looking for a ghost on christmas eve

He barged in. In tight leather pants, wild, careless hair over his beautiful eyes. He had a voice of an angel in distress or a demon escaped from the icy pits of hell. He could fly but preferred leaping from wall to ceiling when the mood struck him.  Like a dancer suspended on invisible strings.

Soon, he was joined by an older man smoking a cigar. This man could fly, and to prove it, he had the scars, burnt skin and hands. All he did was drink. And write. What he wrote, the young wild man read aloud, half singing, half speaking in that deep voice. What he wrote was a plea to another friend, who had disappeared on the both of them. This dark night, they came here to look for a sign.

Together they sat, or one sat while the other moved about; both drinking straight shots of J.D. and some vile rum, waiting for an apparition to emerge from the cigarette smoke. To kill time, they drank, wrote, read, sang, and drank some more.

The cold gust of wind and fresh snow blows in as the creaking door opens. Nobody else seems to bother, but  a chill runs down the old man's and the wild one's spines. Followed by a wave of disappointment. Busted. It wasn't their friend. But a face just as familiar. Death. They'd have to leave soon. Oh well, might as well get him into the conversation for a while, he anyway is just enough company when you can't find what you were waiting for. And they were running out of time anyway.

They waited. They performed their gigs, all the time waiting for the one friend who left long time ago. Death just sat there,  a great listener. He enjoys a good show. As they got drunker and more eloquent, he took out a paper and made a note with an old goose quill he fobbed off some other drunken sod long time ago.

No ink. 'These old-fashioned things', he sighed. He turned and asked if he could borrow my Parker pen.

the morning after

Christmas day passed by... and became something I don't remember much of except these...

the night, at around 4am... as hazy as I was

the morning after (and it snowed inside cuz some jerk broke the glass and slept in the garbage room)

how do i get to my place? (and how and why the hell did I get out?)

stairway to blizzard (five minutes after shoveling it off. Why did we bother?)

My top bummer songs playlist

in no particular order... old and new favorites that I listen to when I'm depressed, which is a constant these days; or snowed in....

1. Broken - Seether & Amy Lee
2. High Hopes - Pink Floyd
3. Same Mistake - James Blunt
4. Cryin' in the Rain - A-ha
5. Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground
6. Breathe Again - Sara Bareilles
7. Crucify - Tori Amos
8. Foolish Games - Jewel
9. In the Air Tonight - Phil Collins
10. Against All Odds - Phil Collins
11. Broken - Lifehouse
12. Poison - Alice Cooper
13. Tears and Rain - James Blunt
14. My Immortal - Evanescence
15. River - Angus Stone
16. Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley
17. Unsatisfied - The Replacements
18. Crash Into Me - Dave Matthews Band
19. November Rain - Guns 'N' Roses
20. Give Into Me - Michael Jackson
21. Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper with Sarah McLachlan
22. Drifting Further Away - Powderfinger
23. Never Say Never - The Fray
24. The Reason - Hoobastank
25. Running Away - Midnight Hour
26. Almost Here - Brian McFadden and Delta Goodrem
27. Too Much Love Will Kill You - Queen
28. Hollow Years - Dream Theater
29. Don't Dream it's Over - Crowded House
30. Here I Go Again - Whitesnake
31. Days Gone By - Slaughter
32. Everything Burns - Anastacia with Ben Moody
33. Let Me Out - Ben's Brother
34. Numb - Linkin Park
35. Waiting For the End - Linkin Park
36. Behind Blue Eyes - The Who
37. You Don't Have to Say You Love Me - Dusty Springfield
38. Friend Like You - Joshua Radin
39. Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
40. Love the Way You Lie - Eminem and Rihana
41. Something Inside - Jonathan Rhys Meyers
42. Heart of Gold - Neil Young
43. Secret - Heart
44. Sailing - Rod Stewart
45. Live to Tell - Madonna
46. Mad World - Adam Lambert
47. Apologize - One Republic
48. Keep Bleeding - Leona Lewis
49. Here With Me - Dido
50. Open Arms - Journey
51. Fallen - Sarah McLachlan
52. Wherever You Will Go - The Calling
53. Ripple - Grateful Dead
54. Patience - Guns 'N' Roses
55. Hey You - Pink Floyd
56. Mad About You - Sting
57. Shine On You Crazy Diamond - Pink Floyd
58. Now and Forever - Richard Marx
59. Wild World - Cat Stevens
60. What Have I Done to Deserve This - Pet Shop Boys
61. The End of the World - Skeeter Davis
62. Cup of Coffee - Garbage
63. Nights in White Satin - The Moody Blues
64. Save the Last Dance For Me - The Drifters
65. Drive - The Cars
66. Unchained Melody - Righteous Brothers
67. I Don't Like to Sleep Alone - Paul Anka
68. Don't Know Much - Aaron Neville & Linda Ronstadt
69. Dreams - Fleetwood Mac
70. Hard to Say I'm Sorry - Chicago
71. Love Bites - Def Leppard
72. Two Steps Behind - Def Leppard
73. If You Don't Know Me By Now - Simply Red
74. Afterglow - INXS
75. Keep On Lovin' You - REO Speedwagon
76. Can't Fight this Feelin' Anymore - REO Speedwagon
77. Truly, Madly, Deeply - Savage Garden
78. My Baby Shot Me Down - Nancy Sinatra
79. Father Figure - George Michael
80. Whiskey Lullaby - Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss
81. How Do I Live - Trisha Yearwood
82. Forever Young - Laura Branigan
83. America - Simon and Garfunkel
84. Secret Garden - Bruce Springsteen
85. I Need You - America
86. Heaven - Warrant
87. Staring at the Sun - U2
88. Angel - Aerosmith
89. You're All I Need - White Lion
90. I'll Be There - Escape Club
91. It's Hard Letting You Go - Bon Jovi
92. Thank You - Bon Jovi
93. Trapped - Indus Creed
94.  Don't Fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult
95. Hellhound on My Trail - Robert Johnson
96. Diamonds and Rust - Joan Baez
97. Truckin' - Grateful Dead
98. The Riddle - Five for Fighting
99. The Zephyr Song - RHCP
100. The End - Jim Morrison
101. Uninvited - Alanis Morrisete
102. The Scientist - Coldplay
103. Far Away - Nickelback
104. All We Are - Matt Nathanson
105. Falling Apart - Matt Nathanson
106. Waiting For The End - Linkin Park
107. Falling Slowly - Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

