Minifix

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Reminiscence

- Run!
– What’s that noise?
– It’s the chopper, órale! Run!
– Hide by those bushes.
– I can’t, their too low, and there isn’t much to hide in.
– Chale homes! You got the cast light on you…
– What? I can’t hear you? What did you say? It’s too bright!
– Damn, here comes the migra now… fuck! just lie low…

The barren soil didn’t have much of anything on it. It’s famous for its arid terrain and the refusal of the US government to allow any building to be built there. For years the only thing in sight from this side of the border was what seemed to be a car lot. As the years went by my imagination concocted more serious and credible theories, drug smugglers came in handy to depict that parking space, maybe even crooked INS agents dealing in smuggled and stolen cars, who knows.

Between the thin wire netting, no-man’s land, were littered sniff-glue bags, filled with dried yellow glue  popular back in the 80′s an d90′s. Broken bottles and rags strewn about covered with hundreds of cigarette butts lay strewn. The soil is dry, and the wire that separates the countries was full of holes; the marines set up other measures now. Tortilla curtain was the response from indignant neighbours. I was born less than a kilometer from this other country, Tijuana.
State your citizenship. – American

Our eyes met, usually they looked at you from the very depths of their eyes to see whether you lied. Sniff, sniff seemed more like it. Bean sweat, not hamburger or saurkraut nor cole slaw, anything smelling near like maize was suspicious. “American Citizen”. The badge on his shirt spelled his name, I noticed there was an absent accent in the o of his last name. I laid my eyes on it, to see if he was raza, my lips uttered some words: ‘American Citizen’. The hand waved me away not seeing another citizen such as he, but rather more like a nuisance, laws must be abided, an undesired though with ‘rights’. I slid across, like always, my xicano look helped me over. ‘Go ahead’, the migra said, ‘pásale,’ I heard. I took a leak by the nearby toilets, like every time, my confident act; the luggage detector passed countless of bagage. I veered off and left my mark in those prison like toilets, metal urinators and metal toilet seats. They seemed like nice bathrooms, clean. I took a drink of water, something you can’t do in México’s government buildings. The hospitality greets you even when they’re assholes. I never looked back. I smiled, the red San Diego Trolley pulled in. It’s a wonderful view, like coming home. I walked forward but voices could still be heard from where I was: state your citizenship; what was the purpose of your visit to Mexico?; Are these papers for real? I went in to Mickey D’s as the voices drowned in the background

I always wondered why was it that the INS allowed, for what my suspicious eyes detected as criminals, to thrive so near the border, la línea, right next to them. I spotted them right away, you knew those people weren’t up to no good, there they were, pulling in people right smack in the middle of their faces to board buses towards Los Angeles or selling fake papers with the right connection. I mean I even sold papers there my self! I’m sure that doesn’t happen anymore, but that’s how it was, right next to them, those light green colored vehicles couldn’t figure out what those thicked mustached people were talking about or doing standing there all day and yet dress so nicely, so Mexican. Stereotypes and what people want see, that’s what made it possible, preconceived notions of what other races are like. Off course the INS was a federal institution but come on! Couldn’t they at least observe a little what was going on right there? So I grew suspicious with time, you know, the lonely citizen that watches its surroundings but is powerless to do anything about it? That’s me, not that I would rat on my own brethren mind you.

I never payed to travel on the Trolley back then. It used to be that one would declare itself illegal rather than pay those hefty fines and best yet, back then the gringos bought one’s name no questions asked, so many files on illegal immigrants in the archives of the old INS bear names like Pedro Infante, Vicente Fernandez, José Alfredo Jímenez, Chapulin Colorado, Lola Beltrán, Juana Inez de la Cruz or Paquita del Barrio, you never knew what the raza might come up with to avoid giving in one’s real name. So I travelled for free, whilst I wondered whether I should stop and visit my Aunt who lived on 8th and National or whether one should by a refeer in Chula Vista, mostly though one would rather go to San Diego’s porn shops. Though Tijuana is a sin city it had very little or not at all porn shops in the 80′s, off course why visit those shops when you can be part of a real live sex scene? It made sense for some, though for the likes of me, sex went beyond the flesh and fornication of the open prostitution markets of Tijuana’s Coahuila sector. I wanted to see naked güeras and best of all, those fancy underwear that look so delicious and tempting, lingerie. Now that was worth a run for the border.

dial

- Increasingly, my heroes tend to be people who seem to enjoy life or people who manage to eek out a living out of their ordinariness.

I heard this on the telephone. On occasions my telephone nabs a conversation or two out of the blue. I usually hang up the receiver and try to get a normal tone to go about my business. God knows the very first year I tried to do away with the nuisance but the local phone company doesn’t prioritize lesser lines like mine. Five years later I am still waiting for my complaint to be filed. Sort of makes one feel left behind by the internet age. Eitherway, I can say on my behalf that I at least switched to tone dial before skype came to be imagined yet somehow this switch to tone has yet to impress me as the reader can very well attest for itself.

It wouldn’t take me long to figure out whose tête-à-tête fortune had me eavesdrop. But if a benefit has been derived out of the crossline is that too much interference can be a cause of mental distress the likes that befit that new adage, one needs X like one needs a hole in the head. This small town doesn’t afford the luxury of anonymity. Specially when one knows that said luxury usually tends to arrive in due time, one mustn’t rush, the goods are delivered sooner rather than later.

Am all for privacy, believe me. Yet the forefathers of the right to privacy all lived in big cities. I swear, I am party to all sorts of public displays that would certainly leave a city lover flushed red.

Anyhows, I bring the subject up because I was somehow tempted to continue hearing the conversation but by the time I reacted to my own thoughts my habit of hanging up the phone had beaten me to first base and when I lifted up the earphone and was ready to satisfy curiosity, I got a tone.

Yet the string of the conversation that I nabbed pulsated vibrantly across my ear drums like a tic toc fills the silence at times. It filled a void that lacked words and overhearing the unwelcomed string of thought sort of put things to place. Normally I don’t rush to write down these catharsis, in fact, it took me several years before I could muster the gull to do so now.

We all remember that afternoon. The clouds hung at an uncomfortable low and the heat made the humidity stick. It was then the town council in all its wisdom had decided to pass a non-bilingual bill, despite the majority of the town’s opposition to it.

What hurt more was councilman Richard Rodriguez vote. He, raised amongst the locals, turned his back against his own folk.

- “Why, just last night he come over to take a’drink wit me, that bastad!” lauded Tauwny.

Tauwny was an immigrant from French Guyana and appealed most fervently of all for the dual capacity bilinguals have only to fall into deaf ears. The future couldn’t look bleaker for him. He had two sons and every February the third made a curios display of patriotism by taking out a flag no one but him knew where it came from. The vote had barely passed by a slight majority, and as the crowd gathered in front of the municipal building, the politicians where getting ready to read a statement to announce the town’s continuance of a monolingual policy for all.

Albert Villahermosa had been ambivalent throughout the debacle. His forefathers had moved from the city of Torreón in the state of Coahuila to what is now known as the San Joaquin Valley in California but then just another town in Alta California, not long before the American invasion of 1848 led then by Commodore Stockton. His great grandmother, or bisabuela as he would know her, would tell him “not to many freckled faced boys roamed the streets yet back then.” He was a fluent mexican spanish speaker but barely had need to use it except at family gatherings where he would endure a host of questions regarding his “Mexican-ness”.

He looked on the mass of people, wondering just what was he doing there amongst the throngs of angry people demanding that the city council reverse its vote. English after all, he thought in the back of his head, was what united everyone. It was the bridge that made this multicultural town what it was.

He headed homewards. That night, Angela, his wife of three years, had made a special dinner, mole, a chocolate spice sauce dish that Albert loved and as he readied himself to sit comfortably in the dinner table he heard on the radio that a protest had turned into a scuffle and Tauwny had been arrested for punching Councilman Rodriguez in the face. He could distinctly hear Tauwny’s voice in the background, yelling “traitor, traitor!”, as he was being dragged on while the radio reporter continued to report live from City Hall. Angela could be heard saying a few pity words for Tauwny but not much that moved Albert into a civic mood to go and demand Tauwny’s release, although the issue of bilingualism had slowly crept into his mind as the night passed on.

The next morning proved decisive for the whole town, during the course of the night many residents had gone out and held a vigil for Tauwny. They nearly broke the windows of Councilman Rodriguez car, had it not been for Sheriff Gonzalez timely intervention, although many would later wonder maliciously where had he been at the time of the punch that gave Councilman Rodriguez a black eye. A few had ventured to suggest that it was because he too had been on the pro-bilingual wagon but others spoke out plainly that it was because it had more to do with his insurance business where Rodriguez had recently taken out a policy insuring the 1956 Desoto he owned.

On the way to work, Albert met with disgruntled and sleepless neighbors who wondered where had he been all night while the town’s very essence was at stake. He shook his head in bewilderment at the utterance of those fancy words unable to answer quite right until he met his cousins walking by.

- Hey! Wuz up cuz? Were where’ya last night? Thought you be ‘round but I never caught sight of you …
- I went straight home from work, I was tired.
- Yeah, well, tomorrow were gonna be at it again till they change that fucking law, are you comin’?
- Don’t know, well see.

He never really understood his cousins; they didn’t even speak spanish although they belonged to the 1848 Committee. A group that demanded that the lands he grew up in be given back to México. As he walked by his neighborhood, he pondered what it was to be bilingual. Though he didn’t come to a clear conclusion as to its significance or its bearing to his town or himself. Worse yet, he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the whole idea of this discussion coming up so high as the to waste precious council time and taxpayers money on such a, what he considered to be, trivial business.

He pondered about the language he first heard at home, the one that nurtured him and the one language that soothed him so much whenever he came home from school. His mother tongue as it were. It was the language of the house, the one mama and papa spoke. The one he discovered the world with, the one that first made him cry and the one that first made him laugh but also the one language that left him so many scars. He remembered all too well how his teachers would chastise him whenever homely vowels blurted out of his mouth but that were foreign to the teacher: “greasy language” the teacher would decry. At one point he adamantly refused to speak that wretched language. A choice that only brought him acrimonious chastisement closer to home and in the streets, the children would call him “beaner” and make him feel a stranger in the only land he ever knew.

- “Spanish has been nothing but trouble for me and I don’t want that for my children, that’s for sure”, he thought.

At work there weren’t to many bilinguals so the topic never really came up and the day proceeded as normal until the waterman came by.

