The world has come to its end, the crust beneath our feet shakes, deep shudders of anticipation until the world rips free from its moors and the earth erupts in destruction. We know it is the end as society slowly breaks down upon itself. Loved ones find each other, hold each other for God knows how long, for the abrupt end has yet to come. Devastation teeters on the fence and could go at any moment yet still we want for every last beautiful moment to feel alive.
There are those who would be praying for salvation or for savior, others will be smoking their last cigarette, having their last fling, drinking their last beer and listenning to their last song. There are those who would be crying, those that would lose their mind while others do what they have always longed to do, some who never would. There are some that would throw caution to the wind and drive fast, take from others, kill and hurt all in the name of fuck it. While I, a man married to a perfect woman, chooses to be with another. But unlike others, we would not lay with each other, we will not fuck, instead we will run through library halls laughing loudly, screaming, we will run across the sands of receding beaches through the maze of empty cars cuddled close together on the roadways as if they too knew it was the end.
She and I would talk about nothing and everything, say what we feel and be ourselves for in these unknown hours of life, we will be all that is left of ourselves. Music, I feel that I am most saddend by that, the loss of music to our ears, strange that in this moment I think of only the fact that the sound waves will carry out among the bilions of stars long after we are but ash amid the smolder of the world we call home. But thats alright, we laugh and we run, carelessly, fearfully, thinking every shudder is the last before the world swallows us up.
I feel a little guilt, I feel I should be with my wife, but I do not know where she is, the phones are down, the lines are cut the roads are packed and she could be anywhere. I wish I were there to hold her, but I could search and search and never find her, an option that I did not choose, because in the end, no one wants to go alone. I send her a prayer hoping that she is with family or friends. I love you babe, In this life and the next.
We pass an elderly couple near an underpass, the husband has killed his wife, I suppose it was in love, he did not want her to suffer, and so he lay onto her a bed of concrete to protect her body from fires to come. He was going to take his own life next im sure, I saw his tears and his melancholy determination, I looked away and followed the girl closely as we made our way to the parks and halls where we would sit and wait for the end.
Her smile is so big, and her laugh so bright, it seemed almost cynical in its way, laughing in the face of doom, but in its addictive way I wanted to be with her until her last laugh. We ran through hallways of buildings, emptied and looted, smilling and laughing an almost teasing fashion. She lifted her shirt and flashed her breasts at the ghosts in the halls, defiant until the end while I chase after her with bellowing laughter, hearing the echoes reverberate through the skeletons of evacuated buildings. We crashed our way through an ice rink, slipping and getting soaked in the melted ice, puddles of water at our feet inches thick did not slow us. I helped her up only to fall again, the empty seats of the shadowed rink were the only audience of our display and our cantankerous laughter.
The trembles of the floor beneath us grew in intensity and we passed chaos around us, as we wound our way through debris of the city, she and I, me and her, listening to only the sounds of our voices and not the sounds of car alarms and general dissaray. We slowed only to cross a small pond as we entered the park, our park, empty but for trees and the silhouette of an abandoned jungle gym.
Our breath was tight, we were exhausted but we pushed on, I grabbed her hand and we chose a spot to sit. There we fell, feeling the deep growling of the crust become a loud murmur and the pond sparkled with vibrating water, so beautiful. We lay next to each other looking out upon the water and gazing at the scenery around us and the smoke in the distance of fallen structures. We grew quiet while we caught our breath. I noticed then, of all things in my life I had done, I had never been myself until now, with her sitting beside me panting as I did. All the goals I had strived for and the ambitions I had seemed petty now, all events in my life I regretted and the choices I wish I changed were lost, what I realized matters was that I should have looked for happiness. I should have looked for laughter, I should have run through the halls laughing and screaming, I should have had fun and I should have been myself. My friend beside me leans over and gently bites my bearded cheek.
I look to her and she is smiling, laughing even while her eyes are filled with fear. They most likely reflect my own and so she comes closer to my side and I hold her while we relax on the grass, feeling the shake of the floor through our bodies. All that I was thinking before didn't matter now, I did laugh through halls, I sang aloud in empty walkways and danced through fire and smoke all together with the woman who I was holding now in the recesses of a desolate park amidst the eves of a hanging oak tree. We held each other tighter, the world was close to the end, the shudder became a violent shake and the chaos of a dying city around us grew louder. I ran my hand down her body, both in exploration and as a gesture for her to know I was right here with her.
"David"
"Yea?" I answered back.
"Do you think that somewhere right now there's music playing?"
"Im sure there is Nicky, somewhere right now, there are others doing what we are doing, listening to their last song and smoking their last cigarette."
"David I wish we had some music right now. That's one thing I will desperately miss."
I smiled at her then tucked her head beneath my chin as I squeezed her, hoping that I didn't lie, that somewhere on this cracking earth someone was playing the greats, but if it was just my imagination and there was no music playing, then I would be the last one on this earth to sing, and she beside me would be the last one to hear it. So I began to sing, one of my favorites, all the while thinking how much I wish we had more time, because of all things to ask and do at the end of the world this girl asks if there will still be music. Perfect.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
A Paper Sailboat
Anelise ran her fingers across the film of the cool water, distorting her reflection with the soft tip of her index finger. The world around her swirled in a million abstract puzzle pieces in the new ripples of the pond. She lay by the embankment, watching the smooth waves of distortion extend across the surface, pushing the paper sailboat towards the center of the water. A warm sunlight covered her body, intermingling with the fabric of her soft cream sundress. She swathed her pale bronze legs in the mint and daisy summer air as she lay on her chest, the soles of her feet browned by the loose earth she so delicately had displaced in her elegant stride. She took in the subtle flavors of the oak and maple trees, the brown sugar sweetness of the sap as it ran down the limbs of welcoming branches. Anelise darkened the world with the shut of her eyelids, and lay still, listening to the sounds of beautifully blackened nature, invisible, and untouchable. She could hear the chorus of cricks and clicks as the woods creaked with the breeze of the wind and the insects, hidden among the grasses and greens, chirped out their concertos in unison.
