Night Run

I saw you running across the parking lot. You didn't hear me at first. I thought you were ignoring me. My heart sunk and I felt hurt. Maybe you didn't see me? Hear me, or even remember me? It had been so long. I ran to catch up with you in the morning sun. I was surprised at your pace. I called again. You turned -- and the smile returned that I remembered -- the one that melted my heart.

You were hot and sweaty. Clearly you'd been running for some time. I didn't care. We embraced once more. We held tight and resumed a night flight. We ran, and we ran, and talked and talked; I can't remember what about.

I don't know how many miles we ran. Such pleasure was immeasurable, but each mile felt as good as the last, regardless of how many passed. The run lasted the night. I thought I had died and gone to heaven, but still the moment was against a back drop of melancholy. I knew where we'd begun and that this run would end and that I would never be yours -- my friend. And indeed, the run ended.

A tear flowed onto my pillow.

It was time to get up. For once, getting up was easy for I was away from an unreal world that lies and deceives. A world that raises hopes to be no more -- like the sea disappearing along a shore.

Later that day, I took to the hills. Like an old time cine movie, I replayed the dream over a five mile run. You were beside my side again. Only this time, no tears, just a fond memory flowed. "Miles" can be recaptured anywhere and anytime. An unreal world, but a creation of mine. An action replay of a love sublime forever captured until the end of my time.

Sharpen the Knife

Sharpen the knife to cut the atmosphere
      cut some slack for someone most dear

Sharpen the knife in case of attack
      before a blade finds your back

Sharpen the knife as sharp as your tongue
     quick come-backs are so much fun

Sharpen the knife for a slice of pie
      before it catches another one's eye

Sharpen the knife and carve a good life
     a slice of variety will save much strife

Sharpen the knife to slay cutting remarks
      and leave them standing in the dark

Sharpen the knife for a quick clean cut
      because blunt knives hurt like fuck

Oh No, You Don't!

[This is an original piece that I wrote for Allvoices.com illustrating the different decision making processes and the battles of the Id, ego and superego.Original Article - November 5, 2010 

The infamous boots

Oh yes you do! And so the fight between the Id and the Superego continues. Your battle of so-called inner voices in very urgent irrational decision making processes are what Sigmund Fraud, I mean Freud (Freudian slip intended) called our stages of sexual development. The “Id” is our impulse of want and needs instant gratification. The Id, according to Freud, is our basic instinct. However, the battles of our want and needs clearly extended beyond sexuality as I experienced last week when a local shoe store beckoned me with their tantalizing recession-proof “Sale” signs screaming claims of “up to 70% off” emblazoned across the store-front window. Seemingly, it was an offer that I didn’t want to refuse. Well at least that is what my Id told me, but according to Freud, my superego had other ideas which I really did not want to hear. The superego is our “inner parent.” The superego tells us “No!” when all we really want to hear is “Yes.” My superego tells me, “There is no point in looking because you can’t buy anyway...” Our superego is where we internalize our moral judgment based on how we are socialized and is responsible for the nagging guilt we sometimes feel. My Id disagrees and appeals to my latest boot fetish, “There are some good deals that have your name on them! They are yours and they’re on sale!” I enter with caution like a lamb to the slaughter amid rows of shoes and boots that indeed were up to 70% off. My ego so far keeps me in check. The ego is what Freud called the balancing force between the Id. Our ego keeps our Id and Superego in check -- on a good day of judgment. It is where we make decisions that we are aware of. It is the umpire between the fighting forces of Id and Superego that we experience in the throes of a shopping spree. The Id appeals to our basic instincts whereas the superego is our inner Nancy Reagan  that wants to “just say no.”


Meanwhile, I am lost among a sea of shag me shoes and fuck-me boots all in my size and color. In a fog of calculations of 40% off, 30% off signs, I spot a pair of four-inch heel thigh high fuck-me boots. I try them on and pull them over my thigh over the tight jeans I have on. Oh yeah! At this point, my Superego starts to scream, “You’ll never wear them! You’re wasting your money! You cannot justify this expense! You already have 2 pairs of black boots!” “But,” my Id ego weighs in, “these are different! These boots have your name on them. You need these boots! They make you feel like a whore! There is something empowering about that!” Goodness knows why, but actually there is something empowering about that. I am not trying to intellectualize here, but attempting to demonstrate the irrationality of the subconscious mind versus the rational mind. While the battle continues, my ego needs approval; vindication of the “wrong” that I am about to commit. I take out my iPhone and take a photo of me in them in a hooker-like stance in front of a mirror and post it to my Facebook profile with the caption, “I soooo want these boots! Should I get them?” Needless to say, my friends positively reinforced me with comments, like “Cor yeah!” and “Wear them when you next see me! lol” exclaimed some male friends. Girlfriends backed my “dilemma” with, “Go get ‘em girl! You deserve them!” I immediately had confirmation from very reliable sources that I should go ahead with said purchase. Needless to say I followed their sound recommendations. Ignoring my superego with the nagging chiding of, “How are you going to explain this to significant other at home?” I proceeded to the check out regardless of the unanswered question reverberating in my mind.

