Sept 15/2015
Autumn in London finds me here, wrapped in a light sweater, sipping an overpriced latte at the British Library, seeming more interested in people watching than actually writing anything of consequence. Fiona Apple rings through my earphones, muddling out the already muddled sounds of people discussing what I hope to be opposing opinions on profound literature, but what is more likely a moaning of the mundane lives they don't appreciate leading in this beautiful country. It seems bitterness finds me even in my most heavenly sanctuary. Before I have a chance to dwell in my resentment towards every British passport holding knobhead in this massive building, youtube suddenly decides that this is not the time for Fiona Apple, but for Zurdok-- a Mexican rock band based in Monterrey and formed in 1993 under the name Zurdok Movimento. Somehow, a classically trained American singer-songwriter genius transitions seamlessly with Zurdok's full album, Hombre Sintetizador (which translates to "Man Synthesizer"). Naturally. To be honest, it's not half bad. So I leave it playing.
Perhaps this is some bizarre sign from God--I just spent five days in Rome, I am incredibly religious now-- that when life throws random Mexican Avanzada Regia at you when you think you just want to hear something you know and love, you should just accept it, and listen. Subtle metaphor or not, I have now just spent twenty minutes researching what I have discovered to be one of the most famous rock bands of it's genre in the 1990's. I was listening to their second album, which I will soon find out, is much different than their first, "losing their previous heavy sounds" to more "experimental tunes, adding classical instruments and folk inspirations" (the twine that binds Fiona and Zurdok, discovered at last). I gave it another nine minutes of my attention span before I began to feel way too substance free to be handling the "experimental sounds" that the album had now solely morphed in to. Any more amount of time and I'd surely begin to seizure, or leave the library in search of acid.
So maybe signs from God are bullshit, or just a glitch in youtube's recommendations.
Thus, I digress.
Coming to terms with the nearing death sentence to my English life, wouldn't exactly be the way I'd describe my mind set as of current, but it has finally sunken in that there's nothing I can do to stop it. I haven't come to terms with anything. I have begrudgingly devised a potential "next step", the chapter beginning 2016AD, but that doesn't mean I've accepted it. Acceptance would mean I am ready to move on, invite what lies ahead to take precedence over the futile fantasy that somewhere, somehow there's still a chance.
I fell in love. I didn't mention it, I adored the idea of keeping this feeling to myself. Selfishly indulging in what could easily be the best thing that's ever come out of no where. I fell in love and now I sit, waiting to be pulled out of it. I think I may have found that person. The person that fifty years from now I'd look at and see more love radiating out of him, out of me, than ever before. At present, that idea leaves me baffled when every day spent is a day spent thinking I couldn't possibly love him any more. And yet I do. Every day his eyes get brighter, the curve of his smile, bigger, and the sound of his voice more permanently etched into my heart.
I lay awake at night beside him, willing the sun never to come. For that is the time when I get him all to myself. The time I can dream about having him forever, and almost believe it.
I find myself dreaming a lot. Fading in and out of two worlds, not being able to focus on my reality at hand, unable to remain present. Perhaps a world where love concurs immigration limitations, and fantasy triumphs over reality, is a world I am much better suited to. I prefer it. And the few moments where I can manage to keep myself in the fleeting reality I call home, I find myself writing. More than I ever have. Writing about fifty years of love that will never even see a finish to the first.
I wrote once that I believe heartache, by definition, to be a pivotal ingredient to any successful artist. How could one ever truly know life, write about life, sing about life, paint life, if they hadn't first experienced genuine heartache. This was when I first felt myself loving him. I then wrote that I often wondered if he'd be the inspiration to my revolutionary heartbreak.
It looks as though that might just be the case.
And so it is…
And so I write…
She sat and saw it all.
She saw six months,
She saw a year.
She saw him,
But he wasn't there.
The small of his back,
the wave of his hair,
She saw her heart in his city,
then both were bare.
The lights paled by blue,
They will always be there.
Her heart,
He held too.
Go on, keep it
She dared.