The water, cool to the touch, carried the little white paper sailboat out among the reeds in the center of the shallow pond. In the boat's minuscule dimensions, it was amid a vast and immense jungle of enormous trees, half submerged in a great flood from ages past. Anelise imagined she was aboard the vessel, now a graceful Spanish Galleon full of treasures of Ivory and gold, at the helm she stood noticing the tops of the towering reeds almost imperceptible against the glorious web of sails encrusted with the royal seal of the Anelisian Cross and the heavens far above.
The crew of the ship stood forward and aft, standing in awe of the incomprehensible enormity of the jungle foliage while she, Anelise, deftly commanded the vessel through the obstacles. Each reed a towering wall, humbling the fearful crew, but she, Captain, braved the way. She felt the shudder of the rudder with each rotation of the wheel, her hands gripped the circumference with poise and aptitude. Anelise inhaled the thick and moist air that blew through the massive sunken trees and caught in the sails, she smiled keenly to the wind in gratitude of its grace. The crew stared out at the looming black silhouettes nearing ever so slowly between the trees, as if it were closing in, a trap of impassable lumbering giants. The crew looked to the helm, fearful and uncertain of the dangers, only to see the captain grinning, boldly handling the vessel with proud and dignified repose. They took comfort in her demeanor and bravery, acknowledging her profound navigational qualities.
Anelise spun the wheel to the starboard sliding past a broken giant, more than almost submerged in the water, a dark and ominous shadow beneath the surface. Where the crew in their tenuous superstitions saw sea monsters, she saw only shadow and sea. But within those shadows and watery graves of sunken ships and drowning trees, she felt the treasures of civilizations lost, just fathoms beneath her. Anelise looked upon her maps, plotted her course and barked out her orders to the loyal crew. They, the crew, did as they were told, for she was unique in her ambition and legendary in her treasure hunting. "X" marks the spot.
Not five meters away, within the bustle of overgrown vines and branches of olive and dirt stain, a skeleton, suspended by a rusted cutlass through the sternum, hung motionless from a giant tree. From the color or lack of from the bones, and the blacks and tattered greys of what used to be a cavaliers hat, an early 16th to 17th century sailors hat made from the felt of a beaver, she could tell that the fallen privateer had been marking the spot for an epoch. Anelise grinned widely, she found it, the crew cheered and threw grog from the mizzen and main, dousing the sailors below with a hearty portion of celebratory ale. Anelise found the marker, the last and only marker to the sunken treasure of Joc Tar. She shared her knowledge with her second mate, a cheerful and stout mate with a beard of snow, she called him Claus, for his roaring laugh. She told him of the chest full of rubies, diamonds and gold, the casks of fine and fermented red wines and the barrels of Dutch lager, fit for five and twenty kings that sank in the depths of the forgotten jungle.
All about the ship lay the bowsprits and forecastles of other unfortunate treasure seeking ships, all shattered and lifeless on the wrecks of those that came before them. Anelise looked around to the port side of the ship and in a circle looked to every corner of her gallant vessel, suddenly feeling very concerned at the unknown cause of the wrecks beneath her bow. Quiet, pure and uninterrupted quiet fell heavily upon the decks of her ship. All souls aboard looked around in quick and fearful succession, noticing shadows in the water that moved as ghosts; too deep for recognition too close for peace of mind. Suddenly and without cause the galleon listed to the starboard and all hands except Anelise screamed in fear. A curse, they screamed, the curse of the Joc Tar treasure had come to pay visit to the trespass of another violating party. For shame they screamed, stay calm she said. What now, they urged, be still she warned.
The shadows beneath the ship came to the surface, a rapid rise of bubbles and tormented water, to form shape and substance. The water frothed and boiled as the ship shuddered and shook violently, harmfully. The sounds of wood tearing and snapping while some unholy manifestation visited wrath and vengeance upon the crew and its fragile structure. The crew members who weren't flung into the distant trees or dragged beneath the surface of suffering water, knelt in prayer to the gods and to the captain who stood erect, motionless at her wheel while she cursed the destruction. It was a cacophony of unrecognizable noise with the battering of the ship, the screams of the crew and the unearthly howl of the cursed being pulling the dying Galleon and its humans to the darkness of the ghostly jungle deep. As the ship neared the bottom of the deadly sea, a glow and a billion sparkles began to shimmer through the clouded fathoms. If any eyes still remained alive aboard the Anelisian vessel as it neared the eerily bright bottom, the amber glow of a thousand sunken treasures permeated the darkness as the remaining light shone off a never-ending horizon of sunken gold and precious stones.
Anelise ran her fingers across the film of the cool water, watching the little paper sailboat finally sink into the shallow pond against the reeds.
The water, cool to the touch, carried the little white paper sailboat out among the reeds in the center of the shallow pond. In the boat's minuscule dimensions, it was amid a vast and immense jungle of enormous trees, half submerged in a great flood from ages past. Anelise imagined she was aboard the vessel, now a graceful Spanish Galleon full of treasures of Ivory and gold, at the helm she stood noticing the tops of the towering reeds almost imperceptible against the glorious web of sails encrusted with the royal seal of the Anelisian Cross and the heavens far above.