song for this year

Drifting Further Away - Powderfinger

Don't go too deep into the flood
Don't stare too long, you'll poison my love
Don't shut me out, don't hold it all in
Don't let my venom get under your skin..

'Cuz every word and every turn and
Every sign points to your hurt
And every hour you're drifting further away.

...Don't banish me then bid me home
Don't tell me where I came undone...

In the dark

In my country, I am common,
Not a welcome presence, just
Heavy like a wet blanket on a humid summer
With no electricity, hot.
Things happen. At dark.
It is night and so am I.

Oh but I remember the glowworms over my bed.

Here I am exotic, dark, a hooded stranger
In the constant glare of city lights,
A shadow, sometimes a black hole come too early
For the final starburst. Disappear,
Die into me. Sleep.
I am night and things are wild.

But now the darkness becomes me I can't breathe.

Does it matter what you call me?
This name is purple-black like a bruise
That never heals.
Invisible
To the naked eye. I.

It is dark, this night. Brooding.
And things happen I don't need to hide.

How do i live?

Writing is futile when every breath and keystroke is a fight to keep walls from crumbling down.

What a lie. The walls were never there. What you thought were pieces falling were stones thrown at you for sins past and present. You fell. No. To fall down means at some point you were standing. Which you never were. Crouched in the darkened corner hiding from whatever light that could reveal your flaws, you never realized all the debris around was only your fault. They're your pieces. Nobody else's. You broke yourself, chunk by chunk whatever you thought was undesirable, and now you are shocked when you came tumbling down?

Now there's nothing left of you. Just an ashy breath and some broken sentences.

And nobody is going to come and clean up this mess.

Not even the delete key.

Picture of a perfect day

1. 7a.m. An hour or more around the block in circles (or so it seems from 6th Ave, W3 to somewhere on 8th Av and back)

2. 9a.m. Coffee and breakfast at a diner... where they keep the same seat for you.

3. 10 a.m. Walk, stop, stare at old record shops, churches, guitars, puppies on sale, cream puffs, and drink more coffee.

4. 12 p.m. Listen to Velvet Underground, Lou Reed, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Phil Ochs, and Dylan.

5. 3 p.m. Practice blues rhythms till dark.

6. 5 p.m. Walk to the park after sunset, stare at Christmas decorations on streets and random windows, browse bookstores and watch people go crazy deciding what to gift, while I inhale print.

7. 7 p.m. Conversations with bartenders, more music, food called home delivery.

8. 10 p.m. A book, a song, a coffee, a Jacques Torres dark chocolate.

And doing other things in between all that and after ;-)
... like laughing hysterically at abbot and costello and marx brothers. and crying at judy garland's rendition of the battle hymn of the republic. and watching carl palmer and stanley jordan, wondering if they have two separate brains - one dedicated to music composition and another to motor function...