I ventured homeward bound up Powell Street amid tourist shoppers, feeling proud of my “deal” yet guilty at the same time. After all, I really couldn’t justify $70 when I already had two pair of black boots. My superego was starting to kick in too little too late. Later on that evening when I met a friend for cocktails, she admired my purchase, and I smiled. There are times when validation is worth every penny, no matter what the id, ego or superego says.

Alone

one grey day as morning broke
a silent voice softly spoke
"it's time to wake from your sleep"
lost feelings started to seep

togetherness -- what a chore
how much time is really yours?
always ready to appease?

did you ever feel at ease?

journey on the back of time
intersected by love sublime
a sign pointed another way
you saw how you couldn't stay

oh why did you stay so long
when it all just seemed so wrong?
time is the only one who knows

it's just how the way life goes

a waterfall of time flew by
when a droplet caught your eye
loneliness was always there
so why do you so despair?

alone ain't such a bad thing
no questions that make your head spin
no more actions to explain
you are ready to soar again

Adrenoverse at Glazier Point, Yosemite NP, California

Creative Writing Project: Dancing

Dancing. What happened to it? Classical dancing like ball-room, tap, jazz, swing remain intact, but modern dancing has fallen off the floor. Does footwork now mean the kicking that someone receives after crossing someone at a rap concert?

For real footwork, take a step back in time to the seventies and eighties for a glimpse of the footwork performed by, The Stylistics, Temptations, O'Jays, or The Whispers and savor the choreographed agility and synchronized moves of these artists. The 70s and 80s dances were formed by tricky twists and turns and were well choreographed to the beat. Those old school moves and grooves raised your spirit, soothed your soul, quenched your thirst for rhythm and cured your blues. Even the hybrid of "Ska" formed by a blend of a reggae and Caribbean upbeat had its unique steps resembling a cross between a hop and skip known as, "Skanking."

Recently, I found myself transformed back to the early 80s at an English Beat concert. The English Beat are a 2-tone/Ska band who during the early 80s popularized the wearing of pork-pie, Fedora hats and checkered black and white as worn by the 2-tone bands like Selector and The Specials. There were two types of people on the dance floor; those who could skank and those who watched those who could skank. The older people on the floor were those skanking. The younger people in the audience looked on.

On the one hand, remembering how to skank made me feel young again, but reminiscing to my younger friend who was twenty years my junior about how I danced to the Police's, "Walking on the Moon" made me feel old. I looked towards The Beat on stage where the members of that band were now in their fifties. Things looked and felt the same as they always did. The band members were in excellent shape and had as much energy bounding around the stage as they always did.  What's more, I too was in good shape and still had enough energy to skank the night away. My friend left a little earlier in order to get the last train home. I stayed and made my way to the front of the stage, just like I used to back in the day. And like I did back in the day, I cheered for an encore... They came back like they always do and then they left, but not before one of my "old" heroes caught my eye and shock my hand. I melted and felt young again once more. Back in the day blended with today. Today was back in the day.




Dancing Shoes

New Friends and Old Friends

So here I was venturing through Chinatown to North Beach  to see a friend playing in a band at the Old Saloon Bar on Grant Street. My brisk walk through the Stockton Tunnel enabled me to savor the air of an early Saturday evening at dusk. The hustle and bustle of Chinatown was quietly going to sleep as Columbus Street in North Beach was just awakening from its daytime slumber. The street markets slowly dismantled and merchandized wheeled off in crates for the night as darkness fell over Chinatown. I could avoid the the usually slow pace of dawdling tourists and local last minute shoppers by joining the not much faster traffic in the road to continue my walk unheeded to The Saloon.

A couple of blocks from my destination on Grant Street, I stumbled upon an old music store. Curiously, I had passed this store many times before, but it only caught my eye this evening. Vinyl records in boxes were on display outside and in the light-filled windows gleamed instruments of old: saxophones, bongos, drums, speakers, turntables, keyboards, amplifiers and bass guitars filled the store and windows in a display what can only be described as an Aladdin's cave for musician buffs. I paused for a moment and browsed through the old boxes of albums of yesteryear. Memories of old times flooded back of a time when I possessed some of those old vinyls. Album shopping used to be a regular weekend treat; not from old shops like this, but bright busy mega-stores like HMV and Virgin Records. One could never miss these old mega stores with music blaring inside and outside of the store. I moved over to a box of old posters that formed  testimony to San Francisco's musical past of the 60s, and 70s. A voice over my shoulder exclaimed, "Oh I remember those too...!" A somewhat shabby, but not unclean man peered down over my shoulder as I flipped through the posters. As we chatted about music and the store, it emerged we were the same age... But to me, he sounded like a throw back to the late fifties, or very early sixties..., "You should take a look inside, man. You'll trip out!" I replied, "I sure will..." In a brief moment, we were completely equal on a narrow level based solely on a love for music. But economics, and happenstance saw to it that we were far from that. I felt mildly guilty that I had a bed to sleep in and had to explain that I had no change... And for once, I really didn't have any change. Awkwardly, we parted company...

