Tag: creative writing

Coffee and TV

This version of me smokes cigarettes with the depth of a film noir diva. This person drinks coffee as if it was a rare elixir, a fountain of youth. This version of me is a beautiful and perfectly calculated woman. She is sultry and her sex is a lethal weapon. She is Gigi from Casino, Cookie from Empire, Gloria from Gloria, Lauren Bacall and Jennifer Lawrence all rolled into one.

The truth is that this woman has been emulated over the years through my actions, my decision making, my diatribes and my behavior towards work, life and particularly sex. The power that she has is almighty but her heart is shattered. She maintains an approachable aura that in fact prevents her from being touched by anyone. Inside she’s frail, she is alone. The struggle between self-sufficiency and loneliness is ever present.

This woman is who I wish I was or could become. She is what I wish I had as a role model. I will never forget the first time I saw Sharon Stone on the screen, a bewitching being unlike any other I had seen before. In person, Stone is even more fascinating. She is loud, tall, has an arresting smile, and a contagious laughter. Her body is like a statue, even at the height of her fifties, she is still one of the most gorgeous women I have ever met.

As a kid I wanted to be Sharon Stone, or what I believed Sharon Stone was like. In Basic Instinct she had more power than any of the other characters – she dominated them with a look. When the doors to the world shut down and she found herself alone, she had the same effect on herself, drowning in her own seduction.

I always worshiped women. Women to me are untouchable. Growing up I listened to female singers pretty much 95% of the time, my friends were all girls, I spent most of my family time with my aunts, and my TV idols were also all women. I always envisioned myself as one of them, sashaying across a stage, dancing and trading energy with the crowd. I could see what the cover art of my CD would look like. I could hear the sound of my music. None of those things ever happened, perhaps because I am not a woman, or anything like the woman I believed I should be like. What could have prevented me from pursuing my goals? Could it have been fear of having to deal with the results of whatever endeavor I’d throw myself into? Could it have been fear of unraveling, like many of my idols have when they accomplished their dreams?

Inherently I feel that I am my happiest as a man, I love my body and the life I have created for myself. My life inspires me too. Still, when I close my eyes and daydream, my constant lady reappears, her who takes no shit from anyone and is adored by most. My hope for this girl however, is that she realizes she doesn’t need anyone else to feel less alone, no walls to protect her, she has herself and her dreams, that is the poetry she is meant to be living. The idea is to accept this woman as another part of myself. Having this other side protected within me is important because that is also what protects me. I will keep Cookie, Ginger, Gloria, and Lauren tucked away. I will continue to bring them out, as sometimes I do, for opportune appearances in my day to day life. I will incorporate Cookie when I need to serve a cold dish of revenge, or Gloria when I need to protect my people. Nothing defeats me, nobody messes with me, not even myself.

C Train

9 am on the C train
Holding on, squeezing in

Trying to fit in
Grab the bag, hold the pole, take control
Holding on to what’s left
Holding on to the dream

Living the delusion
Feelings and confusion
It’s never what it once was
It’s never what it will be

Found a place for myself
In your arms no one else
How have I done wrong
How was I so wrong

Alone in my head
The chill in my bed
And my heart feeling sad
Breaking
Once again

Broken

Your shoes in the rack
Nothing but a token
Words unspoken
Left me with a wound open
Bleeding

Trying to face my feelings
Facing the ultimate rest
Uneasy
Facing the test

It’s all about you and none of the rest
It’s all for you for my life to relax
To keep actions in check
To stop words from causing distress

Silent All These Years

In the careful decision to peacefully sit in his living room with no music, no phone, no books or television, he hoped for the sweet comfort of silence. He listened to the white sounds in the background, like the hum from the neighbor’s air conditioners, the airplanes flying in and out of JFK, or the cars driving down Flatbush Avenue, at a safe distance. He carefully examined the brown sounds of the blue jays, hawks, canaries and a myriad of other birds he couldn’t name, but wish he did. He did not hear any pigeons and found that to be rather amusing. There were occasional dogs barking, a giggle from a child, or a door to a patio opening up. How lucky must these people be, to live in New York and be able to afford the outdoor space?

In this mix of delight and anxiety produced by the sounds of early morning he hoped to find clarity and direction. He hoped these moments of stillness would bring him closer to a solution to the many dilemmas that haunted him. He felt elated by the ability to be still and alone without wanting to rush to the left or the right. Sometimes he wondered if his life would’ve been easier had he been born an idiot, a complete clunk. He thought of those people who only own one sheet and one shoe and yet cherish them like gold, without desiring for anything other than what they have. Who are these people? Do they understand the world they live in? Have they always been this way or did life condition them into passiveness?

These are thoughts that go through his head. Certain times these thoughts can be perversive, and their simple occurrence frightens him. Would he really be able to act on any of them? Do other people also carry darkness within their bright spectrum?

In the silence he sat, trying to block out the white noises until he accepted them for lack of choice. He really did believe he was listening to the silence, but the silence was listening to him all along. Like a sponge, the muggy air of the late summer soaked in the thoughts that seeped through his soul, the air was drenched. Perhaps all that humidity he was feeling was in fact a product of his own thoughts?

The silence is quiet and pensive, it pushes you to arrive at your own conclusions. That’s how he felt then, as if he was making progress in his interval for sanity. The truth is that the silence fed the thoughts back to him, filtered, unscrambled, clear of pollution. He suddenly had the answers he needed. Only the ones he needed, not the ones he wanted.

Faces and gestures remained in the membrane that separates the body from the soul. He was pulled towards these faces of people he had known and not spoken to for more than ten years. At college, some of these people seemed as if they would last for an eternity, but they vanished faster than a sunset.