The crew of the ship stood forward and aft, standing in awe of the incomprehensible enormity of the jungle foliage while she, Anelise, deftly commanded the vessel through the obstacles. Each reed a towering wall, humbling the fearful crew, but she, Captain, braved the way. She felt the shudder of the rudder with each rotation of the wheel, her hands gripped the circumference with poise and aptitude. Anelise inhaled the thick and moist air that blew through the massive sunken trees and caught in the sails, she smiled keenly to the wind in gratitude of its grace. The crew stared out at the looming black silhouettes nearing ever so slowly between the trees, as if it were closing in, a trap of impassable lumbering giants. The crew looked to the helm, fearful and uncertain of the dangers, only to see the captain grinning, boldly handling the vessel with proud and dignified repose. They took comfort in her demeanor and bravery, acknowledging her profound navigational qualities.
Anelise spun the wheel to the starboard sliding past a broken giant, more than almost submerged in the water, a dark and ominous shadow beneath the surface. Where the crew in their tenuous superstitions saw sea monsters, she saw only shadow and sea. But within those shadows and watery graves of sunken ships and drowning trees, she felt the treasures of civilizations lost, just fathoms beneath her. Anelise looked upon her maps, plotted her course and barked out her orders to the loyal crew. They, the crew, did as they were told, for she was unique in her ambition and legendary in her treasure hunting. "X" marks the spot.
Not five meters away, within the bustle of overgrown vines and branches of olive and dirt stain, a skeleton, suspended by a rusted cutlass through the sternum, hung motionless from a giant tree. From the color or lack of from the bones, and the blacks and tattered greys of what used to be a cavaliers hat, an early 16th to 17th century sailors hat made from the felt of a beaver, she could tell that the fallen privateer had been marking the spot for an epoch. Anelise grinned widely, she found it, the crew cheered and threw grog from the mizzen and main, dousing the sailors below with a hearty portion of celebratory ale. Anelise found the marker, the last and only marker to the sunken treasure of Joc Tar. She shared her knowledge with her second mate, a cheerful and stout mate with a beard of snow, she called him Claus, for his roaring laugh. She told him of the chest full of rubies, diamonds and gold, the casks of fine and fermented red wines and the barrels of Dutch lager, fit for five and twenty kings that sank in the depths of the forgotten jungle.
All about the ship lay the bowsprits and forecastles of other unfortunate treasure seeking ships, all shattered and lifeless on the wrecks of those that came before them. Anelise looked around to the port side of the ship and in a circle looked to every corner of her gallant vessel, suddenly feeling very concerned at the unknown cause of the wrecks beneath her bow. Quiet, pure and uninterrupted quiet fell heavily upon the decks of her ship. All souls aboard looked around in quick and fearful succession, noticing shadows in the water that moved as ghosts; too deep for recognition too close for peace of mind. Suddenly and without cause the galleon listed to the starboard and all hands except Anelise screamed in fear. A curse, they screamed, the curse of the Joc Tar treasure had come to pay visit to the trespass of another violating party. For shame they screamed, stay calm she said. What now, they urged, be still she warned.
The shadows beneath the ship came to the surface, a rapid rise of bubbles and tormented water, to form shape and substance. The water frothed and boiled as the ship shuddered and shook violently, harmfully. The sounds of wood tearing and snapping while some unholy manifestation visited wrath and vengeance upon the crew and its fragile structure. The crew members who weren't flung into the distant trees or dragged beneath the surface of suffering water, knelt in prayer to the gods and to the captain who stood erect, motionless at her wheel while she cursed the destruction. It was a cacophony of unrecognizable noise with the battering of the ship, the screams of the crew and the unearthly howl of the cursed being pulling the dying Galleon and its humans to the darkness of the ghostly jungle deep. As the ship neared the bottom of the deadly sea, a glow and a billion sparkles began to shimmer through the clouded fathoms. If any eyes still remained alive aboard the Anelisian vessel as it neared the eerily bright bottom, the amber glow of a thousand sunken treasures permeated the darkness as the remaining light shone off a never-ending horizon of sunken gold and precious stones.
Anelise ran her fingers across the film of the cool water, watching the little paper sailboat finally sink into the shallow pond against the reeds.
Friday, May 29, 2009
In Dreams...
This morning, as every morning for the last few weeks I have had tremendous trouble at staying asleep. I toss and turn from 5am until about 8:30am or so when I have to get up for work. During this time, I often have troubling, vivid and sometimes increasingly sexual dreams. I have searched online for potential answers for the elements in my dreams, clues and icons that may give some closure to the madness, and so far I have come to the conclusion that my dreams are doing one of two things. First, the dreams may be attempting to fix or address a part of myself, namely my masculine/feminine part of myself that may damaged somehow; or secondly that I need to research myself in those areas because there is some need or desire that I am not meeting and my mind is suffering from the withdrawal.
As I mentioned about my sleep depriving behavior between those cold and quiet hours of my morning, the one I had today was so far the most distressing. In my dream, I was in a book store, a simple bookstore with many colors and shades but none that stood out as an important element except for one. The place was full of people rummaging for books, not in an un-orderly fashion, but they were browsing.
