Everyone’s always about being on their grind, hustling: I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Me, I like Salvador Dali’s work ethic : ‘Give me two hours a day of activity, and I’ll take the other twenty-two in dreams.’
The sunset was the colour of her skin. Everything was the colour of her, but the sunset more so. The gulls, they danced freckles across her chest, backlit by the failing light. Soon, the sun would set and take her away from me to lands beyond the Pacific, just as she had done. It would dissolve the world, revealing only the cold stars, and even those would be different than she would see. But perhaps now, as my sun sank, hers would be rising,dragging the same miracle sky from the ocean depths of early morning sunrises that separates the blind night from the translucent day with a layer of cream.
I’d like to compare
the blue of your eyes
to the colour so fair
of clear summer skies
but the latter, hun,
is pantone 7461
and your eyes are closer to
pantone number 312
as a graphic designer…
It’s a different colour completely.
I have a place confused with a time. Was it then or me? Where or who? It’s a question that slides sideways when I grasp, slithering like time through my fingers, because who knows what makes a place a place or a time a time. Was I happy because I was there, or was I happy because I was happy and it filled the place and gave it sparkling life, not the lights against the wet pavement. But I mingled, somehow, with the place and the time and I can’t figure out how, can’t replicate the movement because it was done intuitively like making a friend or pulling a girl and the words didn’t matter, just a random assortment that you’ve used before but the magic was there, and magic, despite what Robert Jordan will tell you, is never controlled, but spills like a good bourbon, giving the world that golden glow and a soft, vanilla finish. That place, that time, that me stumbled on that alchemy, making gold from a concrete/lead dross, add a dab of the right people and the golden glow pours out slow and clean, but take away an ingredient and it tumbles like stacked ice. It’s a bad hangover after that.
She wouldn’t do that if she knew. If she knew that when she crosses her arms under her breasts like that it does nothing to that primordial part of the brain that she’s trying to access, the one that interprets body language and should be telling me the crossed arms means she putting a barrier between us because she’s mad. That’s not the part of the brain she’s access. Because when she crosses her arms like that she tightens her shirt across her chest and it sends my brain to an even deeper primordial space. And all I’m thinking is whether she’s wearing a bra or not or remembering her putting a bra on in the morning, or evenings lying in bed with her and admiring the various curves that the sheets accentuate, or evenings on the couch kissing or mornings spooning or the way she looks fresh out of bed in the morning, and anyway anything but thinking how mad she is, or what that tone of voice would mean if I was paying attention to its edge. But it does remind me of times of love, and maybe that’s more important than responding to her anger with a dose of my own.
“We enter a little coffeehouse with a friend of mine and give our order. While we’re approaching our table two people come in and they go to the counter:
‘Five coffees, please. Two of them for us and three suspended’ They pay for their order, take the two and leave.
I ask my friend: “What are those ‘suspended’ coffees?”
My friend: “Wait for it and you will see.”
Some more people enter. Two girls ask for one coffee each, pay and go. The next order was for seven coffees and it was made by three lawyers - three for them and four ‘suspended’. While I still wonder what’s the deal with those ‘suspended’ coffees I enjoy the sunny weather and the beautiful view towards the square in front of the café. Suddenly a man dressed in shabby clothes who looks like a beggar comes in through the door and kindly asks
‘Do you have a suspended coffee ?’
It’s simple - people pay in advance for a coffee meant for someone who can not afford a warm beverage. The tradition with the suspended coffees started in Naples, but it has spread all over the world and in some places you can order not only a suspended coffee, but also a sandwich or a whole meal.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have such cafés or even grocery stores in every town where the less fortunate will find hope and support? If you own a business why don’t you offer it to your clients… I am sure many of them will like it. (via Mind Boggling Stories)
It turned on me somewhere in the last half hour. It went south, pear shaped, awry, any way but right. It turned and went sideways down my throat, easy as a fishbone. It’s not coming up anytime soon, so for now, for right now, I’ll live with it, try to wait it out. If you sit very still, and stare into the middle distance, it can be outsmarted, out weighted. Or at least that’s what I’m told. Never stare at the sky, or the mountains, the future is too heavy. Something small, lunch say or the promise of a movie, that’ll do. Or if not for that, just don’t try to store up any hope. It gorges on hope. It gets bigger and harder to fight the more you feed eat. Not hope, facts are what’ll save me here. Facts should straighten it out, or at least give me something to grab a hold of until the whole thing settles and I’m whole again. Just don’t stare it in the eyes, those spiral eyes of Kaa.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I know I’ll do it again, and I’m sorry for that as well. I’m sorry and though you may have forgiven me, I can’t find that forgiveness in myself. It seems to have been lost in translation, the forgiveness. The postman hasn’t come. I’ve signed no papers. Have you sent it? My forgiveness? So many things get lost along the way.