He thought of his friend who lived alone in an island and wondered about her well-being. He decided it was time to check in. He felt guilty but warm too, for having her in his thoughts was like having his old pal sitting next to him talking trivial talks, like the maintenance of a swimming pool or the life of a circus freak. He missed those talks and wondered how was it possible that they had now gone over three months without even exchanging a single text message. He pondered whether he had done her wrong in any way but decided none of that had anything to do with anything anyway.

He pushed the thought away to return to the silence but her face kept coming back as if it was magnetized and being pulled by his aura. Finally, a new thought came and the moment became a new minuscule obsession about interest rates on credit cards. He made an immediate financial decision and then realized he still hadn’t changed the mailing address for the cable bill. In the busying of his head he was still in silence.

This occupied silence spoke to him in intense waves. He shed a tear first, then two more, for no particular reason. His chest felt swollen and the only solution was an unconscious physical reaction. He took a deep breath and shed a laugh instead. He now felt blissful, in ecstasy. He felt ignorant. He felt irrelevant. How beautiful it is to be irrelevant, a human among humans, without titles or borders. He cursed on technology and then apologized for it. He realized how lucky he was. He realized how real he was. He felt valued, not by others, but himself. This was a novel thought, perhaps even an epiphany. The silence was talking to him, the silence was telling him things he never knew, things no friend, mentor or therapist had ever said. The silence told him to push through and be strong. The silence told him to come back, every day, and more would be revealed. It was now up to him, only up to him.

Coffee Shop Ghosts

Who are these lonely crusaders of the keyboard? Who are these people who venture out into the unknown epicenter of words and numbers, in the middle of the afternoon, at quirky cafes or massive chains? Where did these beings come from and where do they belong? Do they not feel perturbed by the clinks and clanks of espresso machines and registers? Are they not phased by the screech of the milk frothers and the baby sitters shoving their strollers in whatever way they please?

Perhaps Benjamin woke up angry at his wife. He decided he needed to go write a letter to his high school sweetheart, the only person who ever really understood him, even in the silence. Gloria’s internet connection, on the other hand, was disrupted by the latest UFO to fly into town for the alien convention and she really could not wait another minute to wrap up her thesis on cloud anomalies. Actual clouds, not digital clouds. Could it be that Daniel has no place to call an office now that he is unemployed (staying at home creates an aura of depression and purposelessness)?

These people are magical beings, they populate areas which would likely go unused. These are creatures resented by some of the coffee enthusiasts, who would like to think they would go coffee tasting, if they had the space and the peace of mind to do so. What about the lovers who would like to sit at a table for a date and cannot, because there are ten computer rats crowding the environment? More intriguing are those who sit at the coffee shops and restaurants to watch movies or play video games. Is there really no better place to do it at than a crowded coffee shop? What is it about a busy restaurant that inspires someone to tune out the world and jump into the universe of Zelda?

I remember when I waited tables at a little cafe in Soho, a few moons ago, there was a girl who would always come in, order a regular coffee (which cost no more than two dollars) and sit there, on her laptop, working for hours. At the time I depended on tips and she never left any. She also took the space away from the good tippers, I thought. I couldn’t stand her, but at the same time I envied her. That woman had a purpose, she had things she needed done. For whatever reason, the non-tipper felt that our little cafe was welcoming enough that she could sit there for hours, entire afternoons! The owners of the cafe didn’t seem to mind, they probably felt she was good advertising, making the place look busy. The entire time I worked there I never saw her order anything other than her regular coffee. Not even a cookie! I bet that if I were to ask her, she would probably say she didn’t even like our coffee. I also bet she has a big career in astrophysics today, or something important like that. That girl had places to get to in life, she was tireless.

Cafes provide, perhaps, a sheltering environment away from loneliness but protected from interruptions. People most likely feel less inclined to talking to someone who’s on their computer, working. Nothing upsets me more than the person who feels comfortable enough to chit-chat with a perfect stranger. Call it social awkwardness but it’s at that moment when I really wish I’d have a computer to protect me.

A conclusion to this matter is still miles away but the endless amount of possibilities hidden behind each and everyone of these people is a thrill. The stories that run through my head during each trip to the local cafe are fabulous. The simple fact that they’re there, focused, makes me feel like they’re ten steps ahead of me. They’re the brave ones, facing the crowds, unafraid to explore their creative and professional needs, from full caf to decaf.

Originally published on MEDIUM.

Temporary Rooms

I observe with the human lens. I watch them from the dimly lit corner of a room. They parade around with importance, tidying it all up for the honorable guests. They believe this is important. They believe this matters. I observe as the mechanical lenses line up at the edge of the room, always ecstatic and a bit hectic. They take position, a square each. A square, denoted by the neon tape that feels nothing, that says nothing, that breathes nothing. This tape somehow, the unliving tape, holds more power than some of the living things.

I observe in silence, as the lights briefly dim up bringing to center stage an army of long-limbed tall exquisite creatures. They walk in poetic march, built to inspire, built to promote, built for desire. 

I track the movement of guests as the doors bust open. I track them as they observe their ticket, longing for better seating. I observe as the better-seated glance at other better-seated, in awe and admiration, in anger and envy. I glance as they smile and hug and laugh and throw their hair back. They never stop. This is the cafeteria of high school and everyone has their place. Except for me, I am displaced.

I look, I point my humanity, I shoot. Heavenly creatures reappear on the suddenly bright room. I record moments, I share them with the world, I document it, in the way I’m told. Told by my lenses, the human lenses, creating unique perspectives, developing plots, but never deciding on an end. This story has no end, but the room does.

This room has an end, the room has a time. The room will live in glory, every once in a while. The room will be light and dark, the room will be structure and de-structure. The room will come, the room will go, but I’ll stay. I’ll stay. I’ll stay.