I discovered a book about transsexuals, the book itself was white in color and of an erotic nature, it was not a biography, a journal or medical examination of the physical or psychological aspects of transsexuals. The book was full of images of sexual activity, vivid and intimate sexual intercourse with transsexuals who all appeared extremely feminine in appearance. They seemed as if they were women all along, but with a phallus, portrayed very beautifully in the book. Now in the dream, I, or a version of myself, however one would describe being in your own dream, was aroused by the book and meaning to buy it. For some reason I hid the book back on the shelf, which I might add was full of books with bare spines. (No words on the spines of any of the books)
I came back to retrieve the book for myself though I suppose I did not remember exactly where I had put it on the shelves because I could not find it. I was searching for it, here and there, pulling books off the shelf and opening them to see if it was my book, but I could not find it again. I was embarrassed to be looking for the book but insistent on finding it. The check stand was not visible behind the throng of people across the room but I could tell it was there, but then I noticed another check stand near me to my right and went over to it to see if the cashier knew if the book was still in stock. Again I was embarrassed to be asking but I was very turned on and wanted to find it but the cashier did not see it as available. I should mention that the cashier was indistinguishable as male or female.
I then woke up this morning as I do before work, if you will excuse me, and noticed I had an erection. Whether it was from the dream or not I was still subtly bothered at the fact that I had one after that dream. I have researched briefly a few of the elements in the dream and am not convinced one way or another what they could mean if anything at all. I have been stressed lately regarding going back to school and finding money for tuition, yet during my daytime hours I do find myself thinking about sex quite a bit more then I ever did. Also, along those lines, I find myself remarkably more aroused then I used to be; thinking of individuals I know personally in a manner I dare not share with them. I am sure my waking life has an effect on what my brain does when I rest, but what turmoil my mind experiences.
In dreams we do and feel what things we prevent ourselves from attempting in our corporeal existence. In dreams we say and hear those things we close our minds to while we wake. Does that then mean we are only an extension of our true selves and that we show the world only a glimpse of who we are? If our days are full of limitation and reservation, and we express only those things we believe we can or are allowed to, who are we then in dreams?
As I mentioned about my sleep depriving behavior between those cold and quiet hours of my morning, the one I had today was so far the most distressing. In my dream, I was in a book store, a simple bookstore with many colors and shades but none that stood out as an important element except for one. The place was full of people rummaging for books, not in an un-orderly fashion, but they were browsing.
I discovered a book about transsexuals, the book itself was white in color and of an erotic nature, it was not a biography, a journal or medical examination of the physical or psychological aspects of transsexuals. The book was full of images of sexual activity, vivid and intimate sexual intercourse with transsexuals who all appeared extremely feminine in appearance. They seemed as if they were women all along, but with a phallus, portrayed very beautifully in the book. Now in the dream, I, or a version of myself, however one would describe being in your own dream, was aroused by the book and meaning to buy it. For some reason I hid the book back on the shelf, which I might add was full of books with bare spines. (No words on the spines of any of the books)
I came back to retrieve the book for myself though I suppose I did not remember exactly where I had put it on the shelves because I could not find it. I was searching for it, here and there, pulling books off the shelf and opening them to see if it was my book, but I could not find it again. I was embarrassed to be looking for the book but insistent on finding it. The check stand was not visible behind the throng of people across the room but I could tell it was there, but then I noticed another check stand near me to my right and went over to it to see if the cashier knew if the book was still in stock. Again I was embarrassed to be asking but I was very turned on and wanted to find it but the cashier did not see it as available. I should mention that the cashier was indistinguishable as male or female.
I then woke up this morning as I do before work, if you will excuse me, and noticed I had an erection. Whether it was from the dream or not I was still subtly bothered at the fact that I had one after that dream. I have researched briefly a few of the elements in the dream and am not convinced one way or another what they could mean if anything at all. I have been stressed lately regarding going back to school and finding money for tuition, yet during my daytime hours I do find myself thinking about sex quite a bit more then I ever did. Also, along those lines, I find myself remarkably more aroused then I used to be; thinking of individuals I know personally in a manner I dare not share with them. I am sure my waking life has an effect on what my brain does when I rest, but what turmoil my mind experiences.
In dreams we do and feel what things we prevent ourselves from attempting in our corporeal existence. In dreams we say and hear those things we close our minds to while we wake. Does that then mean we are only an extension of our true selves and that we show the world only a glimpse of who we are? If our days are full of limitation and reservation, and we express only those things we believe we can or are allowed to, who are we then in dreams?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
What Hath Brought My Dreams Of Late?
I have, for most of my life, dreamed in color; the manifestations a canvas of pastels and oils, charcoal and ink. The paints and hues run together in shadows and flirt with the edges of my reality. Imagination, the residue of a dream as it began to overtake the waking hours of my being, has been the ever observant eye that pieces together the embers of each glowing image that burns through my vision.
Greens and blues and flakes of obsydian. My mind is jaded, I have not the ability to see in just blacks and whites, nor the desire to replace the world of a million shapes with the straight edges of a square or the sharpness of a lustrous blade. With a universe of geometric shapes, infinite colors to explore and a mind so open to reception, why still is it so difficult to understand and percieve that which is generated within the confines of my own mind? What warnings, what messages, sewn together elegantly out of the silky fabric of smoke, is the mind trying to communicate? Not a night past, the dreams of my restless psyche were filled with the soft emulsion of explorative sexual deviance and voyeuristic adultery.
The sin, an extension of the self? A foretelling of wants and the events not yet come to pass? A connection to the subconcious attempting to repair itself to the elements the other woman represents? Almond eyes with auburn tan, curves and curls, a golden brown effigy to the erotic taboo. I don't have the answer why, all I have is a fading swirl of colors as they receed back into my soul and the silk of smokey threads of grey to question. I have always dreamed in color, maybe next time I'll hear music.