SantaCon 2010

The madness is still on... it's been on since this morning. The Santas are on a pub crawl - that the regulars have nowhere to go, so we stay sober and for nothin' better to do, take pictures, videos, and blog.

The scene outside my apartment:

Just heard a sloshed Santa calling this  the MacDougal 'Saint' Alehouse. 

There's a lot happenin'... drunk Santas, stressed cops, paramedics,... you get the idea. Kinda fun to watch. Not so much fun for the bartenders though... Santas are such slobs. Just tripped over broken bottles and god knows what... and more Santas crawling out of the woodwork. Merry Christmas. 

Not yet. Just ho ho ho tonight.

How I love the madness on MacDougal Street. 

Autumn in New York

  

What the silence hides...

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss - an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc. - is sure to be noticed.


-Soren Kierkgaard, The Sickness Unto Death


We lose ourselves... as if it were nothing at all. We stand, we lose, we keep standing, and by the time we notice, it is too late. The space left by the part we just lost becomes a desert, a void, or sometimes gets consumed by fear. Of the three, fear is the worst... an acid that eats away the rest of us slowly. Fear is the worst because it gives us enough time to ask for help, or remain paralyzed in loss. Either way, you lose.

Getting help is not something that builds your self, in fact, it contributes to the loss. For what you could once deal with on your own, is now something that you depend on other people's kindness and/ or the external environment. Which is very unreliable to start with. Paralysis due to fear is a spiral from which you never wake up and is infinite in its downward trail.


More losses of self. Self-esteem, self-reliance. It happens so quietly. Even killing yourself is not an option cuz it requires a self. And it's a waste of time to flog a dead horse twice. 

The end of summer

Some days are like this, when dark clouds hover and the higher you stand, the closer you are in danger of getting struck by lightning or some such. Like this.

These are the kind of days when you remember days like this, a hot 100 F, blue skies, about to jump into the nearest water body:

Regret of days gone by, however,  should be avoided whenever possible. Preferably with the best chocolate ice-cream, staring at a bridge. Like here: (pic taken while chocolate ice-cream was being consumed).

here:

And even if the night seems empty, imagine the stars trapped forever just for you:

Oh, and bridges are not for crossing. Only for staring, burning and bypassing. Crossing a bridge is lame, anyone can do that, and people who do just don't seem too happy about it anyway.

times like these...

No one should be alone. But people generally are. and nobody can help you except yourself blah blah blah. Whatever times these are, whatever time it is anywhere, you will always be alone. You always knew this.

But it kind of takes the wind out of you every time this realization hits. Feels like drowning.

These are the moments when memories of times when you were not alone seem like cruel jokes, lies. You hate yourself for trusting all those moments. Everything you believed in becomes ashes. Your fears are the only arms that wrap around you, and they leave deep deep scars. You hide them.

These are the moments when you know how weak you are, and you smash everything to pieces just to prove you're not. Every object in your room becomes a potential weapon. Every person a target.

Aren't you glad you are alone? Only you can see how you've fallen and shattered yourself.

A random conversation in the garden

"You know, a Moroccan carpet seller once told me that even in the most abstract carpet designs, if you look hard enough, you will see that it is divided into four quadrants. The first quadrant symbolizes desire, the second suffering, followed by resolution and finally morality. 


So first you've got to know what you want or what your heart desires. Not knowing itself is a kind of suffering, but once you know, things will happen that will make you want to fulfill, change, or give up those desires. Sometimes you've got to let things just be and resolve themselves, sometimes you've got to work at it. Whatever answers you get, at the end of the day, you will learn something. For better or for worse. And you become a new person with your own code of morality." *

That's what your carpet tells you. Sometimes the design is so complex and haphazard, all you see is a random madness, but always, always, there is a pattern underneath,  quadrants tangled up in the warp and woof of wild colors.

The carpet is a window of your life. Look at your carpet and see what it hides - in it, or what you sweep under it. It holds answers even if you don't have any questions.

*Thank you for the anecdote. It is not verbatim I know, but it's what I got from your telling. And thanks to another...

About dark places

For the thing which

I greatly feared is come upon me,

and that which I was afraid of

is come unto me.

I was not in safety, neither

had I rest, neither was I quiet;

yet trouble came.

-       Job

Everyone goes through storms, some ride the waves, others swim against it, some others drown. We all carry scars – some hidden, some on our sleeves. Those who seemingly have conquered bouts of varying degrees of agony hang on to things that seem to be an anchor… though painfully aware that such objects are not permanent. And so we create spaces – tangible or otherwise, spaces where we run to for safety and protection… from ourselves.

