4-Ever

“Excuse me pumpkin, would you happen to know where the bathroom is?”

¿Donde está el baño, querida?

“Yes ma’am, just down the hall, first right, then second left. It’ll be the one with a slender woman on the door.”

“Thanks a lot for— Hey, wait a minute pal. Are you trying to call me fat?”

¿Soy una vaca? Debo dejar de comer?

I looked down at my feet and watched them wiggle. There was a chunk of huitlacoche on my right foot. Puta.

“Are you listening to me mister?”

She was screaming at my nose as if it were a small child – in the classic, patronizing Leave It To Beaver manner.

In that moment all I could think about was huitlacoche and the last time I actually got to eat some. There was that trip down to Mexico a few years back where I ended up drinking far too many passionfruit-agave margs with oiled up nitwits. That damned trance music and the constant thud of Jägerbombs was surprisingly in sync. It always went thud-thud-boom-boom in double repetition, but never boom-boom-thud-thud. Sort of like We Will Rock You sans the leading gay man. This time it was hair gel that replaced spandex bodysuits.

The trip’s mission was comidas exóticas. Cabo Wabo Reposado, Monte Alban Mezcal, J. Cuervo, Asombroso Anejo, Señor Patron, Señorita Sauza – all were fair game. I had a listed itinerary of what I needed to accomplish. I think it went something like: Drink, Drink, Bamboozle, Drink, Meet the Locals, Meet the Visiting Europeans, Meet Anyone At The Poolside Bar, Tan, Pass Out, Taqueria, Drink, Drink. It was very straightforward from the get-go and I was surprised at the lack of Axe bodyspray within the baggage claim terminal.

Most of the time the percentage of sunglasses worn on the back of the head, upside-down, versus on top of the head or even the jejune style of resting them on the bridge of one’s nose was 80, 15, 5. But this time – this goddamn time – everybody was doing it. So while I’m trying to soak in the fresh air of Meh-hee-co, Snookums right here is rubbing up on hubbub with the flip-flip Oakleys.

I never looked up to see if the fat woman was still there. I just kept staring at the huitlacoche. Dinner was getting cold, and someone was at the door, so I made a quick dash back through the dining room. I’m sure the dear pumpkin of my heart found her way to the powder room, even if it meant being stared down by a regularly-sized woman on the door. I bet she took an extra look at herself in the mirror after cleaning up at the sink, glancing at the side shot, the over the shoulder shot and then the straight-on-put-both-hands-on-my-waist shot.

It’s not that she was a vaca at all – no, no. She just needed a bit of control. So I let her have it. And why not? I’m a squash kind of guy anyway.

.com

W W W

Electric

It converges upon a point

I look down at it and wonder

Who could be next, what could be next

Someone once said, take it slow, real slow

Breath in for once, take a gander

Feel it through, deep down, from within

More than you ever have before

Daytime or nighttime, no bother

Study this well to be on top

It is a gift for the gander

A small prize for the short effort

Open up, give in, let it come

There are so many more to see

Seconds to enjoy

Did you

Count

Wits

Salome, dear Salome you dance with such allure
You step in tune with my beat, tempting each time
And when I ask to dance, a shoulder speaks
Sultry yet tainted, mesmerizing to all
This is a game perchance you think to yourself
This is my chance
Each word is a turn, each sentence is a break

Break

Are we winning this
Are you winning this

Come again she says, she whispers it really
Eyes scan breathlessly, what is this touch of skin
Your shoulders were bare you once told me, sometimes
Never constricted, always free

Break, a little

Now is your chance

Les Câpres

Ajami

Baaria

Broken Embraces

El Secreto De Sus Ojos

La Teta Asustada

Un Prophet

White Ribbon

There was once a woman who loved flowers more than life itself. Even when her flowers withered, she would water them as if they were living. So one day a man brought her a new bundle of flowers. She rejected them on the basis that they weren’t hers. “But they’re flowers, are they not?” the man noted.

The man, offended, knew not what to do with them other than to throw them away. So he did.

She returned to her flowers, even though they had withered, and took a long breath – placing her nose near one of the pistils. It still retained the sweet smell she was always so fond of. Her eyes closed, enveloped in a blissful state of tranquility.

