Saturday, March 29, 2014

Preludes and Finales; All Wild Things Come to an End

This morning was the first gray morning in what felt like an eternity. 

To be truthful, it's only been about 3 months, but compared to what I'm used to back home, that mine as well be an eternity. There was this one drab point, some time last month, where the skies turned terminally gray for a consecutive string of days; however, these particular gray clouds were lacking. Gray skies are gray skies to most people, but I've always tended to view them in a more romanticized fashion, as if each time they appeared, they seemed filled with intrigue, begging us to wonder what they stood for. Despite this, the aforementioned "drab point" was a bit simpler—why I hesitated to mention it in my second sentence, which has taken us till here to get to. The way their color danced on the shaky precipice that stands fearfully between white and grey, always knowing that one slip could either lump them into the common absence of color that most accept with open arms or make them one step closer to gloom, revealed their disingenuous nature, and therefore I thought nothing of them. Yet today's wispy billows hover proudly over the bustling city streets, knowing full well why they’re here.
I woke up, greeted the gray, and moved on. I'm writing now, and it feels right for the first time in a long time. It's a cathartic feeling, and its main catalyst this morning is the sullen atmosphere. As a born and bred New Englander, relentless sunshine can actually become tiresome, as strange as that may sound. And, needless to say, this morning is an easy morning; nothing unwanted looms, and for once that doesn't freak me out. However, this calm is poised to give birth to a wild, and uniquely bittersweet, evening whose moments will sporadically shift about like a big bag of mixed emotions on a public bus.

Tonight is my flat mates going away party, so I guess I should shave a bit.

As all of us will be doing before we even realize it, my "true brahj", who I've lived with for the last 8 months or so, will be making the awkwardly anticipated return home, and tonight we plan to send him off the best way we know how—with a massive rager, brimming with garish characters, close friends, and a handful of emotional moments and empty promises; always good fun. In spite of this exciting prospect, there is a slight stroke of gray painted down the spine of the entire evening, for this finale not only serves as a sad send- off for one of my closest friends, it also stands as an impatient doorman, ushering in my own penultimate moment here, and that certainly adds a dash of melancholy to the bag. My short chapter here was an amazing journey into the depths of my own savage mind, with revelry and self-loathing subtly pushing me to the brink of self-realization—what the fuck does that even mean? Basically, I know who I am now. Instead of posting aimless Facebook rants that meander on about absolute shit—anything that includes the word bitches, harps about "needed" personal changes, or masturbates incessantly about self—I accepted who I am; all my badass faults and fleeting convictions included.
Another interesting aspect of my flat mate's departure that is exciting, unnerving, and a bit-stressful all at once is the intimidating reality of living completely alone in a foreign country, tucked away in some notorious neighborhood without the faintest clue as to how to get in touch with the police; other than stumbling over to the actual municipality and barking incoherently in my piss-poor Spanish at some apathetic police officer. Despite the brave effort of trudging over there to speak with someone personally, nothing would actually ever happen. Most likely, they would do a quick lap around the neighborhood, grab a beer, and then never follow up or resolve anything—and honestly, for what the police get paid around here, I wouldn't do shit either. Besides that small misfortune, an actual facet of the roommate paradigm that I will truly miss, and one that is even better when you're best friends from childhood, is coming home from a long day of monotony to a night that is essentially the closest thing we, as adults, have to a sleepover, which we all know was the greatest part of our adolescent weekends. Depending on the night, the itinerary will undergo a few minor alterations, but it typically looks like this:
Burst through the door— wait a millisecond for the applause. Toss my backpack onto the adjacent chair and grab my Macbook from its alcove, all while heading toward the couch. Proceed to do some light work—both personal and professional—for about an hour. Eventually, my roommate will emerge from his chamber, and we’ll begin the excessive postulation about what to watch, heavily weighing out the options provided by Netflix, Hulu, or from "the Bay". This process can take a while, so we usually sprinkle a couple funny tales from the road into the mix to pass the time. Once we reach a definite decision—I specifically say “definite” because as we all know, picking something doesn't always mean you'll actually continue watching it after the first five minutes—we argue about which one of us will order the pizza; it's a rough chore, and down in this country it often causes immediate mental collapse. While we wait for the pizza, we desolate each other with an array of physical assaults and nagging, often over the top, insults. It's fun, and you all know it. DING DONG—and they're off! We scurry about the house trying to find our money while insisting that the other get the door immediately. With the pizza secured safely on the table, and some movie or show agreed upon, the healing begins; smiles, satisfaction, and an overall sense that we accomplished an incredible feat.
These nights made up for any of the day's bullshit; two brothers acting like kids again, with nothing being that important, and everything just on the horizon. We could bounce ideas off each other, and whether they were absolutely mad or seemingly brilliant, we picked them apart and analyzed them like two scientists trapped in an underground laboratory with no way out. However, and as it always goes with all things fun and good, these nights were destined to come to an end, our bounce back to reality always in the distance; faint, yet ominously there.