But sometimes these very spaces become a deathtrap. The friend we look to for hope may not be around, understand, or may be helpless to an onslaught of our darkness. The terrace where we used to kiss random lovers, sit alone, or carry out an endless bargain with emptiness becomes a venue of our death scenarios. The words we used to write are now poison-tipped blank pages. The songs of our good times are now just a reminder of the things we’ve lost.

Loss. Loss may be the reason. A loss of self-esteem, self-reliance, the self itself, causes and perpetuates the darkness. There is an inability to make decisions. For now there are no choices, only options. A terminally-ill cancer patient wants life / good health over death. But the options are: 1. More chemo and live a little longer, but with side effects, 2. No treatment and die in a month, 3. Euthanasia or some such. Not good enough. But this is it. You’ve got a kind of cancer in your head, there are no more choices.

Not being able to make decisions based on given options make the nights unbearable and sleepless, and the days unlivable. All thoughts focus on one simple question: is life worth all this? Then the doppleganger makes an appearance. (It is always there, but moments like this, we see it). This shadow-figure is a double-edged sword and highly unpredictable in its opinions, comings and goings. Most times, it is a silent, calm observer, watching as we work ourselves into a frenzy of madness or descend screaming or quiet into the abyss. Sometimes it aids and abets in whatever we do or don't do. Mostly it is a portent. It waits until the moment passes or until we come to the final decision point, and then slips back inside... us. The doppleganger is a crack of light that reveals our dark places and drives us either to our death or to our recovery by making us view the stark reality of our desperation.

What is the point of all this?? Oh about the dark places. Inside and out. The sometimes violent dark. The accusing night of enveloping fears. You will never know or understand until you're in it. And even if you escape for a while by sheer will or plain dumb luck, the memory will haunt your sleep and awake moments. The darkness will always be close behind… making the light in front of your eyes a fata morgana. It will grow until it forms a cloak around you. It will soon be the only thing that is real. 

It will consume whatever is left of you. There will be no place left to hide. There will soon no longer be a 'you' to hide.

in a dark place

i'm running away.

away.

apt hunting - craigslist crib

?# 1. stop advertising affordable apartments in west and east village. there are still some of us who hope without your help for the diamond in the rough or the other way round. mostly the diamond in the diamond for the rough.

#2. please, not all you people are volunteers in west africa, or pastors of a lost flock, or saving the world org, etc kind of people?*  if all of you were actually where you said you were, new york city would be a much cheaper place to live in. and the rest of the world wouldn't go hungry or whatever. Also i wouldn't have to hear hell fire and brimstone and jesus in summer outside my window or on the subway. **

#3. oh, and if you were volunteers, you wouldn't be 'owning' an apartment in NYC in the first place. (On second thoughts, considering how much money you steal / get from the government, church and stupid people, it is possible; but seriously, are you not christian enough to show the apartment before renting it out??).

#4. Everybody 'cherishes' their apartment. And would love someone else to do the cleaning. Hire a maid for god's sake. The third world got that right for centuries till now, why can't you?? just ask for a fuckin maid.

#4. where the hell do you cyber people get time to post ads and pictures doin this shit?

#5. do you get paid for this?

#6. if yes to #5, can i also contribute at 15 bucks an hour? I can take pictures too. AND i  can spell. (for the purpose of this post, all sentences begin in lower case. i am aware, not illiterate).

#7. if these people of existing scams don't exist - oh no. my nightmares are true. we are being taken over by some unknown force who can't spell and mass mails with minor changes.

* maybe. maybe not. should i list the countries not part of west africa?? ethiopia, sudan are not west africa for anyone's sakes... why west africa????


** strange, but all evangelical types come out of the woodwork in summer. wonder wot the hell these guys/gals do in winter...  (so i have a problem with the street preachers. sue me o free country. My ears have rights even if my passport doesn't provide legal counsel. And the free ear plugs don't work.)

Slipping into the Night

Some people make it through, come out in one piece waiting for the sunrise. These are the people who are lucky enough to be able to sleep through the darkness and awake dreamless, but rested. Or just catatonic.

Then there are the others. The ones who picture hope as being chained to pillars that they tear down in a rage just when the party is at its height. Hope seen like an 'H'. Samson got it right -  being bound is a way to feel alive, to go through life breaking chains and jawbones, just cuz you can do it, never mind the casualties.