- Hey Albert, how is it going? Heard what happened last night?
- Yeah, pitiful ain’t it?
- What?! You mean you stand by those crooked gringos ese?
- Well, not really, well…, I don’t really know you see …
- Well would you look at’cha! You’re the only mexican here and yet you wonder, how cozy homes! Meanwhile, us little guys who’ve been here before these gringos ever came to run our lives and are now telling us how to speak have to fight for our very existence.

Albert just stared; it never occurred to him that he was being run over by people who until this time had been his co-workers, neighbours, friends and associates. Albert didn’t have any more strength to continue the conversation and walked away from the water fountain leaving the waterman shaking his head. That the whole issue had come to his work was more than he could tolerate and made it a point to get the issue out of his head for the rest of the day.

Then, it dawned upon him. The division of the town was the division he had so long felt within himself. Never really belonging here or there, always having to choose sides. Yet essentially, whatever it was that made him who he was, a straddler, a walker of in-betweeness, a hyphen between the anglo and the mexican and the rest of the world, it was also happening out there in the streets. He walked back to his office shaken by the realization. All along, since he was a child, translating for his mother, speaking for his father whenever they went to shop or do some business with the rest of the community he had to be the middleman between two worlds in his town. Now he understood what it was the throngs that so baffled him were all about. He thought pensively for the rest of the day and decided to take a stance.

On his way home, the issue of bilingualism had died down, the city council had backed down from its stance and Tauwny was free. The town went about its business in a regular fashion and Angela awaited to tell him of the funny language his son uttered, a mixture of English and Spanish, they called it spanglish. Albert now stood feeling better about his new identity. His new self to the point of considering running against counculman Rodriguez only to later recant, “one step at a time” he thought, looking outside the window of his house as life returned to its normalcy to his beloved city.

Ok, am’onna be real frank with’ya pancho. I ain’t got balls at all. Yeap, am a dinky mouse, a chicken shit and if am telling you this now, however that might surprise you, am trembling all the way down to the bladder, which is about to explode and make me pee in my pantalones ese; let it be said, as I speak these unlikely and unwilling words that I ain’t got jack shit on you compita and no huevos at all ese, nada, zilch, to even begin to think where to start to tell you off. So yeah, that.

-Once said that, he turned around and began zipping his tecate beer again. The night kept falling, the darkened shadows becoming evermore pitch black, like a bat’s wings fluttering above the sky, radar and all, all the way to his home. His only thoughts were “if only this were Scandinavia, yeah, midnight sun and all, yeap, that be nice ese, jijole, really nice homes.” Although truth be told, he only said homes to himself once things got acomplished and done, which in his case, wasn’t that often, so tonight, as he drew the pinkish-yellow, blue indigo flowered curtains in his room, to lay his head were he wished she was awaiting him, “just like good ol’ times”, he remembered fondly those northern lights dancing above in the dark skies of his cherished Norway.

He was the kind of guy that never came up with any witty remarks, and for the most part, he thought of replies way too late. Like days or hours after the incidents that had left him thinking passed away, much as the morning dew drops he so much enjoyed watching evaporize as the sun made its morning rutine and then trying to retell how they looked. His friends hadn’t the slightest notion what he talked about. Nor could he either make people laugh, yeap, this country, this new land was at times to much to bear. He longed for Aztlan, where he could make people laugh and hear his people’s voice, but that too was far away, love pulling in different directions. She in Norway and his soul somewhere in Aztlan, He, he is here. After 20 years in exile being a globetrotter has lost much of its appeal though he wasn’t too sure about visiting places anymore since what mattered the most was the ride, he loved the motion of travelling. It had something to do with this crazy notion that his mother travelled a lot as well when she was pregnant with him, and that, he reasoned it was why he felt a sense of security from a to b.

He just couldn’t explain his lack of courage.

We did not give a fuck.

The cop stood outside the patrol car for a sec or two, hand in gun ready to shoot at us the moment we made a false move. We were brown and we had a 1954 red chevy truck with chrome tires in a toll road built just a few months ago before the new years eve 2034. I saw his glasses reflect the lights of the chevy in his black what looked like Mark Vinci of Italy design eyewear. I remained cool, rolled down the window and waited with my hands clearly visible on the chain steering wheel. What the stupid white cop did not realize was the stealth motor I had placed on my chevy. It didn’t even sound on. The moment he approached to ask his dum racial apartheid questions I pressed the accelator so hard he didn’t even get to see the color of my eyebrows and all I saw last was how his hand reached his holster. We were too far for any shots to be heard by then.

The thing was simple, I was in a jam and needed dough fast and now, so I hooked up with a few acquaintances while I climbed the social ladder. Theyre easy going, simple folk who didn’t care to much for the infectious lifestyles that Holywood cried out for, yeap, these folks, like my folk, cared just for one and one thing only, their own. I on the other hand have always wanted to trascend borders and always wanted to go beyond that which my gente gave me. So I said yes, I would, no big deal. The only obstacle was to come across the border. A thing I had been doing all my life. It was a reward which was to give enough to take care of my current problems.

When the winds hit you right, he said, it gives a thirst, thats when they face the sun with their eyewear on and when they get distracted cause they drink their water, your window of opportunity opens up. I was instructed to pass thirty ounces of it and was not even informed what those thirty ounces stood for, all I knew was that it was precious and many people were eager to see it across the border.

I really don’t know when it all started but I heard enough stories to know it was not all that long ago. The walls were ten stories high, 30 kilometers wide and made a part of the landscape were I was born. To me, like the sea, they had always been part of the environment I called home, except I was gifted. The government, spearheaded by what then were known as hawks institutionalized de facto a state of emergency on the nation. Today they are just called Patriot Citizens. A little structure that got its idea out of a former red committe outfit which gathered information on everyone the minute they stepped into this earth. You were born into it, like being a Catholic, you know? It basically erased out of history more than 200 years of good sound democracy but hey! Who cared? It was history to me, things schoolbooks I read said. So long as Hollywood produced good comedy democratic stuff like voting was a geek think an act ridiculized by wealthy middleclass snobs and cool dilettantes. More guards were busy there then at any post across the divisive line that separated the two nations. I always passed no hitch, get my drift? So anyways, those stories made more sense now, I was nervous and needed a cause behind me. I heard my grandmas voice tell me of those gone yore days, how the gringo suddenly erected the wall. How thousands of Mexicans were shuttled across the border in an ethnic cleansing sweep that would make the Isrealis and Serbian leaders of the 20th century green with envy. They had God on their side, but my uncle always quipped, we have Gods mother on our side.

I had to device a way to cross the border on my own terms and without being detected. He said clearly: you get busted for this, you end up away from here in flesh and spirit forever, theyll clean your brain out nice and clean and Human Right groups will not have a thing on them since they will leave your body unscathed, get me?

The night fell, and after the the high speed escape I was tired from the speed I drove the Chevy, totally drained. I came home, Mexico, to my futon, hit the light swith and as I faced down the pillow the door bell rang. What the? I opened up the door after checking who it was, Sheila came in. She wanted to talk, but my ears and eyes zoomed into her cleavage. Her breasts always talked to me better than her mouth, or was it the other way around? My fantasies always confused me. This time though, I reacted, the nervousness kept me more sober than ever. Come in I said as she walked straight in and her body left a trail of an intoxicating fragance as I walked behind her, Poison I thought, my fave.

* It’s nearly one in the morning watcha want?
* Bill kicked me out of the apartment, he has a new broad with him now so am ancient history. I need a ride across the border, can you fix that?
* Can’t honey, gotta split early there but gotta do it alone, so can help you, sorry babe.
* I’ll pay you good, you know those bastards at the crossing don’t allow pedestrains anymore on the the weekends and Monday is so far away from now.
* Come on baby, I’ll do anything you want me too.

Ok, so this is a nice set up I thought, the girl I always wanted is offering herself to me of all nights tonight.

* Tell you what, you sleep over there and in the morning we split 7am sharp, get my drift? I take you across, hand me over the dough now and we call it even right? You got your papers in order right? I don’t wanna get stuck in Homeland Security Detention because of you.
* Off course I do nincompoop, come here, lemme give you a kiss in the mouth.
* No thank you babe, it’ll do seeing you naked babe but no touching.

The night went smoothly. The ultra marine dress slipped out of her body and out bounced her breast like two firm well done cups of jell-o in the semi dark room and handed me over her panties. I sniffed them out of their delicate fragance as I stroked harder and harder inside my pants. She looked at me beginning to masturbate and she began to caress her breasts as she side glanced towards me. The more I saw her do it to herself, the more I got into it. I got lost in my thoughts seeing her legs spread out, I felt heat and sweat beginning to build up in my body. Her hand slid down to her pubic hair, she clearly wanted me to see her every pour open. She laid down in the floor. Her ass jumped up and down hitting the woodfloor with a tump tump the closer she came to an orgasm. I came all over my pubic hair the moment she turned around doggiestyle. Her pussy showed a very swollen opening, damn, I just had the best orgasm in days I thought and crashed in the futon with my hand feeeling the warmth of my liquids.

By the time I woke the clock struck 6:45am and Sheila was no where in sight. She had scrammed, took my Lowrider magazines from the 1990s and left my place all messed up, I was knocked out with gas. No time to think, my head hurted tad though. I dressed up and ran to my truck to meet up with the Dropper. I still hadn’t figured out a way to get those 30 ounces across.

[...]

I came around to the cul-de-sac where the dropper was, a simple looking farm picker it seemed, but then again his revolver was quite visible. I got out of the car and started to walk towards him. The air was fresh and the morning dew could be seen in the grass, the Dropper had huaraches on.

-What up ese?
-Buenos Dias, here’s you stuff.
-What’s this shit?
-Be careful, you don’t wanna be caught with that, you’ll liable to end up in problems. Don’t open it, no matter what, just take it across and there you’ll meet Chilangito, he’ll take it from there.
-How am going to pass it? – That’s for you to figure out, the product is expected, so hurry up ese.

It wasn’t bigger than a zip it bag, and it weighted exactly 30 ounces. I didn’t even know what it was and I was expected to cross it over. I put it inside the headlights, so long as I din’t turn’em on there wasn’t going to be a problem, although it did seem a little bumpy. I’m hardly ever stopped, so I headed towards the border. It was jammed packed. Cars were cutting each other. I was tempted to do the same, but I didn’t want to raise any suspitions. This time I had something to hide so I played the good citizen.