Greens and blues and flakes of obsydian. My mind is jaded, I have not the ability to see in just blacks and whites, nor the desire to replace the world of a million shapes with the straight edges of a square or the sharpness of a lustrous blade. With a universe of geometric shapes, infinite colors to explore and a mind so open to reception, why still is it so difficult to understand and percieve that which is generated within the confines of my own mind? What warnings, what messages, sewn together elegantly out of the silky fabric of smoke, is the mind trying to communicate? Not a night past, the dreams of my restless psyche were filled with the soft emulsion of explorative sexual deviance and voyeuristic adultery.
The sin, an extension of the self? A foretelling of wants and the events not yet come to pass? A connection to the subconcious attempting to repair itself to the elements the other woman represents? Almond eyes with auburn tan, curves and curls, a golden brown effigy to the erotic taboo. I don't have the answer why, all I have is a fading swirl of colors as they receed back into my soul and the silk of smokey threads of grey to question. I have always dreamed in color, maybe next time I'll hear music.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Leaving Sacramento
I don't remember exactly how or when I first discovered it. Strangely, I can't give you a date or a time. One day I just felt like I had done the same thing all over again. Deja Vu. And more and more so it kept happening. It was small at first, falling in the category of speech and movements, but afterwards it just seemed to spike.
That sick feeling of repeating something or being somewhere but you aren't really sure you have been. Trying to desperately remember when or where you had seen the same thing or if you heard it on the radio, convincing yourself that you arent going mad. Only it wasn't just me, there was a clerk at the front desk of that decrepid motel I was staying at who swore to me that I had just come last night to check out.
Exhasperatedly, she said I walked in and I told her to check me out of the hotel and send a bottle of rum to the room. I was livid, who the hell was this woman to tell me I had done something I had no memory of. My face was on fire and my fists balled into solid stone. I felt like smacking her. I realized how upset I was getting and it threw me off, I have never had a temper before.
That's when she showed me the security tape. Those closed caption ones that time lapse every second or two. And shit if it was clear, but in that split time video on the screen in front of me, I saw me, walk up to her and stand right in full view of the camera.
What the fuck was going on here? I starred at the man in the video wearing my jacket, wearing my boots and my torn up work jeans. And then I watched in horror as the man in the video wearing my face, stopped and looked directly at the camera and mouthed my name.
I yelled at the clerk to turn it off and stop fucking with me!! I was terrified and she was at my mercy. I screamed obscenities at her as I left the lobby in a maddened clamor, knocking things out of my way, delirious and trying to understand what the hell was happening.
Was I drunk? I must have been, I have had far too many beers in the last couple of days. But even in my drunken state I never have done so many conscious things while havng no cognitive memory of some sort afterwards.
I walked to where I had parked my car the night before, I was done, I was leaving Sacramento, fuck this, too much city, It's probably getting to me. I froze in a heat and a wave of pure anger as every sensible bone in my body exploded into fury and hate as I stood agaze of the giant hole in my car window. What the fuck?!?!
Yelling and cursing like a mad man I climbed onto the seat and brushed the shards of glass off the dahsboard, cutting my palm deeply in my haste to get into the car. I was so infurriated that I didnt stop to ask what had happened to and why the clerk had videos of me but not of some jerk off wrecking my car. Nothing seemed important, except for leaving the streets of this repetive hell. Even the track homes that surrounded the ciy were all the same.
I didnt even care for the two inch gash leaking on my lap and on my steering wheel. Blood everywhere but I didnt care, I was leaving. I didn't check the mirrors, I didn't connect the seat belt and I didnt even use my signals while I turned. I was getting the fuck outta Dodge.
Sacramento was a blur through the giant man sized breach in my windshield but I didnt care as I burst through red lights and stop signs. I didn't care when I went onto a one way street and clipped a car as I sped past. I didn't care as I tore the rear bumper off my car as the steel chasis ripped like paper on the concrete median of the road. I jumped on the freeway as the high rise buildings of downtown grew smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.
Going over the speed limit by 50 miles shot a deafening flood of wind through the glass window and spun the interior of the little car into a frenzy of paper, glass and blood. I'll stop when I can't see the city anymore. I'll fix my hand then but only then. I'll be safe when I'm back at home. I'll be free when I can see the ocean, when I can smell the smog of Los Angeles and the traffic of the 57 freeway. I'll figure all this out when I'm far far away from Sacramento.
Speeding at over 100 miles an hour oblivious to my surroundings and what side of he road I was on, I smacked head long into a UHAUL pickup truck headed the wrong way. And as I sailed perfectly through the man sized hole of my front windshield, I couldn't help but feel like I had done this before....
That sick feeling of repeating something or being somewhere but you aren't really sure you have been. Trying to desperately remember when or where you had seen the same thing or if you heard it on the radio, convincing yourself that you arent going mad. Only it wasn't just me, there was a clerk at the front desk of that decrepid motel I was staying at who swore to me that I had just come last night to check out.
Exhasperatedly, she said I walked in and I told her to check me out of the hotel and send a bottle of rum to the room. I was livid, who the hell was this woman to tell me I had done something I had no memory of. My face was on fire and my fists balled into solid stone. I felt like smacking her. I realized how upset I was getting and it threw me off, I have never had a temper before.
That's when she showed me the security tape. Those closed caption ones that time lapse every second or two. And shit if it was clear, but in that split time video on the screen in front of me, I saw me, walk up to her and stand right in full view of the camera.
What the fuck was going on here? I starred at the man in the video wearing my jacket, wearing my boots and my torn up work jeans. And then I watched in horror as the man in the video wearing my face, stopped and looked directly at the camera and mouthed my name.
I yelled at the clerk to turn it off and stop fucking with me!! I was terrified and she was at my mercy. I screamed obscenities at her as I left the lobby in a maddened clamor, knocking things out of my way, delirious and trying to understand what the hell was happening.
