Bohemian Life, without rhythm

A dash of salt. A lick of the tongue. Wet. Damp. Craving taste. La vie boheme.

Lime in the coconut. Afternoon margaritas. Shots all around. A concoction from a Simpsons glass. La vie boheme.

I’ve got another hour and twenty minutes to lose myself again. And here I am at a bar called Limericks. It’s past midnight, the night is young, and the girl next to me wreak of too much perfume. Something all guys seem to hate. Her head hangs to the side like an eye socket punched out, lopping and bouncing. But this isn’t cartoon. It’s a girl I know. She has a 7-year-old son who she couldn’t pick up from school because her asshole manager decided not to cut her from the important functions of hosting. Pissed drunk. Another Thursday of yet another week.

La vie boheme.

The Halloween lights are still up. Spiders and cobwebs hang from the ceiling. The bartender still wears a pirate’s hook and an eye patch. He greets you with a smile, and a bellowing “Har!”

But outside, the scent of Christmas is intoxicating, even more so than the five shots of straight vodka that Mark guzzled. A pothead who no longer knows what he wants. Not like he ever did. But at least then, he was still motivated. Now, he’s just a jerk who goes through dime bag after dime bag from Mr. Softee.

La vie boheme.

Mike, the bartender, hands Phillip another beer. But Phil doesn’t drink, and Mike ends up giving him a glass of water. Someone tells a joke. Phil laughs. The joke has something to do with financial aid. Phil tells everyone how credit card debts screwed him over. He wants to pay off his debts, but to get consolidated he needs to be five thousand dollars more in the gutter. Kicked to the curb. With a newfound independence, Phil is making it on his own. Phil was only twenty-three at the time. Now, a year older, he’s still about five thousand dollars and rent in debt. He survives.

La vie boheme.

I gently stroke Michelle’s hair. Despite the amount of liquor she has consumed, the girl still has an angelic face. I wish my girlfriend were here. Sighs. I look over to the bar. Tears cascade down from Rhonda’s face. It was then that the rain decided to come. Maybe God felt her pain. Or maybe He just wanted to cry.

La vie boheme.

Rhonda only watched as the man she claimed she loved walked out the door. Perhaps he didn’t feel the same way. But she hangs on for the longest time, until maybe he realizes that he does love her. But watching him leave with only a martini to keep her company, she might have felt alone.

La vie boheme.

It hasn’t been an hour. It hasn’t even been twenty minutes. And I longed to go home. Home isn’t a place with borrowed furniture or other people’s junk. Whoever said home is where the heart is must have felt what I was feeling. I wanted to take that hour subway ride to go home.

Just another night at the bar after a long day at work. Another round of gin and tonic. Heineken and Guinness. Another dash. Another shot. A reminder of what we all seem to want to escape and run from. I remember a night of many nights.

La vie boheme.

Death and Oceans

Every morning I want to wake up with unsurpassed energy and motivation, so I almost run outside to greet the sun and embrace the ocean breeze. But I don’t. Instead, I wake up with this unbearable pain. It starts from my lower back and now has climbed to my shoulders. I begin to open my eyes. Oh good. I can still see. I sit up on the bed, slowly heaving myself forward. I can see my reflection on the antique mirror I purchased from a yard sale seven years ago, when taking the bus downtown wasn’t yet a struggle. I look at myself in the mirror. My face remains seasoned, just how I like to marinade the meat, waiting for its destined place in my oven, just how I have no choice but to wait for my destined place behind St. Alban’s Church, lot J14, next to my husband. But it was too bad that the crisscrossing lines across my forehead or the skin sagging under my upper arms and thighs refuse to keep up with my spirit. I fear that my body is near surrendering and my spirit will die as well.

I have a love-hate relationship with mirrors. While looking from one angle, I take pride in enduring so many experiences, in attempting to live life to its fullest at 84. But then there are days when another angle only shows me the gray hair and the fragile body that can easily stumble and fall like the tumbling leaves, sensing the arrival of the rain. At any moment, I feel myself being whisked away by the strong gust. But I keep my feet firmly on the ground. My shoulders, shaped like an elephant’s trunk, serve as walls that would secure my balance. But the pain does not subside. I wiggle my toes. Good. They still know I’m in command. Any physical activity hurts, but I managed to get dressed, somehow, every morning. Now my day can begin. I never like to worry about tomorrows. I never know what to expect of tomorrows. At 84, I can only live life by the second. I don’t count the minutes anymore. After all, I can’t live forever.

Death and the ocean are my greatest adversaries. Both serve as point of reference, of direction. The ocean always remains visible. Death, on the other hand, likes its ominous presence, its foreboding ambience. It keeps me in suspense. I fear it every time I get up to take a walk. Just one fall, one collision and I would be restricted to the bed, only to be accompanied by sunflower sheets and matching bumblebee pillows. Nothing scares me more than to lose my sense of mobility, to be able to have that control even if that control is nothing but an illusion for me. I like to believe I will always have that power, but then again, I always thought I would be young forever.