The imposing walls freaked me out, although I have always seen’em their brown exterior seemed a little more rusty than before. Pinches güeros would say my grandmother everytime we passed through them, as if we were to take back all the states they robbed us. She was keen in reminding me that all the time, in a very loud voice too, precisely as I would turn my docs to the migra..

We, the Xikano raza, have become inheritors of Adam, Jefferson, Franklin and Washington’s democratic principles.

They understood we would understand as soon as their heirs lost all sight of all the goals of the American Dream due to their stupid blinding patriotism. Off course, I know they were all dead before we were even born, but they laid out plans for such an event and thank God! We, Xicanos, can talk to the dead, we of mexican pure extract sort, with an added pinch of salt, can see the dead too.

So yeah, they were here, and el notario came to confirm, “We the people of the United States,” said the notario, “hereby declare that all Xicanos are now inheritors of the Ideology behind the greatness we crafted for America”.

Dang, I said, as I sat there with wide eyes looking at the crumbling age old piece of paper, it ain’t even recycled said I, shit homes, along with the dead looking funnily at me as I spoke, that’s a whole shit load of work, those gueros left us, I thought in my dreamy head.

Ni madres, said I rather out loud, this is every decent American that calls himself or herself American, American’s home, why dontcha leave it to All the Americans who still believe in the American dream and not to folk bent on war?

Franklin, the mild mannered kite flier, electricity entrepreneur, still under the shock of my language, and taking notes to send it to Noah Webster, said, what? I suppose it does make sense to give it to the American people.

Ni madres! said I again, as Franklin scurrilously tried to jot down the very words I spoke and looked at Jeffereson to see if they were still in America, “the last time you said that, the gueros thought you meant the white folk ese, so I suggest that you leave to Americas current founders who happen to be of any race and are Americans by virtue of being born here or Americans by virtue of having ties to the land and or live here whether illegally or legally but respectful of the laws of the country and caring for this great nation.”

Here here said George, ax in hand and mistress on hand, I agree, it shall be left to the people who are constructing our modern nation.

Chale, good thing I objected said I in the privacy of my thoughts, it would’ve meant a whole shit of load of work, …pinches gringos, all work and no fun ….

The afternoon gave out a strange light for that particular hour of the day. It was August and around this time the harvest was due for picking yet the day was infuriatingly red. The clouds carried a strange blue hue and the winds had a distinct smell of protuding carcasses. The nearby factories exuded more than their usual output of smoke. Jane observed all of this while walking towards her house, a scant mile from the factories and as she looked on pensevily at the strange combination of natural and unnatural phenomena she suddenly could not breathe with ease, a slight cough cleared her throat but only temporarily, the fumes in the air became stronger and stronger as her eyes faintly made out some twirling blue lights and dust clouds behind them. She continued walking not making notice of her health and just an earshot away some siren sounds were heard. Her steps carried her homewards, and the small shack were she made her home was impregnated with a stench so familiar to her that it made no difference to her nostrils anymore.

She turned on the light, a bulb attached to a live wire from a nearby electrical post, like everyone else, she stole her electricity too which was meant for the factories. She undressed herself, having worked all day at the recycling center, she frecuently came home more dirty than she would want to and started the gas stove she had for a kitchen. Having boiled her water she took a shower the only way she could, placing the water in a plastic bucket the factories usually dumped nearby, she doused herself with a casserole and quickly shampood herself, her long black hair ran to her shoulders and as the water ran down her hair, she felt alive and clean again. The tattoo from her local barrio became particularly aglow with colors as the vanilla colored skin that constituted her body gave way to the colors of her Virgin Mary tattoo on her back, I sat there, watching her very wide shoulders become wet with the water as it let steam rise as soon as the water ran down her vertebra.

-How’d it go today honey?

No answer, the water kept running, splashing on the only piece of concrete of the house, down a funnel that made its way to the other side of the plywood wall and let out its contents on the dirt, were previous waters had made a course, as the small stream of water made its way down the hill were greenish like algue formed its way along colorful oily bubbles the never seemed to pop. I stared at her breasts, awashed with steaming vapors, hard, nipples aroused, walking towards me, to grab a towel, her long brown legs were shinig the bulbs light, and every step brought her closer to me.

-Dry my back, she said to me as she threw the towel on my face.

I did, as I passed the towel to dry off the remaining water drops on her back. I got excited as I wiped the back of her body, and she knew I was turned on. Forget it was what I heard as my hand passed her wet buttocks. She was afraid. She had just lost her baby, prematurely and without a brain. Such things happen in this city, and the experience had left her numb, I could understand but to the local government these factories meant revenues and the people only a nuisance, so when she delivered her baby, it was only one more statistical number piling up until international pressure built up, only then would the municipal burocracy heed the environmentalist warnings, but until then, the factories kept spewing its toxic waste and we couldn’t do much about it.

There is a certain texture about a day that begins with slight greyish opaque clouds and nippy air, you notice how silence gradually turns colder as you becomes aware of the day’s atmosphere. It is one of the few calm and tranquil aspects of the landscapes I am made to experience here in this lonely village, up in the Highlands of Sweden. As I awake to the everyday, not a few number of those mornings turn out to be just like that, there is a quietness that engulfs one and the noiseless streets and still trees suddenly become silent partners in a framed still life.

It is these mornings that make me realize how common and everyday my life is, amidst the blue skies behind the thick clouds drifting away to unknown welkins leaving only its humidity in the immovable air. Once in a while this quietude is torn asunder by the passing of a car on its way to somewhere, leaving behind a disconcerted and deeply in thought mexican man who awakens from a deafening and pacifying atmosphere.

I turn my gaze to the window where the pine trees are forming rows upon rows of trees in an up and down triangle spike like form and a wide open space for cultivation is visible, a few stacks of rolled hay in white plastic dot the field, the green seems wet as it is a deep dark verdure giving one the impression that there is an element of water at hand in its looks.

I slowly walk towards the front porch and I feel the wind caressing me with its crispy fresh hand as the chime sounds its metal clinging to evoke a chinese, japanese, oriental paradaise some distance away and I feel how the temperature is far from mild, closer to fresh yet chilly enough coming from indoors. This very texture brings to mind a sort of seclusion, a fragile apparent solitude that surrounds my senses and which can be broken any second; life is such, still and raucous and me inbetween.

It wasn’t anymore the suns rays which shone goo like light on cracked up faces that became the center of attention of his obsessed eyes that’s for sure; no, the purplish neon lights in his apartment did the daily life chores that amusement provided and consequently bothered him for their obvious necessity in life to move on. His list of intrinsic complaints aobut life read like a monk’s desire to seclusion in Nirvana.

He begrudged meal times, hunger pangs being a distraction from the rest of his pursuits; whenever his penis would turn hard the agony was to much to bear at times and he loathed all the ensuing activity required to get back on track; sleep, baggy eyes, and a weak body yearning to lay down sent futile signals to his brain for a pause in activities, and he fought effortlessly to keep awake to no avail, nuisance he thought of it.

His superhuman soul search considered such carnal demands obstacles in his life long quest to continue on and on, awake, on an intellectual pursuit of the mind.

Industrial deco design goods cluttered the four spartan walls on his 5th ave apartment in the 800 populated village of his. A swash shadow that liken Gotham darkness covered the tranquil going small town of his whenever he peeked through the blinds of his drawn curtains.

Martin Estrada Canberry was born on an August evening in the star spangled skies of the Florida everglades.

He used to smoke pot like a motherfucker, all the time and loved metal, that boy had cassette after cassette of metal from all kinds of bands from all over the world. He was a head banger if that term still exist. Somehow he used to maintain his cool which used to bring bouts of jealousy from my part, I wanted to be like him, off course, I wasn’t. He had everything: money, no work, just fun and play. He was good at math and came from Bolivia, he was a Chinese of sorts and spoke Spanish, if you took a good look you couldn’t figure him out for Bolivian, gringos from Redwood City wouldn’t make him out for a Latin American, no way in hell they figured that out, fucking gringos they can’t see the world in more than black and white, for all their color naming they are actually color blind when it comes to Latin Americans, for that matter I’m too, but once you see’em hanging out with the Hispanic crowd then you know he’s gotta speak Spanish, besides, there’s this vibe all Hispanics feel when one of theirs is around, so it didn’t fail to turn up in my radar once I spotted him. So I used to go his house ‘cause of this Spaniard from Basque country that bought himself American citizenship with false papers once an amnesty for illegal immigrants kicked in 1988. He claimed to have worked in the fields, picking tomatoes or what not, stuff gringos don’t usually do. The now defunct INS bought it, it only costed him 500 bucks, he had bought the letters from a crooked farming business that made tons selling letters ascertaining that said person worked there then and then, motherfucking Spaniard, never seen a field in his life, that’s all, two years later he was a full blooded American Citizen, anyways, I knew him that way, he was a roommate of the Spaniard. There are only two things I remember about him, he used to brag that he didn’t know where or how his parents earned their money and perhaps the most revealing part he left me, he said once to me: how can you explain the color orange to a blind person, describe it then!

I was impressed …

- No. final, that’s it, I won’t accept any other outcome.
- Am afraid things have changed.
- You were told exactly how the outcome was to be accomplished.
- Certain unexpected events arose during the execution of the command.
- Were there any non-friendlies around?
- Those that were were properly dealt with.
- Good.

The office of the 78th floor on 4th street was ample, the carpets white and as Victor rose from his leather chair behind his mahogany desk, he lit a Cuban cigar. His face became bright with the flames of the cigarette lighter and casted whirling shadows as he lifted his eyes to meet those of his worker. His workers were used to this ceremonious walk and remained still as Victor proceeded to walk around his employee. From behind his employee’s back, he let out cigar smoke, puffing very loud and clear, much like a tiger would growl encirculating his prey before the kill.

Meanwhile, at the paper company where paper for stocks are made a Q & A was taking place …

- When the stars shone ..that’s when.
- Any particular motive as to why just then?
- Look Ed, the guy is a fraud, there is nothing more to it.
- Here, take my handkerchief., you seem to be developing a sweat in your forehead.
- Jaja, very funny.
- Exactly when did you see them like that together?
- I’m distraught, can’t you see?
- I see what you mean, but I, in as much as I sympathize with your emotions, the company requires of me to record all activity that took place prior to the incident.
- “incident”? is that what they’re calling it?
- I really don’t have time, if you want to I can send some other people to …
- Fine!, I caught them in there with their clothes nearly off, my girlfriend laughing and the guy sweating like a hog, there, happy!?
- Just procedure Mark, some valuable paper was destroyed in the ensuing passion and now they have to pay for it ….