The man came over, placed his hand on her shoulder, and leaned in toward the flowers. He took a long breath and imitated what she had done. He looked over at her as he placed his nose near the flower. Her eyes remained closed.

“I don’t smell anything,” he told the woman. “Nothing at all.”

Her eyes still closed, a faint smile grew across her face. She took another breath. She exhaled a soft wind between her lips.

“Did you hear me?”

“Did you?”

“I said nothing at all.”

I;II

A & B

A: Dude, it’s just a rock. It’s just a fuckin rock in the middle of a fuckin road. There’s nothing to it besides the fact that it is a small little piece of shit. Nothing more to it. No meaning, no symbol, no nothin.

B: How can you go about saying that?

A: Because I can and I will. The problem with you people is that you are always trying to give a bigger meaning or a bigger somethin’ to shit like this. It’s just a fuckin rock for God’s sake! Stop trying to add so much shit to things like this. That’s the difference between me and you: You people always try to complicate what’s already nothin’.

B: But complications are just a part of life? Simplicity is merely a form of ignorance at its most basic level?

A: Ignorance? Fuck that man. It’s just living life like it should be. Instead of making up words and phrases and vocab and everything else you people do – by living with simplicity we get to enjoy what we do. We don’t have to over-think and over-analyze what it is. What it is… is what it is. Why fuckin fret over it more than that? Live your life and move on man.

B: See, that’s what’s wrong with your entire mindset. You try to dull everything down to the most naïve level so that you can barely comprehend the subject matter and then move on. What even gets you going? How can you ignore that a small rock plays such a drastic and symbolic role in society - signifying so many aspects and layers of life? A rock is not just a rock. It is a representation of the terrain, the composition of molecules, the pressure of tectonic plates in your area, the weather patterns, the erosion that has happened in the past thousands of years around here….

A: See! There you go at it again! You’re pullin’ all this shit out of your ass – and for what reason? Why should I give a shit what a rock does or does not do. It sits there. All. Fuckin. Day. Long. And unless someone kicks it, it’ll sit there for days on end. Maybe until the wind blows, it’ll sit there too. It’s just a fuckin rock man. I don’t understand how you people live with all this b.s. nonsense. It’s fuckin crazy talk.

B: Crazy talk, right. Just like everything else I say.

A: Yes! Everything you say is fuckin crazy talk. You babble on and on and on and on and on! Don’t you have anything better to do than over-think about a rock? I don’t even know why I’m fuckin talkin’ to you about a rock right now man! I’ve got shit to do. A job to finish! You think cars get built by themselves?

B: No, not at all. Which is why you are dependent upon the advancement of technology to produce that car. Your bare hands would never be able to produce that car without the use of technology and the numerous hours of development that went into its constructional planning.

A: Bullshit! It’s my hands that make it. It’s my sweat that is poured day in and day out to put together shit like that. Ain’t no rock gonna do that for me, is it?

B: No, of course not. But like the process that was required to create the rock – so are the elements preceeding your physical strain in order to create the car. Listen, please. For a second. This might require some iota of concentration.

A: Concentrate my ass. Whatever man, continue.

B: Ok. As I was saying, the planning that goes into the production of the automobiles you produce first require the tools to create it. That means, even for the designer who sketches the car – he requires time, materials, creativity, a present-day automobile market to contrast against, economical factors to consider, his boss’s satisfaction, his own respect for the profession, the will to do it, the….

A: Whoa, whoa whoa man. Who gives a shit about a designer? He just draws the fuckin thing. He doesn’t have to process all this b.s. crap before he draws it. He just does it!

B: Yeah, you would like to think that. But there are far more factors that go into it than you may think. The way the mind processes information may not be readily written or said, but each element and each thought is translated through his work. Even the final product may be far from a representation than what he had in mind, but it is still created because it was influenced by his idea. It’s an idea spurned off an idea. And though it may not be the idea he wanted created, it was nonetheless an idea that was created in opposition – or even inspiration – due to his original thought.