It becomes another fact of life that youth does not last. And so are children, especially daughters. There will be a time in a mother’s life when she has to learn to let go, when she has to realize that her child has grown up, from the daughter who asked me about the moon and stars to the daughter who married a man out of security. It is a fact of life to be hurt by daughters, no matter how good she is. When that daughter decides to try out her wings and fly without me, realizing that she no longer needs me, the pain is hard to ignore. But in time, it subsides. By then I realize I speak from the voice of a mother. So if all I have in this world is Maria, then all I have is pain. And pain I can live with. Feeling pain means there is still life in me, even if I'm hanging on by a thread.

Colorful Soul

We sit in diners, drink our sodas, one with ice and the other without, and smoke our cigarettes. These are memories I hope never to forget. There are so many things we need to experience, she says. She says this a lot.

She says it in when her lips aren’t moving. She says it when she smiles and laughs.

To experience everything at least once, to moderation of course, becomes her purpose. She defines one of my many characters. When I look at her, I see a part of me. She possesses a certain gleam of craziness that I wish I had, a hint of confidence, and an amazing insight when it comes to the realities of life. She wears a face true to the colors of her soul, and when she needs to pretend, she does it with such finesse, it almost seems real. Many times, this girl I have come to call a “friend” is nothing but difficult. She knows how difficult she can be. Now it’s my turn to laugh. We both know the truth. Ah yes, mais oui, it is the truth about ourselves. It’s why I have come to love her, one thing in this world that I find hard to give up. Love. You choose your friends. I chose her not because she tells me how special I am but because she means what she says. My friend is no picnic. She’s weird and she’s a pain. One word comes to mind when I think of her. Bitch.

But don’t get the wrong impression, the wrong image. The word offers many concepts. I, for one, know that one aspect of a bitch is her unfalsified ardor to attack the most challenging of challenges. She is that. Without fear and reservations, she lets you know what has her mind riled up. She gets this conniving smile on her face, determined to bring you out of the hole you continue to hibernate in. What I love most about this girl is her talent to whisk you away into her world. In her world, who knows what can happen? No boundaries. No limits. No fears. I remember the times when the world only revolved around us. I like to think that what people think about me doesn’t matter, but it becomes so much easier when she’s there. When the bitterness surfaces, we conquer it together. And when reality decides to steal us away again, the boundaries, the limits, and the fears are faced together. Without a doubt, she can slap you back into reality. With her, you would want to retreat into reality’s arms, not in tears of surrender but in tears of happiness that someone will always be there for you.

Because she believes in me, and it’s a wonderful feeling when someone truly does. Keep that fire burning within you, that light. Whatever happens, never lose that light. Her words not only reflect me, but it reflects the whole of her. Though she directs it toward me, she speaks of herself. There is so much strength in her that I refuse to believe she could ever lose that light. She couldn’t possibly lose it. Where would that leave me if she does? Certainly not in the cold breath of darkness nor the bitter caresses of the wind. No, I wouldn’t let her. Not ever.

Look at yourself in the mirror. What do you see? Don’t lie. Look into those eyes. What does your heart tell you? I look at her. I continue to look at her through the lens of a camera. What do I see? I see many faces. I even hear many voices. I love photographing her because she has this distinct candor you can sense in her eyes. But she’s not. You look at her and you think you see someone soft and tender. She can be soft and tender, but with an attitude and a will you couldn’t break. She’s almost like one of the rap songs she likes so much. I listen to the music and I recognize harshness, but read between the lines. Know the words. It tells you the gist of it. Randomly, you ask her about something, the why, the how, the who, or any question in your mind. I could ask her, “How can you trust him like that?”

I can only imagine what she’d say. I love this one the best. Very carefully. Her sarcasm illuminates the entire room. I love it. Sometimes you just want to hit her and cut that javelin of a tongue, but other times, you just sit back and admire her. She would have you believe that she’s no one special. To you, she may not be. To me, she is. She asks me, What are you thinking about? I often ask her the same thing. I wrote a poem and dedicated it to her. To her and her loved one. I refuse to mention any names. Emotions are fickle, always changing with the tides, and though I have faith for him and her, I give her my blessings to those “loved” ones she hasn’t yet encountered or even if they exist. I like the one who loves her now and I can only wish her happiness. She accepts him with and without comprehension. Yes, I think my friend is in love.

Once in awhile, she unravels herself to me. She allows me to push down that shutter and take her picture. No hesitation. No resistance. The camera loves her, the difficult woman that she is. My bitch of a friend.

“There are so many things we need to experience,” the bitch says.