The aisle was carpeted with a carpet named Yielding Effects and the color was, according to an old catalog my mom had left behind, Oriental Jade. The walls bore paintings from the family’s efforts to inculcate their children artistic talent that only now stand there as testimony to their good intentions and their immense faith they had on their children. Family photos also hung here and there of relatives now gone to better pastures. In the middle of the aisle stood an eighteenth century mahogany longcase Grandfather clock with a rocking ship in the dial and a quarter-chiming movement that used to bring shrieking screams from my mother every time we rushed by the aisle to get to the table during dinner time. It was her pride and joy and only remnant of a past she never tired to remind us of. It now stands there marking the hours as it always has done, ticking away the light of the sun and welcoming the shadows of the night, collecting dust by the minute every day.

To a larger degree, this very aisle has been witness to many an historical and turning point in the affairs of our family and also a silent onlooker to many a fight between mon and dad and we siblings. The trip to Cantabria reached a final decision right here, by the copy painting of Monet’s Waterlilies, Green Reflection, Left Part. Over there, by Toulouse-Lautrec’s The Toilette poster, bought during a small sojourn mother took in Paris, my sister fainted because, as we lesser beings unaware of the mysteries of womanhood later found out, she’d been then 7 weeks pregnant already.

Maybe the reason for this flurry of activity in an aisle was due to our bathroom being there. Many screams to hurry up were shouted on top of our throats to the door and yet here I stand now, in front of it, alone at last, and somehow It doesn’t feel the same….

Just then a voice from the distance interrupted his thinking – ” Are you coming George?”

- Wait a sec hon … I’ll be right there. George walked into the bathroom and took a piss, zipped up fast and then headed for the car.

- Boy! Why do you always have to take so long every time we stop at your mom’s old house? I mean every time we stop here you always seem to take an eternity for just taking a piss ..

- Just drive hon, just drive …

There was only that one chance. The crowds were thick enough to create a diversion and grab it. The moneybag lay idle in the counter, so it would be enough for a fire alarm to cause a small panic, stretch the arm, grab the dough and make a run for the door. The only obstacle would be the guard at the door, a buffy looking security agent who seemed in love with his job. He had the handcuffs in plain view, as well as a can of pepper spray and a mean looking baton, which he caressed with his left hand like a cat owner would his pet. Just then a scanty clad dame popped in distracting the guy who comported himself like a gentleman by pointing her to somewhere and then walking with her a bit. Gary saw his chance and walked towards the book section and stopped near the emergency fire alarm, pulled it and started to walk in a steady pace towards the counter so as not to raise suspicions. At the sound of the alarm everyone became disconcerted and moved quickly to get the heck out of there. Gary grabbed the dough just when the clerk was trying to figure out what was happening and made a dash for the door. He ran as fast as he could and swung the doors wide open with all his might.

Ernest didn’t feel like opening that can of beer, he had enough of the drudge monotony that was beginning to fill his daily evenings. So he picked up his keys, put his jacket on, checked that the radio was off and left his flat. Down the elevator, he came across a neighbor he was pissed at so he just gave him looks that killed, and then proceeded as they wlked out to cheerfully and out loud say hi to the first passerby he met just to piss off the neighbor even more. 9pm and he took a whiff at the city, it smelled like buttered popcorn does at the movies except that it was drizzling. So he kept walking, destination unknown, thinking maybe that it was time to pay a visit to his old girlfriend. A few blocks down the road he found a quarter, still wet he picked it up and started to flip it up in the air as passersby whisked along. Should he walk there and see her or should he take a cab? Should he just drop by or should he announce his visit? He kept a fast pace as he took off the hand from his palm to see how the quarter landed and see what fate had sealed for him.

Olga was in the mood for some shopping. She donned a miniskirt, and a shirt that fit like a glove that marked her voluptuous body at every curve. The stiletto high heel shoes put the extra touch in a very nice outfit. Looking outside the window she noticed some small rain drops in her pane. She grabbed an umbrella just in case her hairdo came into danger. Looking one last time in the mirror, she checked her deep red lipstick color in her lips, pursed them inwards and made a loud pop! sound from her mouth. She walked the stairs down to the street, it was busy and the city noise became a second background as a known passerby to her stopped her and a loudmouth crowd passed them by. They exchanged some salutatory greetings and after that she went her way swinging the unneeded umbrella in a circular motion as her hips moved to a salsa song in her head. A few blocks well into the city and ad caught her eye, 35% off on all Calvin Klein products. She went in.

The weather was gray and the city noises were a mishmash of screams, crying and yelling with that of cars passing by and a police car with its siren still on. The ambulances had the siren lights on, resembling a disco death of sorts. To the left of the sidewalk, were curious onlookers stared, were bundles of money and shiny coins scattered across. They stood in wait, like vultures, for a distraction from the only police car to have arrived at the scene of the accident. Some handcuffs lay strewn on the street, and a security guard sat by the sidewalk with a bruised head and what seemed to be blood running from his nose, dripping down to the wet asphalt mixing with the gasoline and oil stained flow of water near a gutter. Medics were attending to three people and one was already being carried inside the ambulance in what seemed to be an unconscious state, it seemed he had suffered a deep concussion to his head. Another man was lying down in the wet street complaining that the back of his legs hurt ‘like a motherfucker’ and that he might also have a fracture to his kneecaps. The other body, a female, had some red lipstick smeared in her face and a miniskirt displaying fine long looking legs and some broken high heel shoes. She was being pumped air and an injection being administered to her in her left arm glared all the lights that the city could reflect on its metal needle at that moment.

A small whisper coming from the crowd fought its way through the noise and the lights, ‘Hey! What happened here?’

The trees had been planted by some immigrants at the time Alaska belonged to Mother Russia. They were not native to this soil but adapted themselves very well, spreading far and wide across the valley and even proclaimed a natural reserve not so long ago. It now attracts tourists from afar as Siberia and a few dachas are built around its edges although government regulations have prohibited more be built.

Boris looked on this piece of land as if it were his. His ancestors were raised here and their ashes spread across the forest as was their last wish in this world. These mornings Boris woke up particularly early since a long awaited event was to take place at around these dates. Everyone waited for the right temperatures and weather conditions waking up expectantly in search of this long awaited act of nature. During a certain point in time during the early days of march the morning dew gave a delicate scent that locals were very well aware of and kept it a secret so that no brochure ever mentioned it. It was a time when the Atlantic dropped its water inland and the mild winds shook the top of the trees and the early spring warmth pressed the sticky pine oils from its bark. The drizzle made the soil dispel a natural smell that combined with the pine scents, a natural, rich in nature, odor enveloped the whole village for a period of two to three hours depending on the strenght of the sun.

It was during this season that one morning Boris caught eye of a woman. She sat in a position that resembled the Yoga position of Lotus, dressed in a white garb, and on his property. She seemed peaceful and her hair hung loose. Unsure wether to go there and start a conversation, Boris continued looking on until the lady got up. Aware that she was being observed, she turned her head towards Boris and waved from afar a salutatory greeting. Boris waved back but continued where he was as the lady went about her way.

Greg drew sketches of objects his irises picked up ‘outside him’ he says.

Carl on the other side of the studio wrote sketches. He used words like puzzle bits and his pencil like a brush. ‘The mind’ he said, ‘is the canvas’.

There was a particular one that drew my attention, so to speak. It had words which I fail to recall one by one but suffice to say it was about a tree. The ground were it stood describes ‘an April, early spring, just when the sun began to melt away winter’s remaining snowfall.’ ‘The dirt was wet’, I remember it said, ‘soft enough to leave a knee imprint of a careful tending gardner.’ The soil gave the impression of being brown and rich with an occasional patch of a new shoots of green grass and here and there even a weed was mentioned as part of the scene ‘waking to the mild efforts of the sun and its exertion to warm the land and do away with its cold, arctic wind competitor.’

There after the sketch read a bit more different because the task at hand required a great deal of dexterity on the part of the describer. The sketcher must be well versed in the study of forestry in as much as vocabulary goes. One would argue, to paraphrase Gertrud Stein, a tree is a tree is a tree. No doubt the masses would agree but to the artist at hand, every word is like a different shade of color added to the ‘object’ being retold in words. There is no doubt that color is recalled on the mind, in ‘the canvas’, of the reader but it in itself is not solely the only part which is vital.

Linear aspects must also be taken into account. The background provides dimensionality to the description. The word is in the stone age compared to the eye. So as my eyes scanned the sketch for those qualities, my soul looked into my mind for these details, ever so important to the description, in order to see what this poor alphabetical system of ours had to offer. Needless to say, if the sketch manages to redraw its purpose/object in the mind and then recreate the image, see able by the ocular capacity of the mind, then it has succeeded.

But I will digress no more. Please bear in mind that I’m merely paraphrasing here because I can never really describe what I saw in that written sketch but merely tell you what I saw.

The tree had been trimmed and what seemed attempts at hacking its life from the ground with little obvious successes. It stood, the tale tells, ‘between a half corroded fence and some rusty railroads where commuter trains passed by every fifteen minutes’. The tree was dark-brown in color, almost surely filled with soot due to the surrounding industrial complex and the passing of the locomotives. Branches spread out and the bark gave it a respectful and peaceful look. Its branches weren’t that thick, I read, but sturdy enough for a child to cling to it and swing about somewhat. It was more in looks like the hand of a rheumatic in old age except these boughs were sprouting new leaves, receiving nourishment, no doubt, from winter’s past snow.

It was a sign of hope in a wasteland.

There was only that one chance. The crowds were thick enough to create a diversion and grab it. The money bag lay idle in the counter, so it would be enough for a fire alarm to cause a small panic, stretch the arm, grab the dough and make a run for the door. The only obstacle would be the guard at the door, a buffy looking security agent who seemed in love with his job. He had the handcuffs in plain view, as well as a can of pepper spray and a mean looking baton, which he caressed with his left hand like a cat owner would his pet. Just then a scanty clad dame popped in distracting the buffy looking guy who was being a gentleman by pointing her to somewhere as they walked together a bit. Gary saw his chance and walked towards the book section and stopped near the emergency fire alarm, pulled it and started to walk fastly towards the counter so as not to raise suspicions. At the sound of the alarm everyone became disconcerted and moved quickly to get the heck out of there. Gary grabbed the dough just when the clerk was trying to figure out what was happening and made a dash for the door. He ran as fast as he could.