Was I drunk? I must have been, I have had far too many beers in the last couple of days. But even in my drunken state I never have done so many conscious things while havng no cognitive memory of some sort afterwards.
I walked to where I had parked my car the night before, I was done, I was leaving Sacramento, fuck this, too much city, It's probably getting to me. I froze in a heat and a wave of pure anger as every sensible bone in my body exploded into fury and hate as I stood agaze of the giant hole in my car window. What the fuck?!?!
Yelling and cursing like a mad man I climbed onto the seat and brushed the shards of glass off the dahsboard, cutting my palm deeply in my haste to get into the car. I was so infurriated that I didnt stop to ask what had happened to and why the clerk had videos of me but not of some jerk off wrecking my car. Nothing seemed important, except for leaving the streets of this repetive hell. Even the track homes that surrounded the ciy were all the same.
I didnt even care for the two inch gash leaking on my lap and on my steering wheel. Blood everywhere but I didnt care, I was leaving. I didn't check the mirrors, I didn't connect the seat belt and I didnt even use my signals while I turned. I was getting the fuck outta Dodge.
Sacramento was a blur through the giant man sized breach in my windshield but I didnt care as I burst through red lights and stop signs. I didn't care when I went onto a one way street and clipped a car as I sped past. I didn't care as I tore the rear bumper off my car as the steel chasis ripped like paper on the concrete median of the road. I jumped on the freeway as the high rise buildings of downtown grew smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.
Going over the speed limit by 50 miles shot a deafening flood of wind through the glass window and spun the interior of the little car into a frenzy of paper, glass and blood. I'll stop when I can't see the city anymore. I'll fix my hand then but only then. I'll be safe when I'm back at home. I'll be free when I can see the ocean, when I can smell the smog of Los Angeles and the traffic of the 57 freeway. I'll figure all this out when I'm far far away from Sacramento.
Speeding at over 100 miles an hour oblivious to my surroundings and what side of he road I was on, I smacked head long into a UHAUL pickup truck headed the wrong way. And as I sailed perfectly through the man sized hole of my front windshield, I couldn't help but feel like I had done this before....
Kindle For Fire
By D. V. Cortez
I held my wife as she cried, the clouds covering the earth parted and the stars that were so very safe and far away were visible for the first time; so close, and so beautifully dotted in oblivion that it was all we could do to hold each other close and ignore them. I held her tight, my muscles taught as I dared not let go. I could smell her sweet scent, the kiwi-strawberry aroma of her conditioner, the light but perfumed smell of her almond skin. I took it all in deeply, holding my breath as I closed my eyes to her, remembering her this way, beautiful, my perfect angel. Elaine, her name rolled off my tongue the way that beads of sweat rolled off the backs of us two young lovers in heat in the back of my pickup. It was my shoulders she first held onto while I chose to hold onto her gaze, her breath cooling the moisture on my lips, rocking with her in the light of the moon so many ages ago. On this night though, it was not passion or friction of sexual embrace that heated the night air.
I held my wife as she cried, the clouds covering the earth parted and the stars that were so very safe and far away were visible for the first time; so close, and so beautifully dotted in oblivion that it was all we could do to hold each other close and ignore them. I held her tight, my muscles taught as I dared not let go. I could smell her sweet scent, the kiwi-strawberry aroma of her conditioner, the light but perfumed smell of her almond skin. I took it all in deeply, holding my breath as I closed my eyes to her, remembering her this way, beautiful, my perfect angel. Elaine, her name rolled off my tongue the way that beads of sweat rolled off the backs of us two young lovers in heat in the back of my pickup. It was my shoulders she first held onto while I chose to hold onto her gaze, her breath cooling the moisture on my lips, rocking with her in the light of the moon so many ages ago. On this night though, it was not passion or friction of sexual embrace that heated the night air.
I hoped at this moment, clutching her beneath the veil of stars that she thought of me as I did of her; my other, my best, and my love. We had returned to this place many times before, our tradition, our romance. I could feel the tremble of her body, but I wondered now if it were me, if it were her, or if it was the floor beneath us. And I knew as she knew the truth of it, we all were shaking.
The mountains had split open and the crust of our planet howled with a bellowing agony and anger, spewing geysers of white hot molten rock among the remains of our technic civilization. The oceans began to drain into the vast fissures of the planet as the Earth convulsed and vomited its inorganic molten organs onto the surface, singeing and devastating everything it touched. Trees collapsed or burned to a blackened husk, cars melted and exploded with the intense heat of the rivers of magma flowing through the canals of our sky scrapers and buildings. Steel, plastiform, concrete and brick ripped, tore and crumbled into mangled corpses of alien and painful architecture. Everywhere was burning; the night sky was blood red, aglow in the fires of hell on Earth; chaos incarnate. The day side of the shuddering planet was black with soot, smoke and ash while the night side glowed a ginger and crimson hue.
The sound of a dying planet was fearsome; a deep echoing howl beneath our feet, the smell of burnt wood, flesh and other-worldly stenches arose from every new break as the destruction tore at the artificial and fabricated and stung my eyes. The scent of my lover that had always calmed and soothed me ran together now, mixing with the choking sulfur and smoke of the world that smoldered around us. I looked at the remains of the horizon behind the woman in my arms, eerily stirring in the distance where I could see through the haze and the explosions of rock and earth.