Experience a bitch for a friend. Then you’ll not only have the experience, but the knowledge. You’ll then know that what makes a friend reflects your character. You can choose your friends, but remember that there’s more to a face than meets the eye. There’s so much more to words and gestures. Give it a chance. Even for a moment, even if it doesn't last. Even if, in the end, the friendship dies. It only takes a few to touch someone. If not for you, then for them. Experience the whole of her. Or him. I did.

Her Secret Charm: a Child of Grace

I know of a secret that continues to spiral down from a distant world,

a secret that will bring both a smile and tears to a face

It is the unexpected truth coming from a mother’s child,

--no longer simply a child of grace--

but a woman with a secret.

I know of a truth that embraces two worlds;

a world outside the womb and the world of the unborn.

A truth is a blessing in disguise,

Though sudden in its arrival,

A surprise to many lies,

To many unknowing faces

--this will become her oasis.

I know of a truth that represents the youth and the bliss,

a truth seemingly wrong yet right,

a truth perhaps only wrong in time but not in place

I know of a truth from this child of grace

It is a secret told by a child.

the unidentified debris of passion.

It is a secret told by a daughter of the Pearl.

In culture and tradition.

An unborn secret of despairing doom

Is it truth coming from your womb?

There is a light within us all, but a distinct sadness once the moment passes us by. Without this rhythm of life—both harboring chaos and harmony—where and what would we be? Each memory that sustains us, is this the destiny of our inner being? Where would we be without each other? Where would we be without the hope, the love, and the faith that each of us struggles to live and abide by? Dare I ask about the seed of hatred, the shadow of doubt and scorn, the bitter reality that seizes us because of the burden brought on by greed and lies—the sins of our fathers and mothers, our brothers and sisters, even our children? What of our fate? This is what makes us stronger, binding us like the current running through the still waters, suddenly raging against that “dying of the light.” Against the temperamental hurricanes of the West and the typhoons of the East, across continents and oceans divide, these tragedies bring us closer together, because of a human connection that defines suffering and grief. But it is just another moment that bids farewell, far into its travels and up along the path of the inevitably unforeseen. A beating of the heart. Truth or lie? But a light in every minute, every second. One breath. Inhale. Exhale. A baby’s cry. A mourner’s tears. Life and death—the yin and yang of inevitability. Take courage and seize it. With arms wide open. Eyes discovering the unexplored. Ears listening to the cries of the unheard. Beyond time and space, beyond what words can reflect, lies a moment. Simply a moment.

Demons in the Dark

Demons in the Dark: An Alcoholic’s Tale

She began to read the first few lines.

I didn't suddenly wake up one morning and realize that I was an alcoholic, that's not the way it works. Sure it does, she thought. Except with her, it was every morning, with the same exact thoughts lurking in her head. She would look to the man sleeping next to her, by her side, supposedly through sickness and health, and thought, He’s going to kill me one day.

There were many times when she could have been just another statistic, another bloated, yellow corpse in the morgue. She was living with an abusive alcoholic spouse who threatened her physical safety and her emotional well-being. But she didn’t know how to get out. She wasn’t strong enough. She had read somewhere that domestic violence causes approximately 2,500 deaths every year in America. She was supposed to take photos of any evidence of physical violence, preserve copies of police reports, emergency room records, any signs of his abuse and addiction, and even a diary detailing the abusiveness and threats he had made towards her.

But it wasn't that easy. It would mean that she had failed. Failure wasn't an easy concept for her to grasp. She didn't want the idea to unravel slowly. If she stayed, it meant she would be fighting for them, fighting for something that they had declared true in front of family and friends and loved ones one afternoon. She couldn't just submit herself to surrender, could she? It just wasn't right. She closed her eyes. But neither were the bruises on her neck and the cut on her lip and the threat on her life she replayed over and over again.

You fucking bitch, I'm going to kill you.

Since when did she become this person? She couldn't understand how she had become a victim. Each year, there are hundreds of women who are being victimized...She had become a statistic. It was so cold. Victim. She was stronger than that. She was in the drama club in high school. She played tennis. The guys thought she was cute and funny. But not victim, never that.

You fucking cunt, you think you can get away from me. I'm going to kill you.

He was so serious--the tone of his voice. There was such calm about it that she knew, if given the chance, he would kill her. It didn't matter how many good times they had. It didn't matter how many times they tried to resolve the problem. There was a demon involved, and she had to get out. She wasn't going to be another dead statistic on a coroner's lab table. Somehow, she had to find the strength before it was too late.