Ernest didn’t feel like opening that can of beer, he had enough, really enough of his drudge monotony. Nearly fed up with the daily drinking. So he picked up his keys, put his jacket on, checked that the radio was off and he left his flat. Down the elevator, he came across a neighbor he was pissed at so he just gave him looks that killed, and then proceeded to say hi to the first passerby he met. 9pm and he smelled the city, it smelled like popcorn does at the movies except that it was drizzling. So he kept walking, destination unknown thinking that maybe it was time to pay a visit to an old girlfriend of his. On the way there he found a wet quarter, picked it up and started to flip it up in the air. Should he walk there and see her or should he take a cab? Should he just drop by or should he announce his visit?

Olga was in the mood for some shopping. She donned a miniskirt, and a shirt that fit like a glove marking her voluptuous body at every curve. The stiletto high heel shoes put the extra touch in a very nice outfit. Looking outside the window she noticed some small rain drops in her pane. She grabbed an umbrella just in case her hairdo came into danger. Looking one last time in the mirror, she checked her deep red lipstick color in her lips.

The weather was grey and the city noises was a mishmash of screams, crying and yelling with that of cars passing by and a police car with its siren still on. The ambulances had the siren lights on, resembling a death disco of sorts. To the left of the sidewalk bundles of money and shiny coins were scattered across it, were curious onlookers stared, waiting, like vultures, for a distraction from the only police car to have arrived at the scene of the accident. Some handcuffs lay strewn on the street, and a security guard sat by the sidewalk with a bruised head and what seemed to be blood running from his nose, dripping down to the wet asphalt. Two bodies were being attended by medics and one was already being carried inside the ambulance in what seemed to be an unconscious state. The other body, a female, had some red lipstick smeared in her face and a miniskirt displaying fine long looking legs and some broken high heel shoes. She was being pumped air and an inyection glared all the lights that the city could reflect on its metal needle that moment.

When the trees started to swoosh with the force of the winds my hair began to be caressed by the gusts of the fresh morning breeze. My neck felt the coolness of the early hours light and I kept walking against the gales and ended up loving the chilly air touching my face, I fell in love with my life, that moment anyways, for the very first time in many months.

As I passed my surroundings, keeping straight along the asphalt of the walkway, I noticed, as I went along, the early grass sprouts shooting up as August Strindberg would say, amongst last autumns fallen leaves, looking rather curious as their pointy ends barely made it through the brownish brittle leaves and other tree debris that covered the ground. It had been a hard winter and the landscape offered no consolation for months on end, but now all that was changing. The sun paid us more visits and the weather gave us chances to take off our jackets and wear light clothing. It brought also lighter moods as more laughter could be heard as people walked by each other, people seemed cheerful and willing to meet each other.

I had decided to pay a visit to an old friend of mine that day, who I hadn’t seen in many weeks and as I heard he was about to embark on a long trip, I wanted to give him my best wishes for the duration of his sojourn.

On way there, looking up towards the partially clouded sky, I was amazed at the majesticity of the shapes and colors of the clouds. It was nice and the few patches of clear sky allowed for the rays of the sun to shoot off straight lines of light through the bluepurplelish hues that the soft cottoned looking clouds had. In that scene, there was that God element in it that made one see how insignificant one is at times in the presence of such marvellous nature.

Then that same night he told her he couldn’t lie, they drank beer, lying right there on the spot to each other. He had that flash, that flash that’s like a chain and ball, heard the chin-cling loud and clear and wanted freedom. He felt high as ever, didn’t really want part of her, he wanted to run, he didn’t like her, liked her; he wanted no part, wanted all her parts.

Then it took him 24 hours just to get her out of his system, to stop feeling any good about her and the time they spent together talking about the theater and how she was the way she was, while he just sat there listening, listening to her voice, melodious, almost like Ulysses being strapped to the mast, listening to the sirens, calling him, only he wasn’t strapped, he was there, willing, he wanted her, I was intoxicated. Me and my little voice struggling there, here in this piece of paper, trying to sort this out, and I can’t, I can to a certain extent. Me and my little voice, counseling me, do it; don’t it. Lie, don’t lie; tell her, how much you want her, tell her the truth, maybe she’ll buy it. Stop thinking about her, I can’t stop, I want to say so much, then reality sets in, I can’t, I must abide me, it be wrong to hurt someone else this way, lying …. All’s fair in love and war?

What is it about two people that just want each other? There are two things I loathe, hunger and sex, they distract me from my studies, they do, they really do.

- Wanna drink coffee?
- No thanks, am bored, I don’t know where am going, what I want nor a purpose; I am already high, thank you.
- I least you have politeness, come again sometime?

‘The sun shone, the last I saw her’ He said, ‘the curtains in my flat were drawn, and I had Blue Six on. Some silky song about some naked pair, somewhere in Paris. I didn’t feel for the news so I kept the TV in the dark, or was it the other way around, I just don’t know anymore who is it that keeps who in the dark.’
And then, like a hit soul by Cupid he thought on: he kept fantasying.

- I didn’t really wanted to say I love you, but I did, in my head; I did wanted to tell you, but I didn’t, didn’t I? Then he answered himself
- No, I couldn’t read your mind that day. He thought of speaking to her: there is a secret, a secret that will destroy this, which we have now, this time, this hour, the present.
- Come again?
- I already have, once or twice, and am still feeling ill, the good kind.

Then he kept quiet. Only to mull once more.
Three days and four moral scolds have gone since I saw her, and through two days I sent her a million sms’eses in my head while battling my emotions, compulsions. I didn’t fuck her, and I feel fucked all the way, my brains juiced out of power; I been way too long alone with someone else, I needed a woman, and that woman just had me for hors d’oeuvre.

What is it about women and their fragrance? Just leave me alone! They drive me nuts, I don’t want any of it, let me smell it! I say, quietly, to myself, and I run back as fast as I can to her presence in my head. I want her intoxicating voice, just let me have a vowel or two, let me have you again, and again over some beer at some pub, music sounds better with you. I want to pretend that which I am not, you give me life, woman, I love you and desperately need you out of my life, you disturb everything I have. My fantasies of you are just plain weekends, so I can return back to my double life. But I want to send you so bad, an SMS, only one; please get yourself back together. Compose yourself, so I did.
By midnight I composed a letter, far from being an SMS and short from turning into an e-mail, it was about recalling that fateful day of her appearance, her powerful stamina, and my weak sentimental constitution as I waited hoping for her not to come, to come to me. I was no match for her; she was a sturdy femme fatale….

Act one: Drama out of proportions

Anton: It will go fast, the remorse and qualms ails us, I promise it will go quickly.

Cleops: We can not stand idle and do nothing. In history we will go down as the most cowards of all generations. Having power, we did not use it. Instead, we remain, frightened. So the the military will just have to put us out of our misery. This wretched dogging must die.

Anton: By the time we are back in our dancing studios, our favorite drinking holes, our luscious desires for money quenched and aspirations of a better life, You won one million dollars! dreams are put to place again, we will have forgotten.

Cleops: Suffering children will not accost us anymore, the thought of bombing people because the fear of our western brothers made us compelled to protest in silence shall be no more. We will go down, the showdown is about to begin! CNN awaits your active participation. Take out the popcorn, cokes and all. Stocks soar. Soon those brown faces will disappear from our consciousness our moralizing about how others are to be shall continue after the pause, Gad, how I miss the crusades ….

Dear Lisia:

Every now and then I get this sort of melancholy and I come to think of you. I often feel I betrayed you, that in the course of that drink we had, that intoxicating love we shared to the last drop, somewhere, lies were swallowed. Fantasies were lived and I was stabbed by my cowardness in the back. I still think very much of you as you can see by these letters.

Its been five years now, nearly that anyway since I left. I couldn’t leave my children. I have a fractured past you see, I am a fatherless child, my mother an alcoholic that through the years, I’ve come to understand her decision not to be around us. It spared us a lot of pain and probably thought it best that my grandmother was a better home for us. And that is why it was so painful to contemplate the idea. I backed off. Back in Stockholm its only the forest that knows how much pain I came to deal with when we parted, they are the keepers of my unyielding belief in love, I screamed them to deafness.

You might question then that what I expressed at the height of our deep love affair was just the effects of the moment. You penetrated me more than that. I know.

Will I ever go to Gent? Most likely, when? I don’t know, and I won’t just go there to see Jaque Louis David’s Marat Assasiné. I dream of walking the streets you might walk in, the air you breathe, those kinds of things, maybe have a beer, sit down and enjoy the Belgium sun.

I still miss you and often wonder how you are, if you are married and wonder if you have children, those sort of things….

Chris

The soft velvet fabric of the sofa invited relaxation. The bar atmosphere was soothing and not too many people smoked. Chris and Licia sat by one of the sofas, ordered some red wine and began talking. They spoke of mundane things like the horoscope, what they liked, music and so on. A few giggles and laughter were heard. The hours on the clock in the wall tick-toed its way, only witness to the migrating lightness, and the coming dusk. By the third glass of wine, Chris and Licia had became attached to one another so that Chris’s arm streched itself out and began caressing Licia’s ear lobe with the tip of his fingers. Then everything stopped, body language could be seen. Their eyes met. He let his fingers slide, feeling intensely how Licia’s gentle skin gave an inmense pleasure as they moved slowly through the lines of her cheek bones. I could see how carefully the tip of the fingers from his hand made their way through her neck and how Licia moved her head sideways so as to make more room for Chri’s caressing touch. Stopping at the cleavege of her blouse, he aproached his head to hers so as to place his lips by her cheeks, gently gliding, barely touching the surface of her skin. Surely pheronomes were about this time dispelling scents that only they could detect provoking untold desires in them. They stopped for a moment, looked at each other, seriously, in approval, with penetrating looks. They seemed infatuated, unaware of the world outside their enchanted affair.

The metereologist had predicted sunny weather with partial clouds during and only in the afternoon. The city’s only meteorologist had a reputation to keep and almost all of his weather instruments, financed by the city’s coffers, were up-to-date, state-of-the-art technologies. He had a Perception II stand-alone weather station plus hand-held wind speed indicators and a handy weather forecasting quick reference card and not to mention a brand new Vantage Pro weather station for monitoring barometric pressure, temperature, humidity, rainfall, and wind speed and direction. So whenever the prediction failed, the mayor would get an ear-full of calls from angry residents demanding were had their tax money gone to and wondered out loud whether he hadn’t favored his crony friends at the time of the bidding for the equipment. Everyday the mayor would follow the day with the prediction in hand and reports from other local agencies as the day went by, gladly enough, today the prediction fulfilled its job and the mayor busied himself with other businesses that demanded his attention.

