago I had a bad insomnia. As I remember, not sleeping enough led me to apathy and depression. Indeed, it was miserable time; I was lost in time and space, browsing through clubs and restaurants, looking for my medicine. But what I discovered was more than a cure from my insomnia; it was a life enriching experience that still brings beauty into my life.
It happened on one of those misty autumn nights. As I sat at the table, the DJ announced the name of a young performer. “This night will be just like all the other sleepless, long, and boring nights,” I thought, as she appeared in front of the audience. Seventeen or nineteen years old, dark blond, in a long black dress, a scared out of her wits conservatory student.
As I started looking impatiently for a waiter, she sat down at the piano and...
In the whole world clocks stopped. It was as if a colorful butterfly, following the shiny cold creek, flew into my soul, bringing the fresh breeze on its tiny wings. At her gentle touch of the keyboard, I got to see how beautiful she was. From the music she played, her face started pouring out light, and her pale skin glowed like the surface of the moon. Her music gushed into my veins infusing me with life. For a moment I thought, "She must be a goddess." The harmony of her music gave her confidence. She talked artfully to the black and white keys persuading them with striking chords. It reminded me of my childhood: easy, curious, satisfied and simple.
After she finished, she bowed down in front of everybody. Before disappearing behind the curtains, she looked at me and smiled for a short while, as though she knew me.
That night I came home and slept all night and all day.
I wanted to listen to her again, but I could not find that pianist anywhere; I did not even know her name.
After a while, insomnia came back.
Either in attempts to revive feelings of that night or just mere sleepless insanity, I had attended piano classes over one month, every evening. Considering that I was twenty one years old, it was not easy, but it was worth it.
Now remembering that one night when I saw the playing goddess, I understand what I needed. It was not a good restaurant, expensive meals, and drinks, but real beauty. Not the one that is on the surface of magazines, where everybody sees it, but the one that stems from the depth of the being itself, expressed in the art and love, that is able to go inside me and make me feel alive again.
Since that sleepless autumn, every time I practice my piano, the magic butterfly comes back, and when I go to bed, I sleep as sweet as a child.
a man
A single man with his face behind the window is gazing at the street. Everybody is running but he is just staying and watching them. Is there any need to run? Or speak, or talk, or cry? He does not think so. Unfixable skepticism had covered all the beauty that a young boy inside of him could see one time. It was time of restless nights, crazy girls, and beer and best friends. He said “friends” outloud to himself as though he tried to remember what that word meant. None of them even bothered to call him since the time he saw them for the last time.
He looks at the street, while lonely crowd of desperate to the bone so called “individuals” is trying to make it somewhere, talking on the cell phones, listening to iPods, smoking, chattering and calmly waiting for the bus.
He looks at the street, while lonely crowd of desperate to the bone so called “individuals” is trying to make it somewhere, talking on the cell phones, listening to iPods, smoking, chattering and calmly waiting for the bus.
harmony
Her fingers sliding on the piano keyboard back and forth gently squeeze the romantic melody out for you. Just like a falling autumn leaf that touches your cheek... You feel the space that her white fingers open inside of you in all dimensions. She is an art herself, her dress and naked back.
It is as the two butterflies that play together, as gleaming sun in the morning that breaks through the glass of your window, ray after ray making your room lighter with no violence and haste, a strong change inside of you, a breeze that brings an earthquake.
And you desire to become one of those keys that she touches raising the wave of the melody to the skies.
It is as the two butterflies that play together, as gleaming sun in the morning that breaks through the glass of your window, ray after ray making your room lighter with no violence and haste, a strong change inside of you, a breeze that brings an earthquake.
And you desire to become one of those keys that she touches raising the wave of the melody to the skies.
Cosmos of the club
Here on the roof of one million stairs building nothing is scary but the life itself. Nothing inspires more than looking down, on the gleaming arteries of the big, penetrated by the dense matter of the cosmos, city. The stars are different here, even if some of them are hot on the surface, inside they are endlessly cold, not that big, and a lot of them already drunk.
But the city lives in its dangerous pictures of infinite and bright life. Flame and fire of global roll call of the people in the windows, sets the rhythm. They flash slower and more silent and eventually start sleeping, not all of them in the beds, some of them on the roads, in the restrooms, sitting on toilets, waiting for the bus or a barmen, who doesn’t want to fill this glass up again… why… wouldn’t he… just go home and sleep and forget and start tomorrow again, like everybody, like friends and even enemies, just to start… Start what? He forgot. He is sleeping while security man is dragging him towards the back door.
A blond woman looks at that such picture pouring into the ear of her lover some kind of laughter. It can’t be her husband. Women never laugh like that with their husbands. That kind of laugh that says “I’m the happiest woman because of intense and frequent intercourse” is dedicated only for the lovers.
In the evening, especially at night, there are no boundaries for having sex. There is no place where it is inappropriate. How could it be inappropriate if nothing else is left? There are sex and the street lights only.