We're here.

My friend's next adventure is going to be an exciting ride, and I wish him the very best. He is a boundless train, stopping only for opportunities to save the world, and I hope he continues to run for a very, very long time. Often-times naive, yet ambitious, he deserves whatever he is looking for, and I know that among all the capable people, he stands proud, albeit too proud sometimes—he knows I love him. The prelude to my finale begins while the curtain closes on his Peruvian stage.

Stay tuned for the final days under the wild new sun.

Monday, March 3, 2014

Sparse Collection Of Details From A Vapid Month Down South

Rants and raves from the outskirts of society... 

Inspiration to write in this odd blog has been hard to come by lately; I just haven't felt it in a while. And, in addition to my crippling lack of motivation, I, myself, had been a reclusive hermit for a good portion of February. The past month was lackluster to say the least—full of deadlines and self-loathing, which usually equates to a fat fucking zero in regards to the amount of creative, personal writing I manage to churn out.

It's obviously all in my head...

Or, maybe I caught a small sentiment of that languid New England winter attitude after perusing through the old Facebook feed—uninspired rants about cold-weather accompanied by crooked pictures of freshly laid snow and a litany of desperate attempts at self-affirmation; the New England chapter of Facebook during the freezing months in a blurb. But shit, at least it's consistent.

Don't get me wrong, there were a handful of crazy moments and adventures this month, each born from my insatiable appetite for all things wild and mad. But for the most part, I holed myself up in my flat, incessantly watching films and playing guitar, halting infrequently to venture out into the streets on the hunt for booze.

Despite the seemingly-dull theme of February, I found the loneliness refreshing; the isolation, combined with a dab of self-examination, actually acted like an emotional catalyst. My indifference towards life's more-passionate aspects has been growing slowly down beneath the depths of my character like a starved tapeworm, and although I'm still a jaded lunatic, certain things have begun to get their color back.

The social elements of my neighborhood still elude me from time to time. There are days filled with friendly smiles and wide-eyed, enthusiastic greetings—the kind that breeds a sense of belonging—
and yet, there are numerous times when I feel as if I'm being forced to tip-toe through a dilapidated den of bloodthirsty thieves. Stories move about through the air, inflicting their fearful messages of crime and misfortune upon all those with functioning ears—disconcerting tales about robberies at gunpoint, unlucky travelers being stabbed over a burner phone, and random victims of bizarre kidnappings spread from carrier to carrier like a flu in heat.

However, these horrific tales are part of the endeavor to live, no matter where you go. Despite what we believe, even the cushy bubble we call home has a myriad of these disturbing parables, including our thinly-veiled political tales of capitalist-socialism gone savage, which tend to multiply on a daily basis at this point. But it's our fundamental duty, as citizens of one world, to continue forward, regardless of destination or tribulation.

There are bonafide moments of fear down here—a hulking group of ragged street-vermin eyeing my cell-phone and wristwatch with savage desire—but, I always remind myself that it's part of the journey; a piece of that gorgeous struggle to exist. I'm taking the ride because I bought the ticket, and I wouldn't have it any other way.