Humankind had run its course. We were the inheritors of this mechanized automated world, with every tree cut down, every glacier melted for drinking water, every forest razed only to be covered with a metalloid concrete skin we called development. Streets and interways were cut and fabricated, interconnecting vast contaminating cities that grew as cancer, on the flesh of the world; imprisoning the globe beneath a synthetic prison of industry and technology. If the planet had a voice, its tranquil song would be tarnished with the weeping of its pain. And we, the idle and undeserving caretakers who had ignored her warnings and who had gutted out her every resource, would suffer as she suffered.
Everywhere man and machine cut into her body, she would remember it as trespass against her. For eons, she kept us safe from harm against the vastness of space and the unknowns of the universe, she had grown on us, and we on her. From the birth of our civilization to the age of space faring cultures she has nurtured and provided for us in her own way. Was I not a good mother? She was mother. We were her children. We have been disparaging, inconsiderate, and complacent. We have taken her and her gifts for granted, and out of her everlasting love for us, it was time to put us out of our misery. But still, I wanted life, I wanted time, I felt betrayed. I so much wanted to scream and punch the ground I stood on, and cry out to her, “Mother, Why?!” But she, bereft of patience would say, because I loved you, and you have abandoned me. But we would not hear her answer. In our selfish ways, we would simply ask why me?
I stood at the foot of the sea as it steamed and frothed angrily back into the crust of the planet, holding my wife Elaine as she cried, her gorgeous auburn hair more radiant than ever, her skin softer than I remembered, and her eyes so deeply amazingly blue when she starred at me by the receding waters. Make it stop… her eyes were saying. I can’t….
She clenched her eyes tightly shut and sunk back into my chest while we held each other in a place we knew so well. What I wouldn’t give for another hour with her, I yearned, as I rested my head onto hers. So much I should have said and done, so many things I wish I hadn’t. But I can be here…now. I held her tightly to my chest offering what little comfort I could. Words were fleeting, but as we huddled together in the silence of our breathing, I knew she loved me, and I her. In these last minutes I thought of my children grown and gone, the times we fought and screamed at each other, laughed at each other, and the day at the beach when my skinned burned red and Elaine, the most beautiful girl in my world, had offered me SPF 80.
I watched in awe as the atmosphere above us two split open, revealing the elegance of the midnight starscape in a thunderous clap. The earth trembled and ripped apart in her last convulsions throwing us to the sand of the beach where we returned. I got to my knees and grabbed for her and she crawled to me, tightly nestled into my arms we sank back to the ground. As the fires and flames of molten rock and ash began raining down from the sky about us, and the soft winds of the sea turned into a blistering wave of fire, all I could say to Elaine was, “Shhhh shhhh shhhh. Everything will be o...”
Friday, March 20, 2009
Origin of Ideas
In making this very clear, I don't want to dilute the meaning behind Cinders of Dreams. This is a journal, a diary, a canvas, for the purpose of getting my thoughts and stories out in writing as a compass to guide my ideas in both linear and non-linear directions for self expression. Many of the later additions are fictional with parts of my life experiences or desires intertwined, while others will follow a more true-to-life autobiography of my past and future endeavors. The distinction will not be inherently clear because as is true to my life, many things I wish for, want for and do are not so ordinary, as are the stories I write and the thoughts that pass through my mind at any given moment. Currently, while writing this, I am compelled to explain the reason for my writings and the courses they follow.
I am a novice writer of science fiction yet many of the stories I write and am working on have an element of drama, romance, erotica and/or connection on a very deep and humanistic level. Why?
I believe, based on an elementary set of traits that we are all born with, that one of the main driving traits that we all share is the idea of belonging. We wish to belong. Whether it be to a group, a clique, a family, or a relationship, we all desire meaningful, substantial and nourishing human connection. What is human connection?
In a sentence, it is the relationship between persons or people, built on trust that allows for the individuals the opportunity to be completely honest and genuine with private feelings and aspirations with the knowledge that no matter what, everything will be ok. It is my belief that we all have facades, even around many of our closest friends and relatives; we adorn ourselves with faces that hide our true feelings, thoughts and pains for fear of rejection. Though we yearn for the chance to be open and honest with another, we harbor our feelings and thoughts from each other for self preservation. However, if someone looks closely enough, as I do, that mask you wear becomes translucent. I would tell you that I understand what you are going through, and that you are in good company.
Why do so many of us live in fear of ourselves and each other? Why do so many seem to be superficial, fake and private when every person, regardless of appearance, age or virtue, share identical fears of acceptance on some level? Why is it so hard some times to share yourself with others and in some situations, with the person looking back at you in the mirror? My diagnosis, in a word, is Love. It is what we search for, fight for, hurt for , cry for.
We as complicated, emotional and spiritual beings, go through life with many things on our plates and on our shoulders. It can all seem so overwhelming at times. Even in the complications with socializing and the issues that life sometimes gives us to work through, financial, marital, occupational or physical, the simplest of gestures can be just what it takes to pull us back to normality.
Love, there are so many capacities in which it can be expressed, so many avenues it can take in deliverance. Hugs, as adolescent as they can sound, can make you feel in control in a world full of chaos. A kiss, can make you feel important and special in a society of ubiquitous individuality, where everyone is searching for their niche. The holding of a hand brings warmth and comfort, as if in a gesture, a message can be derived that says in its way, 'you are not alone.'
Alone, another concept that motivates or demotivates our actions in connecting with others. It is an ominous idea indeed, the thought of being or ending up alone, unloved and uninvolved. Many are stricken with it, many of us are emotionally paralyzed by it. What process of self deprecation is it that makes one feel so unimportant and/or undeserving? We are all born children, innocent and special. We all have memories of better times as care free spirits, but what systematic events take place in your life to eat away at individual self confidence? So many traumatic things happen in life that go without saying. It takes awhile to understand those things, to learn from those things, to grow from and away from those things to become, dare I say, human, again. But in retrospect, is it not human to grow and learn from our ailments?