During the day they earn money, and at night they hunt for a good sex in the club. Sometimes it does not matter who. As those sorority girls that came in the club. An assortment of sparkling champagne, chocolate with vodka and cognac goes all inside of them to put out this thirst for the perfect sex. Somehow it helps us to touch the tail of perfection, the more alcohol you pour in, the better seem to be the circumstances for having sex. A filthy restroom or soaked with vomit street, everything is madly romantic under these dancing stars.
A guy is making out with a girl. The fumes of beer, wine and tequila kills the desire to kiss her, but he already started and can't stop because this schoolgirl will not understand. He has to kiss her to get what he want. She is a novice here, still starts with kisses...
An ex gay protestant priest, with such an angry and at the same time exhilarated smile, is hiding behind the corner to shout out “Repent!” at those who coming out or going in the club. He likes putting to shame some innocent girls who hesitated to come here. He likes to scare people, to make them angry, it gives the feeling that you do have power from god, and it even makes him feel like a god. All his life he dedicates to the approval for his way of living, for his sacrifices and social deprivation, so when he sees a drunken man lying on the street he is not compassionate, but happy. Happy to see that he was right, they were wrong and that Jesus did save him. But all he needs is love, the love that someone rejected to give him once, the one who could not understand him and it was not Jesus, it was his Dad who tortured his heart and never paid attention to him.
After the security chucked out the drunken man they noticed a scared from his own power priest and stepped towards him. He didn’t want to get beaten up again and ran away with fading “You all gonna burn in Hell…”
The club can breathe with new strength, all the weak and collapsed are already outside, and the blond woman is already touching a personal tail of perfection on her knees in the restroom.
But the city lives in its dangerous pictures of infinite and bright life. Flame and fire of global roll call of the people in the windows, sets the rhythm. They flash slower and more silent and eventually start sleeping, not all of them in the beds, some of them on the roads, in the restrooms, sitting on toilets, waiting for the bus or a barmen, who doesn’t want to fill this glass up again… why… wouldn’t he… just go home and sleep and forget and start tomorrow again, like everybody, like friends and even enemies, just to start… Start what? He forgot. He is sleeping while security man is dragging him towards the back door.
A blond woman looks at that such picture pouring into the ear of her lover some kind of laughter. It can’t be her husband. Women never laugh like that with their husbands. That kind of laugh that says “I’m the happiest woman because of intense and frequent intercourse” is dedicated only for the lovers.
In the evening, especially at night, there are no boundaries for having sex. There is no place where it is inappropriate. How could it be inappropriate if nothing else is left? There are sex and the street lights only.
During the day they earn money, and at night they hunt for a good sex in the club. Sometimes it does not matter who. As those sorority girls that came in the club. An assortment of sparkling champagne, chocolate with vodka and cognac goes all inside of them to put out this thirst for the perfect sex. Somehow it helps us to touch the tail of perfection, the more alcohol you pour in, the better seem to be the circumstances for having sex. A filthy restroom or soaked with vomit street, everything is madly romantic under these dancing stars.
A guy is making out with a girl. The fumes of beer, wine and tequila kills the desire to kiss her, but he already started and can't stop because this schoolgirl will not understand. He has to kiss her to get what he want. She is a novice here, still starts with kisses...
An ex gay protestant priest, with such an angry and at the same time exhilarated smile, is hiding behind the corner to shout out “Repent!” at those who coming out or going in the club. He likes putting to shame some innocent girls who hesitated to come here. He likes to scare people, to make them angry, it gives the feeling that you do have power from god, and it even makes him feel like a god. All his life he dedicates to the approval for his way of living, for his sacrifices and social deprivation, so when he sees a drunken man lying on the street he is not compassionate, but happy. Happy to see that he was right, they were wrong and that Jesus did save him. But all he needs is love, the love that someone rejected to give him once, the one who could not understand him and it was not Jesus, it was his Dad who tortured his heart and never paid attention to him.
After the security chucked out the drunken man they noticed a scared from his own power priest and stepped towards him. He didn’t want to get beaten up again and ran away with fading “You all gonna burn in Hell…”
The club can breathe with new strength, all the weak and collapsed are already outside, and the blond woman is already touching a personal tail of perfection on her knees in the restroom.
To see you dancing…
If you had to describe the night time through the senses, what would you say?...
Night. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. A cigarette with a shadow of lipstick still highlights a little spot in the empty room. An act of passionate synergy just happened here, just now.
A woman is lying next to a man. The man starts slipping into the vague slumber. He did his part, and started dreaming about his first love, then the second, and afterwards just about another woman who was not a “Lolita” but a “Madame Bovary”... not a fire but an atomic bomb.