Phoenix

Unfinished. There must be a closure for everything. Women like to have a sense of resolution. It’s a necessity so they can finally move on, to proceed onto the next level. If closure isn’t achieved, then women tend to dwell and the pain hurts more than ever. But not all women are like that. There are those who can conquer their fears and defeat the excruciating pain that comes with life and love. With great strength and determination, the woman focuses on her goal a step at a time. In the end, you can just sit back and learn from her. You can only hope her strength is contagious. With a little smile or a little cough, maybe you can catch her strength. You smile at the thought. Just maybe.

You can see the pain in those blue eyes, her longing. You sit with her on the curb outside Bowl America. You watch the smoke from the Marlboro Lights swirl around her and make tiny halos on her hair, that redhead mane glistening as the sun sets. She seems hardened. By what, you wonder? Then she smiles. You realize you will never get to know the full of her nor could you ever truly understand her. Maybe you’ll comprehend parts of her, the part who seeks independence, the part who wants craziness, or the part that became your good friend. Like with all individuals who go through many experiences, similar or separate, you can only accept and sympathize. You can only nod and listen, maybe slightly understand. For her, she seeks for answers. She hopes to find solace and maybe even a bit of hope or faith. Everyone wants that, but it isn’t always possible. Circumstances arise that simply cannot be helped. Unresolved. Unfinished. Forever searching.

You must admit that sometimes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells around her. She doesn’t make things complicated. She’s simple really, and yet so intricate and complex. It’s a contradiction, but that’s what makes her so strong. You wish you weren’t so helpless. You wish you could make her smile or laugh or promise her that things would work for once. But these promises are going to be broken.

You both want the same thing. You’ve always wanted a picture perfect family. You become jealous when you see one of your friends living your fantasy. He even has the dog and the white picket fences. You are happy for him, but at the same time, you can’t help but wonder and envy. For her, you wish she didn’t have to experience what it was like to be in the middle. But in a way, it was what made her a stronger person. A survivor, a fighter. She builds this wall around her, so high and hard to climb. She’s a challenge, this friend. She shares with you what it’s like to be a child of divorce. You can only imagine what that feels like. Growing up, you feared for the separation of your parents. But you know that no one could see the fear by just looking at you or even knowing you. You hide it so well. You made sure you wore the right mask for the occasion, especially for you. For her, you’ve seen her take the mask off and she becomes streaked with tears. You love this girl because she reminds you of yourself. She’s a lot stronger than she realizes, and because of that, you are confident she will find whatever she’s searching for. She will resolve whatever is unfinished.

She’s had it rough. Do you know what it’s like to be in the middle? You listen to her tell you about wanting so much more. It’s no longer a set of family with a father, a mother, and their children. It’s more than that now. She now has a stepmom, a stepfather, a stepbrother, and a stepsister. And it all began when she was about four or five. Her memory should fail her, but she remembers it well when they walked out of each other's lives. It felt so wrong that it was right. No two people should have to subject any child to all the fighting, the yelling, the screaming, the pain, and the anger. Otherwise, she would grow up to be furious and insecure. She would grow up doubting love and life and anything good. She asks you how a person can fall in and out of love so easily. You don’t know. How can you answer that when one day that could be your fate? It’s not easy to explain the whys and the hows. It’s not easy to try and make someone understand, especially a child. The child grows up jaded. All you can hope for is that the child grows up to be a woman who finds faith and hope and strength. You can only hope for that much.

You look at her. She didn’t have the same experience that you did, but she wants what you want. She wants to fall in love. She wants to have a family that she never had, a family she could be proud of and finally belong. Do you see this when you look into her eyes? No, you couldn’t. But somehow you know. You just know because you want the same thing. Different and separate, it all comes down to wanting what you never had and making peace to what put the tears in your eyes and the sadness and bitterness in your heart. True, it might have made you a stronger person. It certainly gave her the strength you know was always in her, wanting to break free.

Two Faces

An adulterated truth resonates with her
This girl drowning in sweet demure
Unseen before this uncloaked innocence
A doppelganger conjured in her absence

Who do you see yourself today?
A tainted old shrew in foul decay?
Are you a cunt, a tease, a whore?
This forsaken temptress washed ashore.

Who do you pretend to be tomorrow?
A deserted damsel drowning in sorrow?
Is your soul seeking sanctuary in God’s embrace?
A mirrored allure condemned without a face?

Who do you run from your wretched past?
Ghosts shackled and fettered in shadows they cast ?
Are you an ally in my poker game?
Or a rival just looking for someone to blame?

A striking resemblance to the girl I once knew
Simple and unsung her song was true
Now stranded on the Independence highway
Identity uncertain, mystified and in fray

Who do you wish to astound and unfoil?
Misplaced conformity in a cohort of turmoil?
Are you a cynic, a critic, a crackhead?
Are you this girl claiming impurities in bed?

Who do you aspire to be today?
Neruda's disciple adrift and astray?
Are you a rat in the race, a poser in disguise?
Are you this girl screaming her unheard cries?