At the other end of town, a happy sunbather had just finished basking in the sun, content that the sun had come out and that finally he could show off his male bikini to the neighbors across the street who were only too willing to see what he was up to these days. Rumor had it that he had won the lottery somewhere else in the county and his lifestyle certainly fed to that gossip. Nobody knew exactly where this fellow had come from, only that one early week in May a moving van had pulled up in front of an abandoned house known to the locals as the Old Murray residence. About three weeks thereafter a classic Mercedes-Benz SSK (1928), designed by Ferdinand Porsche, drove in to the garage much to the bewilderment of the tight community. What did he want in that middle class neighborhood with a car like that and a servant at his disposal was the hot query in the mouths of much of the populace there.

Hej!

Today, as I was walking to the computer room from my dorm, (sounds kind of childish considering my age) I couldn’t help noticing how Spring had set its foot on the landscape. Although the trees are still bare and snow remains yet unmelted, the ground is wet and the air fresh rather than cold. Then as I was walking through one of the pathways, the university let itself be seen, and all its wondrous Ralph Erskine arquitecture came into view. However, I was distracted from my thoughts by little rocks coming into my shoes as I walked. This type of gravel is strewn in the midst of winter so that people don’t slipp and fall down. By this time of the year there is so much that at times it is hard to notice the square cement blocks that make the walkway. Then it struck me! I had a great idea, I thought of a big vaccum cleaner, one that could easily be adapted to a medium size truck, say a small Toyota or whatever is in fashion and of medium size nowadays. This sort of truck would then vacuum the gravel. Of course, being the premises of the university big, this would indeed be a wise investment, according to me, since its my idea after all. When the premises would be free of the winter gravel then perhaps it could be rented out, so as to get the return of the investment back, whaddaya think? Its a great idea or what?!

Anyways, am doing fine, life here is at times nothing but body problems. I on the other hand couldn’t sleep last night due to a late dinner and woke up several times during the night with a sort of stomach pain, felt like something was stuck. Of course the thoughts that my mother died of stomach cancer didn’t make themselves wait and started to pester me so that now am considering a medical check up of sorts.

Now to Gertrude, which are things of a delicate nature and serious matters, and it should only be, as the french say, entre nous.

Of recently Gertrude has had several setbacks in her family. Her grandmother fell and broke a hip and since she is to be 90 this year those things aren’t taken lightly and they performed an operation on her. She made it quite well, so that we hope that she’ll be back in her old spirits again after a couple of months. That lady seems quite strong, and everybody now and then make comments about how amazing she is for being the age she is. She does a lot, like the booking for the shop Carl has and so on. I say it’s ’cause of all the preservetives that she takes in, she’s fond of cookies and pastries of all sorts I’ll have you know. Another big setback for that family, for I’ll let you know, I certainly don’t consider them my family, the father has been thrown in jail. He got busted buying cheap CD copies from a crooked salesman from one of the big competitors. The thing is that he is to spend two years in the can, although by any standards, jails here are a vacation compared to the harsh ones that exist back home. He will have a sort of leave permisson from jail after doing two months, and so every week we’ll find him home again. You know, it was one of his own who ratted on him, Gertrude’s sister husband. Its all been a terrible emotional ride for my poor Gertrude who now is suddenly been thrusted into the family business and so on.

Lots of hugs and kisses, take care and don’t forget that we miss you too over here.

PS:

Regarding Nick, he has still a lot to learn of family bondage. And am sure there is a lot of him we need to learn too, although am afraid that only time will tell us all.

Yours truly, Richard Dreyfus.

PS: I shall soon be taking a trip to New York, shall we have tea there?

John had receently been forced to pull a prank on officer Stacey Maloy. He was told that in order to get in the fraternity he was to pull from Officer Maloy’s locker his baton, without him noticing, and then put back. A witness would be provided, who would keep its distance at all times, to ensure the veracity of the events. Having done that, he went to his girlfriend’s house, Maria, to finish off the feat.

- You promised.
- Indeed I did, but I also said maybe.
- What are you gonna do then?
- Well, I just need to put it back, you know, so that no one notices it.
- Isn’t that, like wrong?
- Listen honey, there isn’t much time left, are you in or out?
- I don’t know, lemme think.
- Forget it, if you’re gonna think about it might as well get in trouble.
- I dunno, the last time you said the same thing and we nearly got caught.
- Duh, that’s because you were wearing reflexes and the cops light saw it.
- You know what? I’m not going, this time you’re gonna have to sort it out by yourself.
- God! I knew, I knew it was stupid to come here and ask you for help, damn it! How stupid can I be! You and I are done.
- Oh man, don’t say that. Alright, I’ll go, but this is the last time.
- Thank you baby, thank you. I promise I’ll make it up to you soon.

- The Macmillan Dictionary has an entry for duh.
- Duh! Like I wanna know that.
- Ok, so what, do you want to know?

George sat exasperated; this student was fidgety, looked distressed and nothing of substance came out of him.

- Dunno.

Silence. The room of his office couldn’t look emptier, yet he felt the need this student had.

- Why were you sent here? Do you know that?
- I suppose ‘cause my grades are low.
- Is there a reason why they are low?
- Maybe.
- Humm.

George felt resistance, clearly the boy had something going on in his life, what was it?

- Do you like to go out?
- Can’t, my parents got me grounded.
- Would you like to tell me about that?
- It’s complicated.
- That’s what am here for, to help out when complications arise.

The breakthrough was finally visible, why did the student open up?

- I Got caught smoking weed.
-I see, do you like drugs?
- Sometimes, they make me feel good, I suppose there isn’t any harm in it.
- Humm, your parents don’t think so.
- What do they know … All they do is bitch around all day how am not what they expected me to be.
- I see. So they go around telling you how to be.
- Gets on my nervs you know? Pisses me off man.
- Yeah, I can understand that, I mean, who wants to be bitched at.
- Yeah man, so I try to get back at them, I mean they already think am a loser you see. So I piss them off too.
- Humm, by smoking weed?
- Naaah, that’s just for fun,
- I see. So you do like drugs.
- Not really, it’s just that the crowd I hang out with does it, so I do it too.
- Humm, you’re records show that you been an exemplary student all along until last year, care to talk about that?
- Maybe some other time, gotta split, gotta class to go to. C-ya!
- I’ll put you in for next week, is that ok?
- Suppose so.
- Take care.

The satisfaction of helping made George feel good, it was clearly a step forward, maybe he could put Anthony back in track, despite of the rest of society thinking otherwise.

- The Macmillan Dictionary has an entry for duh.
- Duh! Like I wanna know that.
- Ok, so what, do you want to know?

George sat exasperated; this student was fidgety, looked distressed and nothing of substance came out of him.

- Dunno.

Silence. The room of his office couldn’t look emptier, yet he felt the need this student had.

- Why were you sent here? Do you know that?
- I suppose ‘cause my grades are low.
- Is there a reason why they are low?
- Maybe.
- Humm.

George felt resistance, clearly the boy had something going on in his life, what was it?

- Do you like to go out?
- Can’t, my parents got me grounded.
- Would you like to tell me about that?
- It’s complicated.
- That’s what am here for, to help out when complications arise.

The breakthrough was finally visible, why did the student open up?

- I Got caught smoking weed.
-I see, do you like drugs?
- Sometimes, they make me feel good, I suppose there isn’t any harm in it.
- Humm, your parents don’t think so.
- What do they know … All they do is bitch around all day how am not what they expected me to be.
- I see. So they go around telling you how to be.
- Gets on my nervs you know? Pisses me off man.
- Yeah, I can understand that, I mean, who wants to be bitched at.
- Yeah man, so I try to get back at them, I mean they already think am a loser you see. So I piss them off too.
- Humm, by smoking weed?
- Naaah, that’s just for fun,
- I see. So you do like drugs.
- Not really, it’s just that the crowd I hang out with does it, so I do it too.
- Humm, you’re records show that you been an exemplary student all along until last year, care to talk about that?
- Maybe some other time, gotta split, gotta class to go to. C-ya!
- I’ll put you in for next week, is that ok?
- Suppose so.
- Take care.

The satisfaction of helping made George feel good, it was clearly a step forward, maybe he could put Anthony back in track, despite of the rest of society thinking otherwise.

- You really haven’t noticed?
- Nope.
- Not once giving it a thoguht?
- Are you talking to yourself again?
- Just hear me out.
- Oh God! Not again. Alright, Spill it out then.

Gardner sat silently and brought out his Stanwell Pipe, a Sixtus Smooth model. He invariably never failed to tell a story about how he got it and his consequent trip to Denmark. Yet this time he didn’t. He lit it up, took some puffs and sat relaxed. He began speaking as Anastacia accomodated herself near the edge of the sofa.

- One often hears of the trinity, body, mind and soul.
- You’re really gonna talk about that!? Oh, Lord …
- Shh Anastacia! Well, as I was saying. A lot of thought is given to the body, in fact, one could nearly argue that it is the domain of the femme. They spend much time in touch with it, they know their constitution like I know my pipes. Then there is the soul, countless of words and dialogues are poured out on this subject so that a lack of knowledge in that area is hardly missing.
- Is this going somewhere Gardner?
- Allow me to expand. The mind is mysteriously absent here, you see what I mean? Why don’t we know more of the mind than what we already know? Something is amiss.
- I can answer that mystery for you Gardner, the mind, my freund, is the place of convergence for soul and body, got it?
- Dear Anastacia, how little you know on this subject, not to say that I know anymore. You see? This is exactly what I mean. Here’s what I’ve come to think thus far. I’ve come to notice how at times am busy writing, a mind activity, and it baffles me how sometimes words just come out of me of which I lack explanation as to their origins, whence come they?
- Your pulling water way over your head Gardner, go read some more. Anastacia raised herself from the sofa and got ready to leave.
- Alright, I gave your fifteen minutes Warhol, gotta go, I’ll see later Gardner, you take it easy ok?
Gardner, kept puffing his pipe, it seemed as if he had giving it a lot of thought for all I could hear was a low, quiet farewell, he said “Yeah, thanks for the listening, you be good now”, and as he raised up from the chair, he walked to the kitchen, to get his coat. I dashed away.

- You really haven’t noticed?
- Nope.
- Not once giving it a thoguht?
- Are you talking to yourself again?
- Just hear me out.
- Oh God! Not again. Alright, Spill it out then.

