Reflections on Closness

He said to her: life was nothing but a dream worth living or worth dying for depending on what you choose here and now.

She said to him he was right in his assertion although she preferred to think of life as the infinite organic pattern of fractal geometry.

He got up to leave. Closed the door neatly behind him. He picked up his shoes from the floor just outside the apartment. He was calm in putting on each shoe. Like it was the first time he had done this very task. Like learning to tie a shoe lace when he was 3 years old, it warranted his full attention, a meditation, an innocence.

She was breathing steadily. Still feeling his words like a lingering touch of an oracle. He was incapable of understanding her. Even if he feigned it for so long.

She was the one he had always come to for every advice and now he suddenly had it all figured out. She, like a piano teacher who suddenly hears the simple tune of scales that are perfectly executed yet without feeling, lost her faith in progress. There was no understanding, there was only technique. He was never going to be a virtuoso. He would never play Chopin or Rachmaninoff.

She heard his footsteps descending slowly. For the last time. Lovingly she listened to the sound but she could not help but feel relief that he had finally gone and realized his path was not hers and her understanding was not his.

dream 02.12.10

i had a dream last night one that I have quite often.
I have lost my bag with everything in it.
There is a train this is also something that happens quite often.
I am at a train station or I am missing a train. But this time there were cliffs and if I could only get over them, climb up I would be at a dinner party where everything was going to be calm and I could overlook a bay with a beautiful view of a blue ocean.

letter .1

Wake all the neighbors by apollo rosa

The fading pink sky escaping over the tracks from the back door window of the train to the sound of Sufjan Stevens

makes me think of him.

I feel almost happy, mostly relieved—

that I know I’m not as numb as I feel.

Maybe it’s the recent madness, or maybe it’s the come-down of the crescendo of almost two months spent living at a non-stop running pace.

It’s all plausible, and a combo of post pain-and-fear shock is most probably it

But as I looked upon my brother today in the corner seat sunlight on Baldwin street

Say he was a loser

Only the Monday afternoon half-carafe of white wine loosened my numb face

To betray blank

And let my eyes fill with tears

Though none fell

How has he trained his own numbness to such a T?

And how and when will he crack?

And when would I if

if

if

if we were to become

the destinies we’re doomed to?

What were we to do?

If we believed this—

Someone else’s song sings through me, always,

But I didn’t write those words

When I open my mouth

Nothing comes out

Throat dry

Jaw clenching

Teeth grinding

Like he did in his sleep

I remember

I always pretend,

Or try not to complain,

Either way it’s all the same:

I don’t sleep well.

I toss and I turn a thousand times a night through torrid symbolic dreams that are so vivid when I wake at the smallest disturbance

—like morning

Or his teeth grinding

Bad blinds or an unshakeable thoughtfeeling

‘Cause in that half-born state,

Aren’t they just the same?

Like dreams make mythologies of buried feelings, hidden knowing

That may often or never surface as formed thought or decipherable feeling in waking

Hollering with all my might at the world

Is all I can think to do

To fight the numbness

—I won’t resign myself

(no, not yet, I’m not ready!

A friend distracted by her own self-doubt-and-destruction told me last night

When did my brother decide to? I wonder

What is that inescapable recurrent feeling

Of “but I didn’t decide!”

And why am I more afraid of this than anything else?

Because we did, we always do.

How do people fall asleep walking,

Living in a glass box of their own making

Whose ceiling feels uncomfortably low

Though you can see out of it,

It feels like you’re crushed, gasping for air, no less.

If we’re all so enlightened, so disillusioned, so jaded—

And we know we made it ourselves,

of course we did,

who else could have?

Then why can’t I get out?

How is it that it seems everyone helped pull me in here, but no one wants to help pull me out? My brother’s sad eyes say this.

When I know that no one but me closes that door—

And no one can fling it back open in disgust and disbelief

Only me,

Only me

Only him,

Only him

dead silence

Now I know

Why loneliness universally haunts

But what will the walls of his empty perfect suburban townhouse whisper

When the family he built and suffered daily numbness to bring to the world

Is gone

What language but silence will the walls speak?

A silence so strong,

Only a hollow holler could make it go away

Wake all the neighbors.

more

some new photos

Moment in Time

7. INT. BEDROOM – mid morning

She stands by the window looking out.

SHE

I wanted you to be angry.

She puts her hand on the windowpane and touches it ever so lightly.
She breathes on the glass and presses the tip of her finger onto the condensation and leaves a distinct mark of her fingerprint.

Aline moves the curtain aside. Looks out the window and sees HIM leaving.
The street is empty as she recognizes him only by the color of his blazer.
We see a glimpse of his breast pocket in frame as he walks off.

SCENE 4 – Café – mid afternoon

Aline is sitting by a window in a street side café watching passers-by.
Footsteps and voices are heard. Faint jazz is heard from inside the café.
She is humming to herself.

She watches as an old man takes out some food out of a paper bag, bites at it
and throws some bread crumbs on the pavement for birds.

Writes in her journal:
"Man who feeds the birds knows what hunger is."

The MAN walks past the window.
The familiar shoes.

She waves at him – her face lights up.
He pauses, and walks on.
He doesn't hear her and walks away.

It stars to rain.

Is there More?

Buenos Aires

My escapism is kicking into overdrive as the winter sets in and the greyness of every day is starting to suck out the last of my enthusiasm for the daily grid of work and work and a little but of sleep and more work... So I think Argentina is where I would love to be right now! Dancing tango in the sun in the colourful streets of La Boca, speaking spanish, feeling absolutely aimless...ahh the traveler's life.

I like the sultry sounds of this guy:

and ....