You are the best thing that has ever happened to me,
And I have gone from starring role,
To day-player,
To background actor,
In your life.
I cannot place a value on a grin or sideways glance or wisecrack from you.
I have known despair,
Like a never-ending salt flat,
Badlands where nothing grows,
Except the memory of your smile.
You are why I cannot be,
Truly hopeless.
I brought you here,
I and another,
Who succeeds where I fail.
All I want is to be with you,
And I do not know how to do that.
I do not know how to do much of anything anymore,
But longing,
For understanding,
For love,
And to be a part,
Of you,
Again.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
PEREGRINE - Chapter 1: Rome
I am Rome. It's not my first name. It's not my last name. It's not short for anything. It's not a nickname. It's just, "Rome." If I had a nickel for every smartmouth who said, "So, you're telling me it says 'Rome' on your driver's license and your birth certificate? What about your passport?" I'd have a fifty-pound bag of nickels to smash into the next smartmouth's face who asks. Fact is, I've never had a driver's license. I'm sure there is a birth certificate out there, somewhere. But I've never seen it. And as far as passports go, I have six of them and none of them say, "Rome" on them.
That's what I like about Ian. He never asked.
Ian was behind the bar when I first walked into Saints and Sinners on a Tuesday, four years earlier. I hadn't had a drink in nearly twenty years, but I'd been thinking of one for a bit. Driving by, I'd seen the Saints and Sinners logo - an angel and a devil; I had their twins as my companions, one on each shoulder. I went in and ordered an Absinthe and never looked back. Insofar as the Angel and Devil are concerned, the jury is still out as to who won the day, but I drink without guilt and always walk out on my own two feet (or so I'm told).
Saints & Sinners feels like home. That is of course if in your home your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke. It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead. Not exactly like Cheers, more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist. I try very hard not to drink anywhere else.
It was a Tuesday again. One of the other bartenders, Cooper I think, had started a promotion in my honor, "Absinthe-Minded Tuesdays." They didn't used to sell much of the Wormwoody stuff before I showed up. Now, they kept a case of Mata Hari with my name on it in the basement. I was sipping my second when Fate bellied up to the bar right next to me. I knew right away it was Fate. For me, Fate always comes in the same package - petite, blonde and way smarter than me. And although I don't always learn from my mistakes, I'm pretty smart.
"Something to drink?" Ian offerred.
"I'm looking for Rome."
She does get right to the point, I'll give her that.
Ian cupped a hand next to his ear, "How's that?"
Annoyed, Fate raised her voice, "Rome! I'm looking for Rome."
Ian pointed East.
"It's a little more than six thousand miles that way! You want me to call you a cab? They can take you to LAX!"
Fate gave me a quick, is-this-guy-for-real look, then turned her attention back to Ian.
"That's clever. I see what you did there."
Ian shrugged like a Parisian. I'm about to spit absinthe through my nose at this point.
"I'm looking for a man. A man who finds lost things. His name is Rome. I was told I could find him here. I wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."
Ian leans in. "Never heard of him, but leave a card. If anyone comes in by that name-"
Fate puts a card in Ian's hand and makes her way to the door. Ian watches her go out. I follow her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She weaves between patrons and liquor bottles, never glancing back as she exits.
Ian looks at the card and hands it to me and we are both at a loss for words.
It's pretty hard to catch either me or Ian off guard, but between the two of us, three eyebrows were raised. Fate has a name. Kelli Karson. Detective Kelli Karson. NYPD Detective Kelli Karson. I turn the card over and on the back is written the name of a hotel in West Hollywood and a room number. I know the hotel. And I know the fuck that gave her my name and the location of my office. I'll deal with that shit in the morning. For now, I finish my drink and Ian instantly replaces it with one he was already preparing for me.
Ian's eyes ask, what are you gonna do?