It belongs to you.
Autumn in London finds me here, wrapped in a light sweater, sipping an overpriced latte at the British Library, seeming more interested in people watching than actually writing anything of consequence. Fiona Apple rings through my earphones, muddling out the already muddled sounds of people discussing what I hope to be opposing opinions on profound literature, but what is more likely a moaning of the mundane lives they don't appreciate leading in this beautiful country. It seems bitterness finds me even in my most heavenly sanctuary. Before I have a chance to dwell in my resentment towards every British passport holding knobhead in this massive building, youtube suddenly decides that this is not the time for Fiona Apple, but for Zurdok-- a Mexican rock band based in Monterrey and formed in 1993 under the name Zurdok Movimento. Somehow, a classically trained American singer-songwriter genius transitions seamlessly with Zurdok's full album, Hombre Sintetizador (which translates to "Man Synthesizer"). Naturally. To be honest, it's not half bad. So I leave it playing.
Perhaps this is some bizarre sign from God--I just spent five days in Rome, I am incredibly religious now-- that when life throws random Mexican Avanzada Regia at you when you think you just want to hear something you know and love, you should just accept it, and listen. Subtle metaphor or not, I have now just spent twenty minutes researching what I have discovered to be one of the most famous rock bands of it's genre in the 1990's. I was listening to their second album, which I will soon find out, is much different than their first, "losing their previous heavy sounds" to more "experimental tunes, adding classical instruments and folk inspirations" (the twine that binds Fiona and Zurdok, discovered at last). I gave it another nine minutes of my attention span before I began to feel way too substance free to be handling the "experimental sounds" that the album had now solely morphed in to. Any more amount of time and I'd surely begin to seizure, or leave the library in search of acid.
So maybe signs from God are bullshit, or just a glitch in youtube's recommendations.
Thus, I digress.
Coming to terms with the nearing death sentence to my English life, wouldn't exactly be the way I'd describe my mind set as of current, but it has finally sunken in that there's nothing I can do to stop it. I haven't come to terms with anything. I have begrudgingly devised a potential "next step", the chapter beginning 2016AD, but that doesn't mean I've accepted it. Acceptance would mean I am ready to move on, invite what lies ahead to take precedence over the futile fantasy that somewhere, somehow there's still a chance.
I fell in love. I didn't mention it, I adored the idea of keeping this feeling to myself. Selfishly indulging in what could easily be the best thing that's ever come out of no where. I fell in love and now I sit, waiting to be pulled out of it. I think I may have found that person. The person that fifty years from now I'd look at and see more love radiating out of him, out of me, than ever before. At present, that idea leaves me baffled when every day spent is a day spent thinking I couldn't possibly love him any more. And yet I do. Every day his eyes get brighter, the curve of his smile, bigger, and the sound of his voice more permanently etched into my heart.
I lay awake at night beside him, willing the sun never to come. For that is the time when I get him all to myself. The time I can dream about having him forever, and almost believe it.
I find myself dreaming a lot. Fading in and out of two worlds, not being able to focus on my reality at hand, unable to remain present. Perhaps a world where love concurs immigration limitations, and fantasy triumphs over reality, is a world I am much better suited to. I prefer it. And the few moments where I can manage to keep myself in the fleeting reality I call home, I find myself writing. More than I ever have. Writing about fifty years of love that will never even see a finish to the first.
I wrote once that I believe heartache, by definition, to be a pivotal ingredient to any successful artist. How could one ever truly know life, write about life, sing about life, paint life, if they hadn't first experienced genuine heartache. This was when I first felt myself loving him. I then wrote that I often wondered if he'd be the inspiration to my revolutionary heartbreak.
It looks as though that might just be the case.
And so it is…
And so I write…
She sat and saw it all.
She saw six months,
She saw a year.
She saw him,
But he wasn't there.
The small of his back,
the wave of his hair,
She saw her heart in his city,
then both were bare.
The lights paled by blue,
They will always be there.
Her heart,
He held too.
Go on, keep it
She dared.
It belongs to you.
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