mergers and acquisitions

what are we? match makers or breakers? (at the risk of sounding like carrie bradshaw)
we meet on the terrace high above the rest of the city after we have finished our individual endeavors, conquests, acquisitions of the day. High, up against the millions of ‘stories’ below. We come to talk of our own stories. Together we weave relationships, sorrows, needs, mere-mortals, future plans, aspirations and many things that one brings to such heights. We come here to throw it all out at the rest of the world, to shout from the rooftops. Puff, swig, lump in my throat. Gulp.

We want to be loved. We know what we want. We pursue our desires and we eventually succumb to these, no matter what. We meet on the terrace to listen to each other. We are friends and we carry our transparent souls hidden inside transparent hearts held within transparent bodies, so that when our hearts are clouded with pain, you will see it and make it go away.
And we all long for the unconditional eternal glory of love.

We are suddenly surrounded by theories on the psychosomatic behavior of middle-aged mortals. Sip, yack, nod. We brush it away. You struggle to find what you want. We will be your match makers and your match breakers beside you, against match-seekers and heart-breakers.
Parallel lives.
Your ache today, my ache tomorrow.
Double fold.
That’s why you know.

Whenstheday repeat after me whatstheday?

Today is a day of words repeated, said over and over again, work incomplete, giggles, nicola conte, crude jokes, missed jokes because the headphones were on, tiger ramesh, e-signatures, shades in the room, peach tea, cream cracker, lemon rice, sideways glances, presentations, leaning on the balcony rail, wrong cds, quiet in the corners, lack of quirky links from c2k, lunch breaks, tea breaks, no office boy, horoscopes, blogs revisited, in-ertia, mild electric shocks, beeping ups, evening to come, pebbles, enjoying nicola conte, tapping feet, eccentric events to come, one-two-three-four, basketball in the studio, single dribble, inside room-outside room, web web web, i-pod earphones, funny grin, confused look, foggy steamy sunglasses, gym to go, rewind, frantic phone calls, phone calls for other people, useless hutch offers, multiple windows, restart, stubborn text, admirable photographs, too much..punctuation.
A silent smile.

Hibernate.

The evening continues elsewhere.

The Conspiracy

I will wait for you no more. I want to tell you all but can you hear me? You look away. If I could hear your mind right now, I would hear groans. How can it be so different? When we are together and when we are not.
You will hear me not.
It slips through the slimness of the crevices of my mind. The thought persists though. It comes up ever so often when I am not with you. I plan for the moment when you will hear me. The conspiracy of the unhappy mind.

I wonder how to end this remorse, without fooling myself that it is over not. For there has to be a final moment, full of potency, that fills up every little moment that lies inside you. The moment of the ending. I wait for this moment. It fades a little every time I’m with you but shines up like embers when I am not.

I wait. I long. The moment shines up.
Just then the phone rings. Something hidden somewhere is playing a horrible game. I like it not. I want not to be a part of it. I want to change the ending still.
Still it. Placid times to come in my head.

multiply

Osama was just 11,maybe 12. She got her first period while she was hanging in a well crying out for her mother. A punishment for not being boy-enough, She was unable to climb down a tree that she had rushed up in order to prove that she is really a boy. A girl so little, made to fear so early. Women is Afghanistan in the time of the Taliban. Fear, the type that you and I will probably never face. As we mature, so do our fears. They seem to multiply as well. Will it continue to be like this week after week after month after life?
Waiting for time to pass. Trying to fill up emptiness. Going through the phone book to see who might shine up to fill up this Sunday gap. Listening to converting vegetarians. Loud. Dancing alone. Prancing alone. Waiting waiting. Stop thinking. Flipping through magazines in Greek (I shit you not). Haiku (right now I have no patience for the type)
We create networks, social networks to fill up these gaps? Why do we let ourselves get so lonely? Can one be lonely, bored and morose only when they are full up with themselves, so full that they become blind to progress, things larger than themselves that demand their attention?

At times like this I wish that my brain could function the way it did when I was 5.
Such littleness it can be capable of.
The music tears through my head. Deafen me so I can’t think anymore. Scratch chin, look up at screen. I’m writing instead of sipping on a long island iced tea. The beer bottle lies empty in the trash. The beer that I finished alone. The phone beeps with another plan for another week. They multiply and I can’t keep track, but what about now? It beeps slightly again as it locks itself.

I live alone.

Race to the finish line

Running, looking around and I’m alone. Its not really a race if I’m the only one innit?
The fun of it is in the beginning, the middle, close to the end. All along you’re playing levels with the players. A step forward, two steps behind. Overtaken. The rush of it keeps you going. Sure the finish line is always in view from the beginning. But it’s the race that has to be completed. the race is the playground.

And now I’m alone innit?

No winner.

The seconds tick away. Endlessly. Never stopping to give this speeding mind a moment to catch up. Adjust the volume, the tempo. Just can’t get it right.
Every thing has its moment and when this passes, often there is silence. Sitting out, watching the rain, up on the concrete watching the city, the lights in the houses, the old man watches. Look away, the clouds threaten, the wind shivers.
Pace up, pace down, the green doesn’t squint.
There are new pictures on the wall.
Old pictures see the light again.
On a new wall.
New pictures
The woman in red floats about mysteriously, a special gift. A witness to the torment.
I look at the silver, it throws me back with such pity. Distorted eyes, goldfish, its spews out more water. Sighhhhh.. Angry words, sound alien to my ears, come out of my mouth? I miss the clothesline again. The concrete beneath my feet continues forever, turn around, the chairs, one a permanent picture of deterioration, the other, attempts to heal itself, holds onto the weave, black illusion forms.

- But why can’t you talk about it?
- Uhhh
- Can’t let it be.
- All I want… want want want want (echoes in my ear)
- Fine.. we agree?


I look back. Did I miss the ribbon or was it the clothesline again? No one’s cheering. But I’m across the finish line.