I draw a deep breath and catalogue the scents....anise, stale craft beer, kush and cigarettes, fresh-cut lime. Cutting through it all like a floating scalpel is the scent that Fate always leaves behind - hope and sex and fear and the barest hint of Opium applied long ago, perhaps the previous evening. I let out a long breath and take a thoughtful sip from the cloudy drink. My head swims and I follow it down into the depths. I know the bait hides the barb. I know the pain of that steel piercing my flesh and I know the futile struggle for freedom only brings more pain, and yet...I am a fish, thrice caught.
Ian sees which way I'm gonna go on this one and shakes his head. I know he is right. Bartenders are rarely wrong when it comes to shit like this. Fuck. Detective Kelli Karson. Why the fuck is an NYPD Detective on my tip? I can think of a couple of reasons - none good. I generally try to avoid the police. I'm drinking buddies with one or two which is unavoidable if you drink in any great bar. But professionally... I try to keep to myself for obvious reasons.
I'm on my third Mata Hari and I smoked a little Sour Diesel before I came in, so I'm not sure if I told you the part where I'm a heroin dealer or not.
That's what I like about Ian. He never asked.
Ian was behind the bar when I first walked into Saints and Sinners on a Tuesday, four years earlier. I hadn't had a drink in nearly twenty years, but I'd been thinking of one for a bit. Driving by, I'd seen the Saints and Sinners logo - an angel and a devil; I had their twins as my companions, one on each shoulder. I went in and ordered an Absinthe and never looked back. Insofar as the Angel and Devil are concerned, the jury is still out as to who won the day, but I drink without guilt and always walk out on my own two feet (or so I'm told).
Saints & Sinners feels like home. That is of course if in your home your dad breathes fire, your mom drinks copious amounts of Jameson and your sister flashes her tits occasionally - all to a soundtrack of metal, hip-hop, classic rock and karaoke. It's a place where everybody knows your name, but they call you lots of other things, instead. Not exactly like Cheers, more like Cheers' younger, edgier brother who told his parents to fuck off, sold his father's Lexus and used the money to buy an electric guitar and a year's worth of drugs before moving to Norway to join a death-metal band he met on Craigslist. I try very hard not to drink anywhere else.
"Something to drink?" Ian offerred.
"I'm looking for Rome."
She does get right to the point, I'll give her that.
Ian cupped a hand next to his ear, "How's that?"
Annoyed, Fate raised her voice, "Rome! I'm looking for Rome."
Ian pointed East.
"It's a little more than six thousand miles that way! You want me to call you a cab? They can take you to LAX!"
Fate gave me a quick, is-this-guy-for-real look, then turned her attention back to Ian.
"That's clever. I see what you did there."
Ian shrugged like a Parisian. I'm about to spit absinthe through my nose at this point.
"I'm looking for a man. A man who finds lost things. His name is Rome. I was told I could find him here. I wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't important."
Ian leans in. "Never heard of him, but leave a card. If anyone comes in by that name-"
Fate puts a card in Ian's hand and makes her way to the door. Ian watches her go out. I follow her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She weaves between patrons and liquor bottles, never glancing back as she exits.
Ian looks at the card and hands it to me and we are both at a loss for words.
It's pretty hard to catch either me or Ian off guard, but between the two of us, three eyebrows were raised. Fate has a name. Kelli Karson. Detective Kelli Karson. NYPD Detective Kelli Karson. I turn the card over and on the back is written the name of a hotel in West Hollywood and a room number. I know the hotel. And I know the fuck that gave her my name and the location of my office. I'll deal with that shit in the morning. For now, I finish my drink and Ian instantly replaces it with one he was already preparing for me.
Ian's eyes ask, what are you gonna do?
I draw a deep breath and catalogue the scents....anise, stale craft beer, kush and cigarettes, fresh-cut lime. Cutting through it all like a floating scalpel is the scent that Fate always leaves behind - hope and sex and fear and the barest hint of Opium applied long ago, perhaps the previous evening. I let out a long breath and take a thoughtful sip from the cloudy drink. My head swims and I follow it down into the depths. I know the bait hides the barb. I know the pain of that steel piercing my flesh and I know the futile struggle for freedom only brings more pain, and yet...I am a fish, thrice caught.