Who do you see looking back at you?
A sham, a faker, a mockery of two?
Nothing but red rose lipstick tainted and smeared
A girl trapped in a life she once feared.

Falling in Love with a Nobody

It’s not everyday that I fall in love, that the girl I sat with during lunch in high school, the girl with the thick glasses and the awful braces, would one day hold my hand as I puke all the contents of my insides. It’s not everyday that I fall in love with a homely girl who transformed into this exotic beauty. It’s not everyday that as I lie here just waiting to die, the love of my life of fifteen years is out at a hotel room on 5^th Avenue fucking some rich asshole, but at roughly 4:20 p.m. today after she would have satisfied this asshole, she would take the cash, and leave discreetly to be with me. I don’t seem to mind the dead presidents. In fact, we are on a first name basis. Thomas, Abe, and George. We all have something in common.

I know her real name. I know she’s a small town girl who wanted to make it big here in the city. How can I not know her? We went to raves and clubs together, even underground fetish parties. We tried to discover who we were and what our place was in this world by pretending to be other people, even people who didn’t know each other. We flirted from afar and acted surprised by each other’s presence, even with the black leather, the corset, and the fetishist whip.

So I have to repeat myself. It’s not everyday that I fall in love. It’s not everyday that I find my soul mate at the age of twelve. So while Samar is fucking every rich man or woman in Wall Street, at the end of the day, I remember that she comes home to me. That at the very end of the day, she comes home to fuck me, not some rich bastard whose fucking dick up my girl’s pussy some afternoon last week could only last for no more than five minutes.

At the end of it all, and at this very moment, especially this moment, I have to remember that Samar loves me, this small town girl from a town nobody cares to know.

Mulled Claret

Ingredients:

Dirk, paintbrush, acrylic, empty canvas, spray paint, basic art supplies, black journal, pen, inspiration, muse, and imagination, mind, heart, and soul

With some of the many ingredients to his character, Dirk parallels the essence of “mulled claret.” Or so he reminds me of mulled claret. Having two definitions, I look toward the second definition of mull: to ponder (over). Claret refers to red or white wine heated with various citrus fruits and spices. Sweetened by sugar and enriched by the spirit of brandy, a liquor distilled from wine and other fermented fruit juice, mulled claret takes form. Dirk is a mulled claret in its abstract definition. He ponders what is presented before him and takes it to a higher level. In exploring the essence of wine, Dirk transforms into an artist who takes painstaking measures to create. As wine is also meticulously made through the processes of harvesting, crushing, pressing, fermentation, maturing, and finishing, Dirk abides by the same creed.

Comparisons and parallels--fucking botheration. Artists tend to escape into a world untouched and untold. Bullshit. Artists live in a world of adaptation, imagination, and determination—the world of illusions and imitations, dreams and desires, frailties and absurdities. Of sane and insane, of beginnings and ends, of imitation and, but most especially, of creation and then destruction, whichever surfaces first.

Again, botheration. I must not succumb to that. The subject: Dirk—the ingredients of such a character. What makes him an oddity? Does he have an element of peculiarity? Is it because he’s an artist? What makes an artist? Is it because he can draw what he sees or is it because he truly sees what he draws? Or perhaps it’s what he doesn’t see? Is it to be blind among strangers overwhelmed with judgments? What is it to lose sight when you’re an artist? Does he lose his senses or does he lose his sense of faith? To lose faith, I know, is a great loss, but to gain it back is altogether something else. You can label me an artist because you think I may possess the image of one, but there are many images. I can qualify for an artist simply because I can paint in black and white and shades of grey the ambience of the skies. It is what I see. Yet strangely enough, I can also illustrate what I don’t see, like the blind amongst the company with and without sight, with and without insight. I can paint you a picture of love simply by the holding of hands. I can paint you a picture of self-prophecies through abstract art. Dirk can take you into his world as well as I can. I don’t live in his certain realm of abstraction. I don’t have tattoos on my body nor is my tongue pierced. We live in two different worlds, but we have one common thread that runs deep, infiltrating the veins of our blood and through the divinity of our souls. We are both in love and impassioned. We may or may not be labeled as artists, but the title is trivial. We know when we open our eyes and see. We see with the passion of our hearts, our minds, and our spirits. Being an artist doesn’t only mean you can draw, sing, or write. It’s not about having an image. Art gives me this feeling I can only pray won’t abandon me. I’m certain Dirk feels the same way. Art becomes our refuge. One thing I do know: with every breath, art gives meaning to life, and with every brush stroke, verse, or word, art gives meaning to my life.