I use the term human as the object of desire that many people unintentionally vie for. Simply because many people that suffer from depression, numbness and anxiety feel so disconnected from humanity that they do and act in certain ways to make themselves seem and feel human. Which at times works when in the company of others, but in reality, the act of pretending is just a social bandage, not a permanent fix to the heart of the problem. But what is it to be human?
To feel human is important, in many respects it is because feeling human is the act of being human, connected to others of the same nature, belonging to the same moment in time, and accepting of our frailties. We become part of a group, loved and cared for even when we seem strong and in control or lost and needing a hand. That is why many of us live our entire lives with basically the same groups of friends, live in the same place for years on end, and even find work close to home. It is so we are close to what we know, connected to what we are and who we have been, and most importantly , so we can be nearby to those who have come to love and accept us. Throughout our traversal of life we meet many people and experience a variety of conditions, yet those who we befriend and even fall in love with, are in many respects the people who make you feel whole.
Though it is not the entirety of humanity that falls within the category of those that yearn for loving assimilation, it is still acutely rational to surmise that in the end we all have that not so ambiguous desire...to be.
Allot of what I write and will post here, will fall within those devices, so that even you who don't know me intimately can still identify with my stories and feel connected. And perhaps, while reading and writing bits here and there that examine the human condition, together we can answer some of those questions that linger in our minds after the sun has set. Thank you for reading friend.
With Love, D.V. Cortez
I am a novice writer of science fiction yet many of the stories I write and am working on have an element of drama, romance, erotica and/or connection on a very deep and humanistic level. Why?
I believe, based on an elementary set of traits that we are all born with, that one of the main driving traits that we all share is the idea of belonging. We wish to belong. Whether it be to a group, a clique, a family, or a relationship, we all desire meaningful, substantial and nourishing human connection. What is human connection?
In a sentence, it is the relationship between persons or people, built on trust that allows for the individuals the opportunity to be completely honest and genuine with private feelings and aspirations with the knowledge that no matter what, everything will be ok. It is my belief that we all have facades, even around many of our closest friends and relatives; we adorn ourselves with faces that hide our true feelings, thoughts and pains for fear of rejection. Though we yearn for the chance to be open and honest with another, we harbor our feelings and thoughts from each other for self preservation. However, if someone looks closely enough, as I do, that mask you wear becomes translucent. I would tell you that I understand what you are going through, and that you are in good company.
Why do so many of us live in fear of ourselves and each other? Why do so many seem to be superficial, fake and private when every person, regardless of appearance, age or virtue, share identical fears of acceptance on some level? Why is it so hard some times to share yourself with others and in some situations, with the person looking back at you in the mirror? My diagnosis, in a word, is Love. It is what we search for, fight for, hurt for , cry for.
We as complicated, emotional and spiritual beings, go through life with many things on our plates and on our shoulders. It can all seem so overwhelming at times. Even in the complications with socializing and the issues that life sometimes gives us to work through, financial, marital, occupational or physical, the simplest of gestures can be just what it takes to pull us back to normality.
Love, there are so many capacities in which it can be expressed, so many avenues it can take in deliverance. Hugs, as adolescent as they can sound, can make you feel in control in a world full of chaos. A kiss, can make you feel important and special in a society of ubiquitous individuality, where everyone is searching for their niche. The holding of a hand brings warmth and comfort, as if in a gesture, a message can be derived that says in its way, 'you are not alone.'
Alone, another concept that motivates or demotivates our actions in connecting with others. It is an ominous idea indeed, the thought of being or ending up alone, unloved and uninvolved. Many are stricken with it, many of us are emotionally paralyzed by it. What process of self deprecation is it that makes one feel so unimportant and/or undeserving? We are all born children, innocent and special. We all have memories of better times as care free spirits, but what systematic events take place in your life to eat away at individual self confidence? So many traumatic things happen in life that go without saying. It takes awhile to understand those things, to learn from those things, to grow from and away from those things to become, dare I say, human, again. But in retrospect, is it not human to grow and learn from our ailments?
I use the term human as the object of desire that many people unintentionally vie for. Simply because many people that suffer from depression, numbness and anxiety feel so disconnected from humanity that they do and act in certain ways to make themselves seem and feel human. Which at times works when in the company of others, but in reality, the act of pretending is just a social bandage, not a permanent fix to the heart of the problem. But what is it to be human?
To feel human is important, in many respects it is because feeling human is the act of being human, connected to others of the same nature, belonging to the same moment in time, and accepting of our frailties. We become part of a group, loved and cared for even when we seem strong and in control or lost and needing a hand. That is why many of us live our entire lives with basically the same groups of friends, live in the same place for years on end, and even find work close to home. It is so we are close to what we know, connected to what we are and who we have been, and most importantly , so we can be nearby to those who have come to love and accept us. Throughout our traversal of life we meet many people and experience a variety of conditions, yet those who we befriend and even fall in love with, are in many respects the people who make you feel whole.
Though it is not the entirety of humanity that falls within the category of those that yearn for loving assimilation, it is still acutely rational to surmise that in the end we all have that not so ambiguous desire...to be.
Allot of what I write and will post here, will fall within those devices, so that even you who don't know me intimately can still identify with my stories and feel connected. And perhaps, while reading and writing bits here and there that examine the human condition, together we can answer some of those questions that linger in our minds after the sun has set. Thank you for reading friend.
With Love, D.V. Cortez
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