I continued browsing through the posters of old artists and concert announcements of Santana Live at the Fillmore and many other artists. Another voice arose, "Where 're you from then...? Sorry, but I heard you chatting while I was inside and just had to find out where you were from." Oh, I replied, "London, Walthamstow." He was clearly an Essex-boy. I knew that because he sounded exactly like my dear friend Nick from Essex who lost his life a couple of years ago. I was friends with Nick for close to twenty years. Nick played the saxophone years earlier and would have loved this store. The man I started chatting with outside the store even had the cheeky wry grin that Nick possessed. I immediately felt a rapport and familiarity that raised a smile in me. It was that depth and warmth that I felt whenever I saw Nick and shared many a pint with in a London bar -- a depth and warmth that I'd missed. I found myself hurriedly asking him if he lived in San Francisco now, "No, Luv, just visiting and passing through and buying up this store!" My heart momentarily sank as he got in his car and drove off... "Nick" was gone again once more...

I ambled on to the Saloon to meet my relatively new friends, but for some reason, I just could not bring myself to the present. I stared down at the dancing feet, but was still back in a London bar with Nick and other old friends from the past. And I wondered; is the past always present? Memories of the past are always present... And with that thought, my brief moment of melancholia vanished. I joined the dancing feet and embraced my moment of memories and again became present in the moment.

Writing Graffiti

Graffiti is the modern day cave drawing forever changing form and color as slates are wiped clean with a new coat of paint.  Walls of the past form the canvas of the new. The spray can transforms into the artist's brush.

Graffiti is the poor person's post-modern art and expression. The graffiti artist clandestinely enters where nobody else dares. They venture towards high places: not in status, but scale scaffolding and delve deep into the guts of abandoned buildings to express their creativity. The work of a graffiti artist is frowned upon by a society grounded in convention unless it's commissioned. Commissioned work loses the rough edge which is the appeal of graffiti. However, that does not remove the quality and creativity of commissioned work. Commissioned work has transformed stark gang-tagged neighborhoods to colorful  urban art galleries. Graffiti is supposed to be subversive and underground which gives it that edge. Unlike music, paintings, or words in a novel, play or book, the work is often temporary. Graffiti is a subculture that bucks the system by purposefully deviating from the norm.

My admiration of graffiti started four years ago in the Marin Headlands after a visit to Hill 88; an abandoned military site emblazoned with color and bright images juxtaposed by green hills, the ocean, and wind wailing through the concrete abandoned barracks of yesteryear. I recently returned to admire the work that I had  photographed four years ago and to see what else the graffiti artists had added to the abandoned walls that formed the open air canvas.  Alas! All of the work I'd photographed four years ago was gone. A blank wall stared back at me. It's blankness screeched conformity:  dull, colorless, and uneventful. No beginning or end.

I felt glad that I had captured the colorful spectacles years before and the work continues to exists on a photo sharing site and various other social networking sites like Google+ . I realized that I had unwittingly preserved the work of a few for many. I wish the artists knew.

I like to think of myself as a curator for the disenfranchised artists who are often seen as vandals for their often illegal, but creative work. To follow in their footsteps tracking their work by venturing inside forbidden places is both thrilling and engaging. Within the bowls of abandoned bunkers, cracks of sunlight  illuminate the art work like track lighting in a museum of modern art. In the starkness of abandonment, there is detail. In the darkness of it all, there is light. In the shallowness of the words, there is depth and color. In the desolation of it all, there is company. Graffiti is the life after death of abandoned walls.

On one wall, a graffiti artist declares, "Everything was beautiful ...And nothing hurt." I wondered what the author of those words meant? Was it a psychedelic drug experience filled with color and beauty like no other view or masterpiece? Were the author of those words making a sarcastic commentary on armed combat?

Another author warns, "Swipe your life away..." Those words resonated with me. Lives are swiped away constantly by the hand of meaningless toil, stuff, and sometimes tragedy; just like the paintbrush that swipes away the work of a graffiti artist. Lives are swiped away by not stopping and seeing the writing on the wall. The graffiti of life needs to be read. Stop and look at the color, the detail, the depth of the words, and a thought for the people behind the words. Like the words and work of a graffiti artist, a life won't be there forever. Block the hand of meaningless mundane toil that swipes your life away. Pause... See the detail that no one else dares to see, go to places others do not dare to tread, and embrace those moments. 

Everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.

Swipe Your Life Away - Hill 88 Marin Headlands 2013

What did the author mean?