Ian sees which way I'm gonna go on this one and shakes his head. I know he is right. Bartenders are rarely wrong when it comes to shit like this. Fuck. Detective Kelli Karson. Why the fuck is an NYPD Detective on my tip? I can think of a couple of reasons - none good. I generally try to avoid the police. I'm drinking buddies with one or two which is unavoidable if you drink in any great bar. But professionally... I try to keep to myself for obvious reasons.
I'm on my third Mata Hari and I smoked a little Sour Diesel before I came in, so I'm not sure if I told you the part where I'm a heroin dealer or not.
Monday, April 7, 2014
PARIS - Her Voice
We both heard Her Voice at the same time and we both had the same reaction.
The world stopped being what it had been only moments ago,
When we'd been strolling,
Mosaic-tiled streets,
Passing locals,
Lovers,
Tourists and,
Adventurers,
Sipping aromatic espresso from delicate cups,
While time slowed to a sensual crawl.
Her Voice was faint and distant like,
A memory,
Of something that may or may not,
Have happened.
Ephemeral.
We had crossed the Event Horizon and Paris was gone.
Faint and distant though it was, there was only,
Her voice,
Drawing us like moths to an unseen flame.
We shared a glance and each saw our own incredulity,
Reflected in each other's eyes.
Both speechless,
We followed and,
Her Voice grew louder and,
Fuller and,
Alien in its sheer beauty.
The earth literally opened beneath our feet,
Her voice drew us into the depths,
Reverberating off curved brick and,
Into our love-filled hearts.
Tears welled up in our eyes for,
There she was,
Radiant,
Angelic,
Her breath visible in the cold, damp air,
Her Song carried on clouds of ether,
In a dream,
We lived,
Together,
In Paris.
All My Love,
-ronnie
The world stopped being what it had been only moments ago,
When we'd been strolling,
Mosaic-tiled streets,
Passing locals,
Lovers,
Tourists and,
Adventurers,
Sipping aromatic espresso from delicate cups,
While time slowed to a sensual crawl.
Her Voice was faint and distant like,
A memory,
Of something that may or may not,
Have happened.
Ephemeral.
We had crossed the Event Horizon and Paris was gone.
Faint and distant though it was, there was only,
Her voice,
Drawing us like moths to an unseen flame.
We shared a glance and each saw our own incredulity,
Reflected in each other's eyes.
Both speechless,
We followed and,
Her Voice grew louder and,
Fuller and,
Alien in its sheer beauty.
The earth literally opened beneath our feet,
Her voice drew us into the depths,
Reverberating off curved brick and,
Into our love-filled hearts.
Tears welled up in our eyes for,
There she was,
Radiant,
Angelic,
Her breath visible in the cold, damp air,
Her Song carried on clouds of ether,
In a dream,
We lived,
Together,
In Paris.
All My Love,
-ronnie
Friday, November 22, 2013
ECHO PARK
That was definitely gunfire.
PopPop.......Pop.
Then nothing. Dead quiet.
3am.
The ghettobirds were overhead earlier - most of the night in fact. They are not what keep me awake, though. They usually lull me to sleep; giant, hovering white-noise generators protecting and serving from above. Besides, you know what keeps me awake....
So I can't seem to shake this cold. The floor next to the bed in my little sublet is littered with wadded up tissues and wrappers from so many Hall's "Triple Soothing Action" lozenges (the one with the picture of the honeydripper on the bag). I'd just gotten the cough under control when the mewing started.
I'm not a "cat person" per se, but I got no beef with felines in general. And, over the years, I have met more than a few really cool cats. Before it was called "The Hotel Angelino", the building that looks like a stack of pancakes next to the 405 at Sunset was a Holliday Inn (there's another one in Long Beach). They had (maybe still have) a cat named ChiChi that had a very cool setup in the garage, under the hotel. Loudly purring, he greeted all the hotel guests upon their arrival. Before I moved to LA, I stayed there and met ChiChi. He acts like a dog - comes when you call, likes his belly scratched, etc.... I used to visit him every time I was in town.