She is naked from the waist down. Even darkness of this room seems to like her smooth, young and perfect legs. Her skin is painted into the twilight colors and occasionally gleaming lights of passing by cars, the only intruders here. Eyes closed, lips shut, a silent mask on her face says that is somewhere else now, as well. She has a slight breeze of dissatisfaction, melted by sweet atmosphere of the good wine. “But the sex was not as good as the wine; today’s sex was rather like a Siberian vodka. Damn butcher…” she thought.
She smiled, as a note once dedicated to her by a guy, whose name she forgot, came up in her sleepy mind:
“It is totally impossible to describe. Furthermore, describing you is an offensive act that sets boundaries to your unlimited perfection. I gaze at you as though you are my best and the one perfect equilibrium for any moment of my tiny life. You could have been my best decision and “perpetuum mobile” for the whole life, where is no sorrow and solitude, but ideality. As sun flares, your true beauty starts and ends in you. I am lost in your magnetic fields. From the moment I saw you, my existence disappeared. In the places where you appear, everything loses its meaning, each string is exhilarated to build a special and an ideal reality around you and for you. And I am a part of this new universal heaven where there is no need to breath or think, but only to see you dancing…”
On the last hissing sound the cigarette burnt out. Good boys win.
Night. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the table. A cigarette with a shadow of lipstick still highlights a little spot in the empty room. An act of passionate synergy just happened here, just now.
A woman is lying next to a man. The man starts slipping into the vague slumber. He did his part, and started dreaming about his first love, then the second, and afterwards just about another woman who was not a “Lolita” but a “Madame Bovary”... not a fire but an atomic bomb.
She is naked from the waist down. Even darkness of this room seems to like her smooth, young and perfect legs. Her skin is painted into the twilight colors and occasionally gleaming lights of passing by cars, the only intruders here. Eyes closed, lips shut, a silent mask on her face says that is somewhere else now, as well. She has a slight breeze of dissatisfaction, melted by sweet atmosphere of the good wine. “But the sex was not as good as the wine; today’s sex was rather like a Siberian vodka. Damn butcher…” she thought.
She smiled, as a note once dedicated to her by a guy, whose name she forgot, came up in her sleepy mind:
“It is totally impossible to describe. Furthermore, describing you is an offensive act that sets boundaries to your unlimited perfection. I gaze at you as though you are my best and the one perfect equilibrium for any moment of my tiny life. You could have been my best decision and “perpetuum mobile” for the whole life, where is no sorrow and solitude, but ideality. As sun flares, your true beauty starts and ends in you. I am lost in your magnetic fields. From the moment I saw you, my existence disappeared. In the places where you appear, everything loses its meaning, each string is exhilarated to build a special and an ideal reality around you and for you. And I am a part of this new universal heaven where there is no need to breath or think, but only to see you dancing…”
On the last hissing sound the cigarette burnt out. Good boys win.
A way for the truth
Twilight mixed with the odor of frivolous women, hot cars, coffee and cigarettes. What kind of truth can you find on its streets? The one that is warm and will go down your throat like a flame, and will make you passionately love this filthy place, or may be the one that will talk to your money not asking you name. She will get on your chest; will give you love and tenderness, for a certain amount, for definite time. Leaving you satisfied but empty; lying on the bed of a cheap hotel, staring at the dark morning ceiling and one single statement in your head “THAT was my last time…” But the other weekends come, and the same statement reinstates itself.
Everybody here accepts chaos at this time of the day. Movement chaotically is the only way to stumble over the truth in this city. You can’t find what you want, if you know what you want. People are tired to want something determined; they need infinity of choices, abyss of multitude. Disappearing in the holes, doors, windows, with a deep inhale and laughter, with melodies of jazzy evening, or funeral silence, that rests somewhere deeper… Where you can hear only echoes, where you don’t need anything but sincere being, devout love and natural affection. Natural to the bone, to its basis, all and forever and only for you, even when you are sober. The improbability of that makes you angry. It makes you mad. It makes you take a taxi and rush somewhere it probably hides itself. Since you don’t know where you accept chaos as a way to find it. Now you are in this multidimensional sporadic mist of somebody’s desires concentrated within the borders of one lonely, dark and unpredictable city.
Everybody here accepts chaos at this time of the day. Movement chaotically is the only way to stumble over the truth in this city. You can’t find what you want, if you know what you want. People are tired to want something determined; they need infinity of choices, abyss of multitude. Disappearing in the holes, doors, windows, with a deep inhale and laughter, with melodies of jazzy evening, or funeral silence, that rests somewhere deeper… Where you can hear only echoes, where you don’t need anything but sincere being, devout love and natural affection. Natural to the bone, to its basis, all and forever and only for you, even when you are sober. The improbability of that makes you angry. It makes you mad. It makes you take a taxi and rush somewhere it probably hides itself. Since you don’t know where you accept chaos as a way to find it. Now you are in this multidimensional sporadic mist of somebody’s desires concentrated within the borders of one lonely, dark and unpredictable city.
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