A: Whoa, whoa whoa. Seriously, I asked you to simplify this b.s. and you go talkin’ ‘bout ideas of ideas. How did we even get to this from a rock talk?

B: Haha, funny you ask. See how crazy things can be if you don’t connect them? That’s your short-term memory working for you. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to recall how we got to the point where we are at now. Your memory is what allows you to connect the cognitive process your mind consistently follows. Which is why you know when to eat lunch after breakfast – or why dinner follows lunch. Not only are you reflecting back on the last time you consumed something, during that day (also an abstract idea), but you’re looking at the weather, the light outside, the conversations people around you are having.

A: Are you telling me I eat dinner because of other people? Dude. I eat dinner because I’m hungry.

B: And what tells you that it’s time to eat? What tells you that you’re hungry?

A: Me? My fuckin’ grumbling stomach?

B: Yes. Your grumbling stomach. And do you know why it “grumbles?”

A: I don’t fuckin’ know man. Who fuckin’ cares anyways? It is what it is!

B: Well, you could say that. But it “grumbles” because your nervous system is sending you a signal that runs from your nerve connections within your stomach and intestines to that of your brain. Without that signal, you’d have no idea what is going on. This is why we can explain what happens to people that have nervous breakdowns or lose nerve endings. They don’t feel anything because their body’s own form of communication has shut down.

A: Or…. Maybe people get fucked up in accidents n’ shit. And when they don’t respond, that just means they got fucked up even more. So basically, shit sucks for them.

B: Yes, “shit sucks for them.” That’s an excellent way to put it.

A: Are you makin’ fun of me?

B: “Mocking” would be the term. Sorry if that offends you. Your lack of understanding made it too easy.

A: Listen, yo. Don’t be makin’ fun of me when I’m tryin’ to talk to you about…. Hey! Wait a minute! What happened to car talk?

B: Wow, I’m impressed. See how good our short-term memory can be? Ha, it really is amazing.

A: Err, yeah man….

B: So, back to “car talk.”

A: Funnn.

B: As I was saying about the designer, while he’s juggling all those ideas and finally gets going by sketching what he imagines would be a good car design – he’s applying pressure to the pencil, forcing the graphite to rub on to the paper which acts as a receiver in the process. Going off on another tangent – which I won’t expound upon too much – that paper itself is a form of technological genius that took years upon years to develop. It was the Egyptians that invited papyrus way back when - which then, throughout the ages, evolved into the paper we have today. One of the most innovative creations of history was the printing press which used paper as its inspiration.

A: Dude. Cars. The designer. Sketching. Lost you after that.

B: Sigh, of course.

Commodious

“But, Monsieur Brunet may further protest, explain to me how a dealer can sell for 200,000 francs a painting for which he paid 100? The answer is simple: the dealer picked the lucky number. I’m reminded of what someone said one day to Odilon Redon: ‘Do you understand how a Delacroix can possibily sell for less than a Muckaczy?’ To which Redon replied: ‘The reason is that no one has the power to make the price of a painting go up. An occult force controls these things, against which we all are powerless.”

Le Chevalier de Nuit

Mark walked up to the counter and told the man, “Two sandwiches please, extra spicy.”

The man looked down at him and shook his head. He was out of bread, but he still had some sauce.

“That’s okay,” Mark said as he nodded his head.

“Gimme whatcha got.”

So the man walked to the other end of the trailer and ladled two scoops of sauce into a bowl. He sprinkled the top with some lettuce, a few slices of tomato and a spoonful of diced onions. Just as he reached for the turkey, his heart began to give out.

Mark could hear the groaning sounds of a man twice his age. First they were low and almost inaudible. Yet each moan grew louder and more painful. It sounded like a helpless man who had fallen. Wait. He had fallen. Am I still going to get my turkey bowl?

20 seconds later the man was dead. A few slices of turkey - still fresh – were somewhere smudged between the floor and the man. Mark didn’t know what to do. Maybe he had a bad cold? I’m sure he’s alright. I’ll just… wait here.

So Mark waited for a bit. Then another bit. He even tried to peep his head over the counter and into the trailer to see if it was a-okay in there.

Shit, man. Where’s my fuckin’ sandwich?

He had already given $6.50 to the man.