Gardner sat silently and brought out his Stanwell Pipe, a Sixtus Smooth model. He invariably never failed to tell a story about how he got it and his consequent trip to Denmark. Yet this time he didn’t. He lit it up, took some puffs and sat relaxed. He began speaking as Anastacia accomodated herself near the edge of the sofa.

- One often hears of the trinity, body, mind and soul.
- You’re really gonna talk about that!? Oh, Lord …
- Shh Anastacia! Well, as I was saying. A lot of thought is given to the body, in fact, one could nearly argue that it is the domain of the femme. They spend much time in touch with it, they know their constitution like I know my pipes. Then there is the soul, countless of words and dialogues are poured out on this subject so that a lack of knowledge in that area is hardly missing.
- Is this going somewhere Gardner?
- Allow me to expand. The mind is mysteriously absent here, you see what I mean? Why don’t we know more of the mind than what we already know? Something is amiss.
- I can answer that mystery for you Gardner, the mind, my freund, is the place of convergence for soul and body, got it?
- Dear Anastacia, how little you know on this subject, not to say that I know anymore. You see? This is exactly what I mean. Here’s what I’ve come to think thus far. I’ve come to notice how at times am busy writing, a mind activity, and it baffles me how sometimes words just come out of me of which I lack explanation as to their origins, whence come they?
- Your pulling water way over your head Gardner, go read some more. Anastacia raised herself from the sofa and got ready to leave.
- Alright, I gave your fifteen minutes Warhol, gotta go, I’ll see later Gardner, you take it easy ok?
Gardner, kept puffing his pipe, it seemed as if he had giving it a lot of thought for all I could hear was a low, quiet farewell, he said “Yeah, thanks for the listening, you be good now”, and as he raised up from the chair, he walked to the kitchen, to get his coat. I dashed away.

The classical.

He does it. But he does it because he misses those things which bring back to memory those very things which he is far from. I’ve always argued that there isn’t a most fervent nationalist than he or she who is an ex-pat. So he sits there in the kitchen and makes food that he used to eat at home. “It’s incredible”, he says, slurping and whiffing the warm beans, “how these smells bring a comfort to this solace. At times it seems that I eat them only because I want home again” I don’t know what he did most, smell or eat, “Qué ricos!” How delicious!, he said, looking satisfied. I told to him that it was a lachrymose orgasm. Turning around, looking at my eyes, he said ” could be” lifting the plate from the tiled table, “but its my only gate to the past”. The thing is that he does it so often, remembers. And its frequency increases by the passing of the years. First it was the hot chile peppers, because he needed to prove that he was Mexican. Then fashion brought ancient tortillas to this unholy part of the Roman Empire, then globalization stepped in. So know he buys those canned beans every now and then and engages in those memory rituals. Like and Aztec sacrificing the present for the glory of the Gods of the past.

He does it.

But he does it because he misses those things which bring back to memory those very things which he is far from. I’ve always argued that there isn’t a most fervent nationalist than he or she who is an ex-pat.

So he sits there in the kitchen and makes food that he used to eat at home. “It’s incredible”, he says, slurping and whiffing the warm beans, “how these smells bring a comfort to this solace. At times it seems that I eat them only because I want home again” I don’t know what he did most, smell or eat, “Qué ricos!” How delicious!, he said, looking satisfied.

I told to him that it was a lachrymose orgasm. Turning around, looking at my eyes, he said ” could be” lifting the plate from the tiled table, “but its my only gate to the past”. The thing is that he does it so often, remembers. And its frecuency increases by the passing of the years. First it was the hot chile peppers, because he needed to prove that he was mexican. Then fashion brought ancient tortillas to this unholy part of the Roman Empire, then globalization stepped in. So know he buys those canned beans every now and then and engages in those memory rituals.

Like and Aztec sacrificing the present for the glory of the Gods of the past.

The pavement was like any other, black. Sand blended with dirt could be seen strewn on the surface. Strolling along its path, George, with his hands inside his pockets, noticed a kiwi smashed well into the rocky asphalt leaving a distinct green color alongside black seeds. The sun had done a good job in drying it. A sign that not too many people walked this seemingly lone way.

The weather that day was kind of special for this time of the year, cloudy yet dim enough for the sun to push through an opaque sunshine. It was apropiate enough for the surroundings which were still under the white frosty mantle that covered the trees and over the wide open landscape there was plenty of snow but the tempuratures were mildly warm.

As George kept walking, marked by a decisive pace, the university buildings began to come into view. He turned his head towards Stockholms university library which has a certain association with light and mobile naval architecture. George contemplated the silver shine that the metal roof gave, he came to think of the inspiration the architect Ralph Erskine must of had, thinking that perhaps the scandinavian soul is more climatized to winter, summer being so short here in Sweden.

“Yes, that must be it”, he thought, as he kept a steady pace towards the computer room, “the surroundings adapt quite well to this type of weather ….”

During the high moon season, the beaches are empty, and for once, the stretch of water belongs to the natives. It is at these times that Horuniku takes strolls along the edges of the sand where the waves of the sea are thrown ashore. The feeling is one of solitude yet he realizes that the ocean is a silent companion tonight. Leaving a track in the sand, his thoughts wonder to that fatal day when his life nearly took a turn for the worst. The place was his house, a little cottage on the top of the hill that his parents had built with their on hands. Horuniku had just turned 40, recently released from the hospital due to serious condition. He sat and shredded weed in preparations for the seaweed crackers. It was jsut at this time when Horuniku was beginning to feel that good tidings were on the way.

-Hey Horuniku-san!

-Konichiwa -Yukio, how’s the old farming business doing?

-Not as good as your health, I heard you overcame the cancer that struck your left rib.

-Indeed Yukio-san, I prayed hard to my Kami and the Gods have been most merciful.

-I pray indeed so Horuniku-san because today am afraid am a harbinger of bad news.

-I beg of you to please tell, these disturbing news.

-Well, you’re debts are in and my bosses are impatient, threatining to call the local yakuza to collect the money which was lent in good faith. They say that you posses a good piece of property and at todays market prices your house commands a good deal of money.

-This is indeed most distressing Yukio-san, my house is all I have! I am sure your good faith in me has dissuaded them from such thinking.

-I did what I could, but interest are to no avail now, and the investment demands profit now, I am sure Horuniku-san understands.

-Most indeed Yukio-san, please forward your bosses that in a fortnight full payment will be rendered, I recently opened a business, a seaweed cookie bakery which proves popular.

-Very well Horuniku-san, but I can no longer hold them after this.

-You are a good friend Yukio-san may Amaterasu Omikami guide your path.

Two years have passed since then, and he still shivers at the tattos he saw on the men who went to collect on the 14th day. No words were uttered, and yet, he could breath in peace. The moon shone clearly, casting a pale silver color on his tanned skin. Horuniku picked up a stone and threw at the open sea, the swift sling produced a breeze that gave him a comfort, a feeling that at last he was free.

Rupert and Albert had just come in the house and as Albert went straight ahead to the flower base he had bought yesterday he restarts examining his new prized object, a flower base from the Ding Dinasty. Rupert headed for the fridge when suddemly Albert began talking.
“Curios, the flower base seems to have had changed shapes.”
“Oh, please! Don’t tell me,” said Rupert as he poured himself a drink, “It’s like M R James the Mezzotint, isn’t it?”
“Well, you tell me. The flowers were in full bloom yesterday, I mean, even you mentioned that the blossoming was exquisitely rendered.”
“Lemme see, huum, I see, I believe you’re quite right Al, the flowers do seem like they’re withering …!”

Under mounting pressure his self tries to liberate from the net of false presuppositions that entangled him into an orgy of angst and guilt. ” Did I say that right?” Did they think I was too chatty, did they find me repugnant?” These and more questions snared him as he left the cheerful crowd of unknown people his friend had introduced him to. But under the battle to overcome his auto esteem, Aluquios could find some comfort in the embrace that every second that went by gave him. There is something about the Now that makes the past obsolete. Looking straight ahead he walked determined, forcing a smile to his lips. His chest feeling less and less angst and leaving but a lingering residue for a topic to write about later, much later.

Under mountning pressure his self tries to liberate from the net of false presuppositions that entangled him into an orgy of angst and guilt. ” Did I say that right?” Did they think I was too chatty, did they find me repugnent?” These and more questions snared him as he left the cheerful crowd of unknown people his friend had introduced him to. But under the battle to overcome his autoesteem, Aluquios could find some comfort in the embrace that every second that went by gave him. There is something about the Now that makes the past obsolote. Looking straight ahead he walked determined, forcing a smile to his lips. His chest feeling less and less angst and leaving but a lingering residue for a topic to write about later, much later.

The limousine approached us in cover of darkness and as I opened the doors, I saw that Victor was already seated next to Senator Foxtrite. We had planned to smuggle ourselves out of the country by these means, it meant a good deal of cash, but well worth it. My earlier suspicions dissipated as the blue license plates became visible as the car approached us. Opening the door was like entering a new life and closing them akin to shutting out the terrible mares we went through to get here. When the limo drove to the border, the customary wave to go ahead was given. No sane soldier would dare detain this car. It would mean an international outcry of sorts. Imagine, detaining the limousine of the first superpower! So as we saw the lights grow dimmer and dimmer, Senator Foxtrite became anxious. “Where’s the Intel?” He asked. We both looked at him, and showed him that the info had been surgically implanted in Victors left side arm, for security reasons, near the veins. The Senator didn’t flinch, he made a few phone calls, and before we knew it Victor was under the knife to remove the Intel. “You’ve done a great service to the country boys!” He exclaimed. Later on, as the news hit the airwaves, we saw the consequences of the intel, we caused the invasion of Astonia.

The scar the operation left in Victor’s left arm was still visibly to this day, and as we sat drinking our whiskies, he asked me “so what of you’ve been doing lately?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him the many covert ops I had been sent to ever since our last op and him being discovered as a double agent. I knew how much he strove after action. I looked at him and said “not much, I spent yesterday eating chocolate and drinking whiskey all day, you though?” He stared, for a second, guessing by my appearance that I was most likely lying. Remaining silent he continued watching the tv, cracking peanuts between his fingers, a sign we in the business use to pretend we are locals when in reality we are about to infiltrate.