He is one of the many different images of an artist. I am another. Dirk portrays many images of himself. Today, he reveals an enigmatic writer. I watch him write furiously into his black journal. What thoughts? I do not know. Then he looks up, and lights a cigarette. He hands me his journal. Already, I know I have intruded. I cannot disown this feeling of intrusion despite his permission. I begin to trespass into an unknown territory, his random and innermost thoughts, but it was like opening a present, uncovering the mystery, or sharing a secret. I realize I am in the company of an artist, damned or blessed—however fashion you perceive it—to fulfill one of many goals. Creation.

Forgive me once more. Expect it no longer. Botheration. Dirk writes of blindness. He unravels parts of himself. I feel compelled to put the pieces of the puzzle together, but I am reluctant to do so. I refuse to “figure him out” and even if I could, it would be disrespectful. I read the words he had written. Then I ask him, “You believe this?” He nods.

I keep reading. He kissed me on the shoulder. “If I could do it over, I wouldn’t even go near this.” His cigarette. He smiled and nuzzled my neck.

“Is it difficult? I think it’s all about the power of control, a matter of will and determination—two powerful ingredients.”

A smile. “It’s not about control. You don’t have control over anything. You think you do, but you don’t.”

I disagree. Of course I have control. I have a say in matters, especially when it’s my life. What I say and do matter. Of course I have control.

Again, his smile. A part of me is convinced that I am in control. But that smile. I ponder the question. Do I really have control?

Now I’m not so sure. I’m just like him: mulling over the questions that need to be answered, but only reaching more uncertainties and indefinite tendencies. Artists like to think highly of themselves, with a kind arrogance hidden behind masks of modesty and artificial gratefulness. Why not display great pride, passion, and love for something you bring to existence? For this reason alone, artists become a separate race. They are forgiven and pardoned more than anybody. They unleash their energy, push their limits, and experience a world—a life—without boundaries. And why not? Why not smile when they know they’ve conquered and remain undefeated? Why the hell not? Dirk does. He enters the world of art in love and impassioned, with that smile and those eyes, no matter the consequences, no matter the irresponsibility involved. Who wouldn’t forgive and pardon him?

He’s an artist.

"Let's fuck," he proposed, pulling me under him.

A smile.

Hell, of course he is.

Kiss of Rose

Fetish of a Goddess

So she was a woman who had interesting hobbies. Who didn't have any hobbies? Not that it mattered because she spent most of her time hiding away from the world, except when she had to of course. She learned when to balance and allow the men in her life to enter with a guest pass. None of them ever stayed long enough to realize she was actually a very sweet girl. They never wanted to pursue anything longer, but then again neither did she. She wasn't sure if it was because she wasn't ready, but it fit her lifestyle perfectly. She was a loner. Alone in her own world of interesting hobbies.

She took the phallic toy out of the glass case that served as a shrine in her interests. She walked towards the bedroom, and closed the door behind her. She heard him call out her name. His hands were strapped to her bedposts. She had restrained him with steel shackles, one of her favorites from her private collection. He kept calling her name. She enjoyed the suspense. Slowly, she made her way closer to the foot of the bed. She then dropped the toy on the bed. As she listened to him summon her along, she began to unbutton her shirt. She couldn't help but smile. She was completely naked except for the slave spiked collar on her neck and the black latex gloves. But he was blindfolded.

"Are you ready?" she teased him. Before climbing onto the bed, she took the cloth dampened with gasoline. She then positioned herself right in between his legs.

"Who do you want me to be today?" she whispered as she took the cloth and caressed his body with it.

He moaned.

Not Jessica, she thought. No one really wanted her to be who she was. And who was she really? She probably didn't even know herself. And as far as he was concerned, she was a fulfillment of his fantasy--a fetish goddess who was ready to ravage him.

No, she thought. Not Jessica. "I can be whoever you want me to be."

A Spell of Euphoria

It's only been 22 minutes, now 23. Tick tock. Time and her treacherous mockery. It was a common scenario, feeling on edge, with the tapping fingers, occasionally getting up to pace back and forth the tiny flat. The beating of the heart was almost like a waltz, slow drumming and almost sensual, attempting to move in cadence.

Euphoria was a bitch to have a love affair with. She'd come strolling into the night, crash the party, and leave in the morning, with only the grappling effects of trying to recall the episodes from the past nights. Of course there were vows to stop her, to end what initially was meant for a casual hook up. But now she was constantly all over the place; an enigma welcomed in between the sheets. The rational mind always gave signals, but she was able to override the warnings.

And so, despite the heartfelt efforts of luring her away for good, that feeling, that yearning became even more overpowering. Again and again. She was the lover who knew exactly how to take control. She was addiction beyond the imaginable. Compulsive and raw.

When they first met, Euphoria fell in love with the loneliness and the charm. She didn't mean to imprison a user. It all began as an occasional guilty pleasure, voluntary and controlled. They would meet late in the night, sometimes with a friend or two, and they would simply let go of the world surrounding them--all the angst, the anxiety, and the anger.