But Mark never got his sandwich. A young woman across the street in a short black skirt, ripped lace stockings and 3-inch heels was storming past him. Some oversized oval-shaped glasses shielded her slender face. Her bag… Oh her bag. Is that Balenciaga?

Mark never got his two scoops of sauce in a bowl. But he did walk across the street.

And the man? Last time he did that was in the morning.

Dix

"10*"

Smidge

At the end of the day what is it that keeps you going? At the top there’s fame, fortune and power. At the opposite end of the spectrum there’s peace, humanity and humility. What falls in-between? What falls somewhere left or right or moderately in the middle? You can talk about your career, your family and even what you ate that day. There are the aspirations you think you long for, the aspirations you know you long for and then the ideas that sort of float around your head just waiting for someone to connect with them. Are you sure of yourself? Is anyone? Then there’s that question about life and it’s meaning. Do we live to work or do we work to live? It comes down to the cultural aspects on the broadest level, trickling down to your region, your city, your neighborhood and then your family and friends. It’s a societal influence but also an economical influence. Who says the rich man can spend time with the poor man without being seen as a saint or an exploiter? Can you narrow it down to a pessimistic versus optimistic view?

He likes making money. She likes growing plants. He likes giving to his family. She likes giving to strangers. Is anyone right? Wrong? Violence prevails because some think it garners order. Others know the pain and suffering it creates and see the complete opposite. But there is no single way to solve these problems and arguments. They’re the same arguments that our ancestors of the past dealt with. The only difference is that societal interaction has complicated life generation after generation.

Should we think we’re better than the unknown tribes that still have yet to be found? The ones who live off the land and know technology – that is if the word even exists in their vocabulary – as a sharpened stick or the ignition of the campsite’s heat source? We’re civilized people, we tell ourselves, sitting at our computers and reading about the world’s news. We want to be connected, constantly know what is happening - feeding ourselves information we won’t store for more than a few days. Soon enough it will float to some odd corner of our brain, never to be touched again. That is, unless something triggers our vast memory and collection of tidbits of information. It might take a year or so for it to happen, but when it does something clicks, something resonates with you once again.

It could be a small visual you see walking down the street or the smell in the air as you sit in your car. The taste of a meal that you haven’t consumed in forever – so you tell yourself – might bring you back to that moment in the past you enjoyed so deeply.

We’re a moving bunch – a nomadic bunch of people who want to see it all and be it all. Maybe not everybody, but in the grand scheme of life it’s true. Some just stick to a closer radius than others. They cover the same ground and see the same people, but they’re still digging deeper into those few square feet or few individuals they interact with. The level of “knowing” someone or something or somewhere is dependent on what defines “knowing.”

Is knowing the ability to catalog every moment and occurrence with pinpoint accuracy? Allowing you to bring up any detail of your life faster than a Google search or Wikipedia? We like speed and ease these days, you know. Everything needs to be at our fingertips, zooming as fast as it can so we can stop waiting. Whoever said patience is a virtue probably never lived their life, right? Sitting in a lofty chair, telling others what to do while the world moves on without them. They had a preconception of what life is, when really life is all about what you experience through your own body and soul.

We are born with just ourselves and we die with just ourselves. We may come from a womb and even the joint chromosomes of our mother and father, but in the end it is just you. We meet people along the way, pick up ideas and religions, passions and desires, aspirations and goals that may or may not stem from our own thoughts. Yet our thoughts are only as good as what we have experienced. What we think is ours is merely the affect others have had on us. We form our character from whom we are around. Those wise words actually do work sometimes – “You are the company that you keep.”

How can something so catchy be so true? Or is it? It’s as true as we let it be. It’s as true as our friends and family believe, or even our enemies and strangers. We read what we want to read because it bolsters our own idea and the ideas that surround us. Fluctuating between ideas and ideals, we’re malleable and flawed. Nothing is permanent or perfect - that’s a universal consensus, right? But what’s it matter about universality when really, all we truly care about, is ourselves? Where we end up, how we present ourselves, what we do – is it selfish or is it thoughtful? Good or evil, are these the only choices? Or are we free to make what we want out of it all?