These are the night people, the restless people, the ones who walk with their shadows for protection and yet wonder why the shadows move differently from them. Their shadow runs all the way to the roof to jump and gets distracted by the skies, while they curl in a corner. The shadow watches their every move at every bar and follows them with whatever they take home. The shadow sees, the shadow knows; it remembers every meaningless conversation, every blackout; yet lets them slip through the night, to stumble through subways, parks and alleys... And over time, the shadow becomes substance.

Still, there is a code for these shadow walkers, you can't call them rules, it's something you make up as you go along. Or learn the hard way.

1. When in company, smile a lot, talk some. This helps in getting drinks on the house. When alone, wallow and drink some more.
2. Wear comfortable shoes. It's hard enough to stand, let alone walk when you're being more than one person at a time. Also, since you're following #1.
3. Keep track of the lies of the evening. Forget them once you're certain you'll never go back to the place where you've been before.
4. Deflect personal questions. Or remove yourself from the inquisitor.
5. Never allow someone else's shadow in. It could swallow your own, and you wouldn't be able to tell 'em apart after prolonged exposure.
6. Keep the radio on / always carry your iPod.
7. Never hold on to anything for dear life. Nothing holds you back. Not even the teddy bear.

When you slip into the night, try to slide. Climb back up and fall again. Don't bother to hide the wounds.

How the previous post looks like in my head

Who would've 

thought

it'd be

so difficult  to

traverse these

paths on your

fretted back with

just the right touch?

--------------------

There are more

ways than one
-------------------

  to   tease   you,

  p l e a s e  you,
-------------------

I  know that.  I

know. I  know

--------------------

But I'm   wooed

by the il-legit-im

-acy of darkened
---------------------

corners,    by an

elusive     sound

d r o w n i n g in

the rising smoke.

-----------------------

This is the time

To   keep   time

within  swaying

 doors,   but all I

 can  do is derive
-------------------------

 my    own mean

-ing     in    your 

sustained  glance

--------------------------

I imagine my flight

I   feel   your   fight  

to hear my c| a| g| e| d

silence within the slow

measures of your sigh.

-------------------------------

These pages have circles

and mirrors inside and out, an urgent

rising, an     infinite     reflection with no rest

till we find a          r   e   s   o   l   u   t   i   o   n.

But this is a key in love and death in lust and life

And changing where I place my scars

Just prolongs the agony in empty spaces
left behind.

I     can't

return anymore,

I    can't     return

to     the     first

m o v e m e n t, 

tothemoment

we set this unbearable pitch.
This time and place can not be transposed,
to less-bled pathways to an unshaking ground, and if we try we will only
slip, be trapped, get entangled in this  scale and  slide fevered
 into a whirlpool of shared dissonance till we arrive clutching,

gasping at the right clef, for air. Who  would've thought
you thought I was the violent one dragging you to hell,
when the sheet music the dark music the raging music
in  my  head was  a blind reading

of your hands on me?

Desire in the key of F#maj - a complex meter

Who would've thought it'd be so difficult 

to traverse these paths 

on your fretted back

with just the right touch?

There are more ways than one 

to tease you, please you,

I know that. I know. 

I know.

But I'm wooed by the illegitimacy

of darkened corners, 

by an elusive sound

drowning in the rising smoke.

This is the time

To keep time within swaying doors, 

but all I can do

is derive my own meaning 

in your sustained glance.

I imagine my flight

I feel your fight

To hear my caged silence

Within the slow measures

Of your sigh.

These pages have circles and mirrors

Inside and out, 

an urgent rising, an infinite reflection

with no rest till we find a resolution.

But this is a key 

in love and death

in lust and life

And changing where I place my scars

Just prolongs the agony
in empty spaces left behind.

I can't return anymore,I can't
return 

to the first movement, to the moment

we set this unbearable pitch. 

This time and place can not 

be transposed, to less-bled pathways

to an unshaking ground,
and if we try

we will only slip, be trapped, 

get entangled in this scale 
and slide fevered

into a whirlpool of shared dissonance
till we arrive clutching, gasping
at the right clef, for air.

Who would've thought you thought

I was the violent one dragging you to hell,

When the sheet music the dark music 

The raging music in my head 

was a blind reading of your hands on me?
----------------------------------------------------------------------
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.


~T.S. Eliot [Four Quartets, Little Gidding, Part V]

Before Dawn

It is the hour of purple before red.
I, awake, slide beside your warmth
for the first sleep.
You breathe a question about the light,
wondering if the shadows still lurk
in my darkness.
I listen. I watch.

It is the hour you know when tears dry.
I, falling, try not to speak my secrets
into your dreams.
Please keep breathing, sleeping,
It is the hour of enclosing arms
It is the hour when reds turn to purple streaks.
I curl. You kiss.

I heal.