Letting go was as simple as that. It was about the moment, focusing only on the now. For a couple of hours, it was about a momentary happiness. It was a bitch when morning would come and to realize that Euphoria had left, perhaps with a kiss goodnight to serve as a reminder for whenever their next casual encounter would take place.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Another 7 minutes had passed. The water from the kitchen faucet maintained a steady rhythm. It almost sounded like soldiers preparing for battle. They were getting ready to locate their target, keep their line of sight, and aim. 9 minutes. Paranoia sunk in. Death seemed imminent.

"Let's go! We have to go now!" Eyes blinked, dazed and confused. Finally, a clearing. The fog had let up. Eyes now focused, heartbeat stabilized.

It was just another Friday night in the city that never sleeps.

A Whore Breaks A Heart

Death is a bitter whore that steals away into the shadows of the night
Injected into the depths of her blackened soul remains the turmoil of my blood
Into the streets she plays a melancholy symphony
Is this a mockery giving birth to vengeance?

Death is the mother of all cunts that suffers from a night’s seduction
Wanting, craving, yearning in close proximities with whiskey and bourbon
Slayed by the knight and at the mercy of the Heart
Death befalls us.

But he's still alive, breathing. Just like the walking dead. The overpowering scent of the vodka teases his nose. His body feels tingly from last night; a soiree of illegal delicacies brought on by the embrace of depression. He feels broken, not quite prepared to tackle the day ahead.

But it wasn't even like this the week before, the time when it all began. He was sure he loved her. He might even still love her, but what do you do when you're just not certain of anything any more. When it seems like she has changed and you have changed, and the world remains the same, do you sever the ties or do you keep walking, dead but breathing?

When he didn't see her for a week, he felt invigorated. He felt something new across the horizon. He went out with friends, went to a nightclub and danced away while pissed drunk from a farewell party earlier in the night. He even met a girl, not the love of his life, maybe not even for sex, but he was beginning to move on. Sure at the back of his head, he had hoped that one day maybe they are destined to be, but at that moment, he was ready to try something else, someone else. That is how he was supposed to move on, wasn't it? To get fucked and screwed over, in the most literal sense. Clearly, he had been out of the dating scene for awhile. He wasn't sure how the game was played, what signals were given and what they meant.

"I had a great night tonight," she whispered with a teasing smile. "I'm really not looking for anything serious right now, but I like you."

So was he just a fuck buddy? Or the fact that she did like him meant that maybe at one point in the future they may have something serious? He wasn't even into her. And like before, he was always comparing and doubting. Now it almost feels like he made a terrible mistake.

What if he never finds anyone else? What if she moves on completely without him? What if he had made a mistake? What if they were really meant to be together? But what if they're not? What if he only cares for her because she cares or because she was interested in someone else? Is this even love? She's beautiful. But jealousy has reared its ugly head. They used to fight all the time. All I hear is her complaining. Am I not good enough for her? All I see is the past. All I feel is jealousy and sometimes even rage. Do I trust her? Do I believe her with her truths or half-truths? Do I believe in her? Do I even believe in us?

Always comparing. They tell me to move on. I wish there was a manual for that. But I found something even better. Google agrees with me. With the number of forums, blogs, and articles, I can move on from a long-term relationship in 30 days. Hell, a week might even do it. That's really it, isn't it? It's not that I cannot move on. It's that a part of me will always wonder if it's the right choice or if I'm just giving up--on her, on him, on this damn relationship that was supposed to last forever. It was strange to think that someone who was a part of my life for a number of years can seemingly be dead to me. All because we let it run its course, and now it's only arid and if we keep letting it waste, the decay will start to smell. But they both had their faults--they were both impatient and immature, jealous creatures that didn't think practically or analyzed the details of their eventful lives. They were both headstrong and jumped into things far too quickly--too fast and too soon. A quicksand slowly burying them deeper and deeper. When it came to each other, it was impossible to think lucidly. Most of their decisions were based on instinct and emotion. They thrived on living life to the fullest and making it count when it mattered. People would talk and have their own bullshit opinions, but they didn't care. When they hurt each other, the pain was excruciating. When they loved, they love passionately. It didn't matter if it was wrong, as long as it felt right. And the jealousy was insane, gripping him and churning his insides. He couldn't let go of that feeling to punch someone out, for just looking at her or her for initiating something with him. It was in her nature, explosive and flirtatious, especially when Jack and Coke kept her company.

There was a good time when he didn't want to leave her side ever. He wanted to see her, hear her voice before he went to sleep, listen to her talk, hear her thoughts, and feel her pain. He was in love with her. And she loved him too. Did everything else matter? Destructive and unhealthy--should it really have any bearing? And now she's gone and all the love songs are aimed at him. Suddenly, couples are walking the streets to remind him of what he surrendered, mocking him of what he is afraid he can never once again have. He sighed. Was there truth to that, he asked aloud, a part of him hoping for an answer.