Get used it, it’s life. Nothing else can be done. In all its drudge and monotony, it’s life, so get over it. People really actually don’t see this but there you have it, in all its splenders and wonders in every sunset and every nightfall, you couldn’t ask for more. Yet people dream on, they want adventures. “Ah you’re just jealous mate!” Nonsense, What is it that big city dwellers yearn after the most? A little respite. What is it that attracts them the most? Trees and solitude. Ironically, the small town folk yearn after the very same thing city people abhor. Yes, I could be tinging my words with a little rue, but in all its raw aspect, there is a layer of truth you cannot deny me. However, I must confess that it is that very same rutine that causes the most excitement. Rutine gives the unexpected a level of emotional high that one does find surprising and agreable. Although, there are far more rutine days in any given lifetime than there are eventful ones. “Hilarious!” “I object!” You’ve been watching too much L.A Law, I see. Get up and start picking up the dirty dishes, and I’ll start vacuuming, then maybe, just maybe, we can go out for an ice cream. “Ice cream, You scream, We all scream” Ah shut up already! You’re making me laugh. Hurry up, I don’t wanna spend more time than I have to cleaning up this mess.

The resemblence was unique, it couldn’t of been otherwise. The beauty surpassed everything I have seen. It was what the greeks call kheir and our atom scientists chiral two of the same, in essence, and this was chirality. I took one good look and I was dead ceartin this was the One. In my life I’ have been waiting for this unconciously, here it is, at last! It came as transperant as daylight, I saw with my soul’s eye her illuminating aura; although some rather wait for rainbows to see what’s in the light. What is it about a person outer looks that allow for inner, closer introspection? It’s right there, and no matter what this encounter is, its always marked by the rapture that the presence manages to perform on another soul. In the mythology of the ancient budhas it is said that reincarnation brings back the soul in several life cycles. My former lover perhaps? The attraction is inescapable, I am drawn to this human being. What is curious about this event is how not my blood burns but something yet deeper than that, it tingles beneath all forms of carnal sensory to the point of some sort of minor spiritual attraction with all the sensuality attached to it. I observe, become observed, we recognize our souls and at once we know who we are, we don’t introduce ourselves, we talk as if our conversation had been merely cut off yesterday or an hour ago. I see through and at once I am at ease. The sun sets down, the shops close, and the last customer leaves and time goes by, we remain, star spangled in the circle of life.

Get used it, it’s life. Nothing else can be done. In all its drudge and monotony, it’s life, so get over it. People really actually don’t see this but there you have it, in all its splendors and wonders in every sunset and every nightfall, you couldn’t ask for more. Yet people dream on, they want adventures. “Ah you’re just jealous mate!” Nonsense, What is it that big city dwellers yearn after the most? A little respite. What is it that attracts them the most? Trees and solitude. Ironically, the small town folk yearn after the very same thing city people abhor. Yes, I could be tinging my words with a little rue, but in all its raw aspect, there is a layer of truth you cannot deny me. However, I must confess that it is that very same routine that causes the most excitement. routine gives the unexpected a level of emotional high that one does find surprising and agreeable. Although, there are far more routine days in any given lifetime than there are eventful ones. “Hilarious!” “I object!” You’ve been watching too much L.A Law, I see. Get up and start picking up the dirty dishes, and I’ll start vacuuming, then maybe, just maybe, we can go out for an ice cream. “Ice cream, You scream, We all scream” Ah shut up already! You’re making me laugh. Hurry up, I don’t wanna spend more time than I have to cleaning up this mess….

The resemblance was unique, it couldn’t of been otherwise. The beauty surpassed everything I have seen. It was what the greeks call kheir and our atom scientists chiral two of the same, in essence, and this was chirality. I took one good look and I was dead certain this was the One. In my life I’ have been waiting for this unconsciously, here it is, at last! It came as transperant as daylight, I saw with my soul’s eye her illuminating aura; although some rather wait for rainbows to see what’s in the light. What is it about a person outer looks that allow for inner, closer introspection? It’s right there, and no matter what this encounter is, its always marked by the rapture that the presence manages to perform on another soul. In the mythology of the ancient budhas it is said that reincarnation brings back the soul in several life cycles. My former lover perhaps? The attraction is inescapable, I am drawn to this human being. What is curious about this event is how not my blood burns but something yet deeper than that, it tingles beneath all forms of carnal sensory to the point of some sort of minor spiritual attraction with all the sensuality attached to it. I observe, become observed, we recognize our souls and at once we know who we are, we don’t introduce ourselves, we talk as if our conversation had been merely cut off yesterday or an hour ago. I see through and at once I am at ease. The sun sets down, the shops close, and the last customer leaves and time goes by, we remain, star spangled in the circle of life.

He liked hiding behind it.

It gave him a comfort of sorts, an insurance in the event something backfired. Every now and then he would lurch from behind it and peek through its crevices. You’d have to be really astute to pick it up or really fond of him to understand his curios ways. I know he really didn’t meant it at all but there it was, said and done. However, this time it was directed towards another person, I nearly gave a grin away. I looked on while the other person picked on it, buying the whole argument. “I hate you”. You know he never really meant such things, cause he wasn’t capable of it. Unable to feel those things, he resorted to words and a little theatrics. He just pulled enough weight to pull it off for the real thing. I looked on, but I knew that more and more those very drama episodes were wasting his energies. Now a days it costed him more and more to pretend, fake anger that wasn’t there. So I loved the crevices he now and then gave to placate the argument, “well, you know, you could to a degree have a point there …” Had it been I, I would have jumped and allow for a comprimise, yet the argument went on well into the night. I dozed off. By the next morning, there were there, hugging each other. I stared while the morning sun slipped a few rays through the living room window, I wondered who had given in first.

It was one of those decisions that would later, almost surely, nagg him all night and he took it.

He had made many decisions before but this one struck a deep chord. He just couldn’t figure it out. Why in all the world this peculiar yet simple act could have so many repercussions. He went home to await the dreaded guilt overcome his senses. He stood there almost impatient. The look in his eyes betraying his state of mind. It came at 12:45, just before the news came on, and then he regretted it and felt better afterwards. It was a nightly ritual that had now come to dominate his afternoons. He nearly got an inkling that maybe, just possibly, this issue was way getting out of proportions. The guilt used to last longer he thought. Other people have more serious problems than my little burden; that he even gave a rational twist to his issue was a new development to the eccentric behaviour that he came to perform every tuesday. He didn’t give it a second thought. No guilt, no problems.

He liked hiding behind it. It gave him a comfort of sorts, an insurance in the event something backfired. Every now and then he would lurch from behind it and peek through its crevices. You’d have to be really astute to pick it up or really fond of him to understand his curios ways. I know he really didn’t meant it at all but there it was, said and done, however this time directed towards another person, I nearly gave a grin away. I looked on while the other person picked on it, buying the whole argument. “I hate you“. You know he never really ment such things, cause he wasn’t capable of it, unable to feel those things he resorted to words and a little theatrics he just pulled enough weight to pull it off for the real thing. I looked on, but I knew that more and more those very drama episodes were wasting his energies, now a days it costed him more and more to pretend, fake anger that wasn’t there. So I loved the crevices he now and then gave to placate the argument, “well, you know, you could to a degree have a point there …” Had it been I, I would have jumped and allow for a compromise, yet the argument went on well into the night, I dozed off. By the next morning, there were there, hugging each other, I stared while the morning sun slipped a few rays through the living room window, I wondered who had given in first….

It was one of those decisions that would later, almost surely, nagg him all night and he took it. He had made many decisions before but this one struck a deep chord, he just couldn’t figure it out yet why in all the world this peculiar yet simple act could have so many repercussions later. He went home to await the dreaded guilt overcome his senses, he stood there almost impatient, the look in his eyes betraying his state of mind. It came at 12:45, just before the news came on, and then he regretted it and felt better afterwards. It was a nightly ritual that had now come to dominate his afternoons, he nearly got an inkling that maybe, just possibly, this issue was way getting out of proportions. The guilt used to last longer he thought. Other people have more serious problems than my little burden; that he even gave a rational twist to his issue was a new development to the eccentric behavior that he came to perform every tuesday. He didn’t give it a second thought. No guilt, no problems.

The day after. It was horrible. He coulnd’t sleep. He tossed and tossed and tossed, the blankets had been itching him all fucking night. T’was his fault anyways, he stolen that freaking blanket from his last day at the army, way back when he did any motion at all. Now he sits there, in front of the TV and looks on seemingly forever. She devasted him. What was it about women? He wondered outloud, cause he really hadn’t either a social life at all either and his apartment was a stinking mess, a pigsty, hey, he was a guy, waddaya expect? He had been unemployed, surviving on welfare for the past 7 months. His previous employer fired him. He just couldn’t concentrate anymore, his thought on that woman that broke his heart, he became fixated, obsessed with her lucious body. She dumped him. Love dried out and he, he only wanted sex, sex, sex. Little wonder, he thought, they stopped going out and more and more the only reason he only wanted to see her was to make love. Love for him, sex for her. He hasn’t recuperated ever since. So he sits there, watching TV, doing the occassional errand to the store to get more beer, more food, and sundrys of that sort. I really don’t recall how we met, it must of have been there, at George’s Sundrys. All I remember of that day was his hedious appearence, unshaven and being a hot day you couldn’t reallt miss the axel’s nauseating stench, I remarked offended that I didn’r see any deoderant on his list. That’s when he caught my eye, I saw in his eyes the look of the brotherhood.

It was horrible. He couldn’t sleep. He tossed and tossed and tossed, the blankets had been itching him all fucking night. T’was his fault anyways, he stolen that freaking blanket from his last day at the army, way back when he did any motion at all. Now he sits there, in front of the TV and looks on seemingly forever.

She devastated him.

What was it about women? He wondered out loud, ’cause he really hadn’t either a social life at all either and his apartment was a stinking mess, a pigsty. Hey, he was a guy, waddaya expect? He had been unemployed, surviving on welfare for the past 7 months. His previous employer fired him. He just couldn’t concentrate anymore, his thought on that woman that broke his heart. He became fixated, obsessed with her lucious body. She dumped him. Love dried out and he, he only wanted sex, sex, sex. Little wonder, he thought, they stopped going out and more and more the only reason he only wanted to see her was to make love. Love for him, sex for her. He hasn’t recuperated ever since. So he sits there, watching TV, doing the occasional errand to the store to get more beer, more food, and sundrys of that sort. I really don’t recall how we met. It must of have been there, at George’s Sundrys. All I remember of that day was his hedious appearance, unshaven and being a hot day you couldn’t really miss the armpit nauseating stench. I remarked offended that I didn’t see any deodorant on his list.

That’s when he caught my eye, I saw in his eyes the look of the brotherhood.