But this mewing cat outside my door sounds just pitiful. His mew sounds like "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease let me in." Not constant. Just enough to tug at my heartstrings. I know it's raining outside and I know they just installed the steel mesh security door so you can't stroll in and out of the hallway at will, but I have no human food, let alone cat food and I'm subleasing and it wouldn't be cool and I'm already sneezing and coughing and your kind make my eyes itch.
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese."
I held out for a long time.
"Pleeeeease."
...Maybe if I just go out and pet it.... Because now it is constant.
Fine.
So I throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, go out into the hallway and to the new steel mesh security door. The thing is mewing nonstop. I cannot see it through the mesh because the mesh is painted white and the hallway light is bright and it is dark outside but I hear it mewing and scratching on the mesh and I open the door and the mewing instantly stops.
There is no cat.
PopPop.......Pop.
Then nothing. Dead quiet.
3am.
The ghettobirds were overhead earlier - most of the night in fact. They are not what keep me awake, though. They usually lull me to sleep; giant, hovering white-noise generators protecting and serving from above. Besides, you know what keeps me awake....
So I can't seem to shake this cold. The floor next to the bed in my little sublet is littered with wadded up tissues and wrappers from so many Hall's "Triple Soothing Action" lozenges (the one with the picture of the honeydripper on the bag). I'd just gotten the cough under control when the mewing started.
I'm not a "cat person" per se, but I got no beef with felines in general. And, over the years, I have met more than a few really cool cats. Before it was called "The Hotel Angelino", the building that looks like a stack of pancakes next to the 405 at Sunset was a Holliday Inn (there's another one in Long Beach). They had (maybe still have) a cat named ChiChi that had a very cool setup in the garage, under the hotel. Loudly purring, he greeted all the hotel guests upon their arrival. Before I moved to LA, I stayed there and met ChiChi. He acts like a dog - comes when you call, likes his belly scratched, etc.... I used to visit him every time I was in town.
But this mewing cat outside my door sounds just pitiful. His mew sounds like "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease let me in." Not constant. Just enough to tug at my heartstrings. I know it's raining outside and I know they just installed the steel mesh security door so you can't stroll in and out of the hallway at will, but I have no human food, let alone cat food and I'm subleasing and it wouldn't be cool and I'm already sneezing and coughing and your kind make my eyes itch.
"Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeese."
I held out for a long time.
"Pleeeeease."
...Maybe if I just go out and pet it.... Because now it is constant.
Fine.
So I throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, go out into the hallway and to the new steel mesh security door. The thing is mewing nonstop. I cannot see it through the mesh because the mesh is painted white and the hallway light is bright and it is dark outside but I hear it mewing and scratching on the mesh and I open the door and the mewing instantly stops.
There is no cat.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
IMPERMANENCE
Everything is a sand painting.
All I have done,
Opportunities seized and squandered,
Lovers embraced,
Songs sung,
Possessions accumulated,
Food consumed,
Miles run,
Days wasted,
Depths dived and Heights scaled,
Dreams dreamt,
Fears - both faced and fled,
Poems penned,
Crimes committed,
Children hugged,
Tears shed,
Novels read,
Pets and Jobs and Television Programs and Sex and Concerts and Road Trips and Teachers and Friends and Family and Diets and Resolutions and Sunrises and Sunsets and Yoga Classes and Massages and Fights and Illnesses and Rent and Utilities and Worry and Lists Upon Lists of "Things" to do...
All sand.
All I have done,
Opportunities seized and squandered,
Lovers embraced,
Songs sung,
Possessions accumulated,
Food consumed,
Miles run,
Days wasted,
Depths dived and Heights scaled,
Dreams dreamt,
Fears - both faced and fled,
Poems penned,
Crimes committed,
Children hugged,
Tears shed,
Novels read,
Pets and Jobs and Television Programs and Sex and Concerts and Road Trips and Teachers and Friends and Family and Diets and Resolutions and Sunrises and Sunsets and Yoga Classes and Massages and Fights and Illnesses and Rent and Utilities and Worry and Lists Upon Lists of "Things" to do...