Someone once told him it was an injustice for allowing death to drain him of love and life. It takes one day at a time and in 30 days, the probability is great that he might have slept with a dozen girls, broken a couple of hearts, abandoned himself in drunken stupor, or perhaps simply resorted to being a hermit with a heavy heart.

Death has befallen. At least for now, if I am to move on, she cannot exist in my world. That world we once shared--just another memory, slowly fading. At hindsight, what he has not yet realized is that somewhere out there, some afternoon in this mad city of New York in the middle of summer maybe, he runs into that girl at the coffee shop and evokes a smile.

Another shot of vodka. His heart beats to a song. He smiles. He might live.

A Perfect Drug

Dependence. The state of relying on or being controlled by someone or something else.

There are many examples of addiction, but we can all agree or disagree that love is the most debilitating of them all. At varying degrees in my life, I have, undoubtedly, experienced unwavering flood of attraction and lust, fleeting moments of contentment, test of loyalty, and the color palette of grief. But at the core of it all, no matter what emotion is shared, what experiences might marry us to each other, there will always be that inexplicable need for human connection, even if it means none at all.

Dependence or co-dependence. I can't help the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think I'm in love. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't function. All I think about is you. All I see is you. I see you in my dreams. I hear you in my thoughts. You define my life, give it meaning, and now I want to wake up in the morning and make it to nightfall, to watch the moon and stars by your side. You are my drug--my ecstasy with a fervent touch, my adrenaline rush in an autumn afternoon, my overdose I pretend not to recognize. Against all odds, despite your venom, despite your overpowering sense of being. You are my perfect drug, against all raison d'etre.

It's the same song that you and I both sing once or twice a year, maybe even more. There is no use stopping the madness. Because even if I am "mad," does it really matter? Would I really just stop myself and think if this is right for me? This is why I have bruises on my arms, blood on my dress. Everyone sees me as helpless, powerless, and only under your control. You have a hold on me. You don't even have to lay a finger. All you have to do is smile, and instinctively, what I've developed as second nature, I obey. I tell everyone I love you. I tell you I love you. I tell myself I love you. It doesn't matter what they say. I've waited for you my entire life, from every face and form, and now that you're here, all I see is you.

She's every girl who wants love or affection, but finds it in addiction and dependence, and even in the game of manipulation. They coincide, sometimes co-existing to create one terrible truth. Some would consider it weak, and others might think it human nature.

She, on the other hand, thinks of the night of the moon and the stars that await her, not alone or in the unforgiving arms of loneliness, but with the drug that is you.

Introductions

Details. Life prefers not to function when details are awry, and in most cases, life resorts to dysfunction. And that’s why we’re here.

So let’s start with the basics. Let me introduce myself. Dwuendedeleria. It’s my code name, my alias, my secret label, and for those who do know me or even claim to know me, I was christened with a seemingly normal Catholic name, born in the Philippines, and emigrated to the United States at the age of 10. That’s as far as I’d like to go in terms of introductions. Besides, this isn’t about me. This is about the 365 faces of you.

My writing professors have always told me to write about what I know, and I cannot pretend that I know a lot of things. Because in reality, maybe I really know nothing at all, except the encounters that I’ve had, the people I’ve met, and the experiences I’ve shared. So in a way, this is a tribute to you.

Each day I will write about someone I know. Some days I may offer more voices. I might even give you a name. Others might even recognize you. Some faces will remain unnamed and lurking in the shadows, attempting to come out. Or I might just give you an alter ego, a character I pulled out of a magician’s hat. I might please you with what I write or perhaps even offend you. But know now that with me, nothing is ever personal. Take it to heart or take it with a grain of salt, as they say. You might even decide that what I write is complete and utter bull. Or you might find yourself pulled into a world of your own face, your own voice. You realize that you and Face 54 share a certain truth that you’ve grappled with since the age of eight. You like cock, but not only your own. Face 2 might share a lie with Face 11. They both really do not want to commit suicide. Face 24 is blissfully in love, and for all the right reasons.

Details. But remember this isn’t for you, and in some ways, it really isn’t for me either. At the end of the day, it’s more about this human connection that I feel drawn to like an investigator’s unsolved murder mystery to all the Salanders of the world. There are so many faces with so many stories to tell, without a voice, without some form of acknowledgement.

So here you are, maybe in the middle of the day or at 3AM, sharing my love affair with the darkened night. Read with sensitivity and scrutiny, with trust and respect, with curiosity brimming and brewing like a shrew’s delicate blend. Their stories are your own, alive and continuous, happy and sad, funny and satirical, ironic and surreal.

It’s all in the details.

365 faces of you.