All sand.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
PIECES
No, I am not okay. I am not and have never really been okay. The closest I have ever been was accepting my not-okayness and that, my friends, was pretty fucking sweet.
I feel as if I have never been me. Not the whole me, anyway.
Like some IKEA furniture that got delivered with missing pieces and directions in Aramaic. These missing parts are not cosmetic or optional they are functional and they are missing and the customer service number just rings and rings and rings.
I put together what is there as best as I can and it looks alright, but I wouldn't put any weight on it if I were you and it does not do what it is supposed to do.
If one more person tells me how great this office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation is, I am going to scream. I'm going to scream because it is not an office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation. It is what I threw together with what I had and it sucks because it doesn't do what it was designed to do.
The worst part is the hope. The hope that the delivery person will just show up with the missing parts or that someone, a real person, in customer service will answer or that I'll find the missing pieces myself. Fuck. I'll check under the bed.
I feel as if I have never been me. Not the whole me, anyway.
Like some IKEA furniture that got delivered with missing pieces and directions in Aramaic. These missing parts are not cosmetic or optional they are functional and they are missing and the customer service number just rings and rings and rings.
I put together what is there as best as I can and it looks alright, but I wouldn't put any weight on it if I were you and it does not do what it is supposed to do.
If one more person tells me how great this office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation is, I am going to scream. I'm going to scream because it is not an office chair or bookshelf or dresser or workstation. It is what I threw together with what I had and it sucks because it doesn't do what it was designed to do.
The worst part is the hope. The hope that the delivery person will just show up with the missing parts or that someone, a real person, in customer service will answer or that I'll find the missing pieces myself. Fuck. I'll check under the bed.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
WINTER
Cold sharpens the mind.
I had forgotten that. It sounds like a barely-remembered childhood memory of something my mother used to say.
"Cold shahpens the mind." Estelle would say, her Boston accent lending its weight of authority on all topics weather-related.
Cold sharpens the mind.
Maybe she said it. Maybe she didn't. But I feel it as much as hear it - which is ever-so-slightly but unmistakably audible.
But I didn't KNOW it.
Living in LA will do that; its nearly-always-warm-and-sunny-non-weather will unwind a lifetime of wonderful childhood memories.
Memories of jumping into a pile of just-raked leaves on a cool, bright and clear late-Autumn day, where the air arounds you is as crisp as the dead, fallen leaves you are digging your way out of and the dog has just gleefully plunged into.
Memories of sledding down the hill that looked so big when you were little and seems impossibly small when you occasionally visit the New England neighborhood where you were raised.
Memories of icicles melting on the fronts of rooftops and white snow giving way to green, green grass as Spring announces its coming and the first buds begin to form.
LA takes those memories and puts them in a storage space in Van Nuys that you pay for with an automatic monthly withdrawal from your Wells Fargo account which you never check so you soon forget all about what is stored there. But.
Cold sharpens the mind.
I had completely forgotten, because I hadn't been cold, truly cold, in so long.
That all changed today.
That all changed today because, Today...
Today was cold.
Real cold.
And I had forgotten. Forgotten because I live/have lived so long in LA, where "cold" is what we call a day where wearing a hoodie is only slightly more utilitarian and only slightly less fashion statement.
But I am not in LA. And I had forgotten, but now I remember. I remember it wasn't something my Mother would say. It was something that was just true and everyone who survives climates where real cold exists knows that it is true.
Survives.
I remember now. I remember now that Cold can kill. I am hyper-focused on that fact because it is cold and...Cold.
Sharpens.
The mind.
I remember now because I am alone in the cold and I am ill-prepared. But my mind is sharp. I know these things as clearly as a thing can be known.
1. It is cold.
2. I am alone.
3. No one knows I am here.
(whispered) "Cold shahpens the mind."
The pain in my toes is gone. The sun will rise in five hours or so. I cannot sleep or I will not wake up and I am exhausted. I know all this because...
Cold sharpens the mind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)