Nothing feels good.
The old cliche.
I guess it isn’t the most accurate complaint from me, honestly. Almost nothing feels good. And it’s not so much a complaint as it is a statement, a declaration, a branding. I picked up a guitar when I was 9 years old so I could “be somebody.” In the years…
A 45 Second Dream
A night at the beach. Not a spring break night. Not a party atmostphere. A wind breeze. A cool breeze that is enough to put you on the brink of a chill, but not pushing you forth into it. A lady walks up the stairs to her hotel room, a man follows gently behind. A vacation. The light in the stair way is yellow, a pale cheap yellow, illuminating with only a few dimming bulbs. They exit on the third floor. She walks to her door, one door down right from the stairs, she does not turn around, she can not look at him. He follows eyes down, breath going in and out heavily, not from the climbing of the stairs.
The air gusts, tossling her hair hair delicately, it is soft and light, and does not miss the chance to lift off of her shoulders. Her skin is cooled from the wind only. Underneath the airs guard, any deeper touch can find her warmth. The light has changed now, a white light. A moonlight, a full moons light shines, but is not visible its self. Not a sound is in the air. Cars pass, non distiguishable from any of the other surroundings, the parking lot is empty. Not a single sound is heard. The only passing noise is the air over your ears. Perhaps even the white light making some audible sound. It is not bright, it is just visible.
She moves into the door, pushes her key in, and pushes the handle down. She has yet to go in. She feels a hand, it has bypassed the bottom of her shirt, moved upward, and gently lighted upon the divets in her lower back. It is not pressing her forth, nor is it holding her back. It has simply made its self known. Her warmth being discovered by another. A few fingers delicately touching her. She turns over her right shoulder, still not meeting eyes. Her hair still plays in her face. A single tear slowly rolls over her soft cheek.
Flash away. A car ride, two guys and one girl. The driver laughs and looks to his girlfriend in the passenger seat. She is wearing sunglasses and smiling back. The other man in the back laughs also. A vacation. The drive to the beach. It is sweltering in the car, no one cares. The sun shines brightly in from the drivers slight, it is setting. The driver places his hand on his girls thigh. The backseat steals a glance. His laugh turns to a smile. His smile turns out to the window. The girl does not look him in the eyes.
A man takes a chance, and touches a woman’s back. His face near her face. He misses her eyes. He gets takes a step closer to her. A slight pressure upon her now. She pushes the door into the room. She shouldn’t. She does. The door is open, his full hand now upon her lower back. The door closes. She turns into him, his hand slides around her lower silhouette. The white light from outside comes in through the blinds in a striped pattern. The air conditioner on the wall is on. The sound from it fills the room. Their breathing fills their heads. He brushes her hair aside. Her eyes at his chest. Another tear escapes. He wipes it way and pulls her head up, his fingers on her cheek and fall just below her ear. Their eyes do not meet, they are very familiar with one another.
Their eyes do not stray nor wane. They have their own embrace. Neither pair ever leaving the comfort of the other, neither wanting to look past now. She has stopped crying, but tears teeter in the corners of her eyes. The top of her throat also struggling to stifle. The inside of her head flushes. His hand still at her face, he feels his breath shorten. He is timid, though he is not new here. His right hand now discovers her other cheek, and fully envelopes it, finally sliding down to her neck. Her warmth is gone, she now has a heat. The heat presses through the cold room, the heat steals him from himself.
They stand at the foot of the bed. The room entirely blue dark, save for the blinds. An incredible moons pierces through, leaving white stripes over both, and falling onto the bed. The room is too cold. Sunburns. The bottom of the bed touches his left calf and foot.
There is a want. There is no lust, there is no want of sex. There is a craving. A need. A need that hurts the back of his head. A forlorn high, a dark ecstacy. No excitement, a sadness, a complete surrendering into this want, there is nothing else that can happen.
He whispers his lips to hers. They do not kiss, they pass grazing. Its a slow smooth flint drag shooting the sparks toward memory. He breaths only after she does. He sucks in her withdrawn breath. The cold air of the room will not suffice, only her breath. His eyes are closed, he breaths her again on another pass. His eyes open, his teeth clench, his eyes fiercly at hers, as he loses his own breath. Her arms around his waist. She pulls her nails over him, from his spine to his sides, awakening more nerves from the cold.
He kisses her, her lips are salty. Her tears taking to them. They are not of sadness, they are not of joy. The persistance of this need, of this moment, overtakes the limits of which one can hold anything back. She has opened herself to it, she wishes to be taken by it. Theyve now given into each other, they have given in to it.
The kiss lasts. The lips burn, the salt of either ones eyes sweeten each stroke. A full embrace by each other, as close anyone can be. The tastes of each other mixes. Breathing is shallow and quick, stolen over one another mouths, the air is hot. There is no sense lacking from the encounter. The skins heat. The cold creeps around them, it wants every part exposed. The cold will wait until morning.
She is on the bed, she is exposed. Her left arm above her head, her right arm on his back. He is above her looking into her eyes. They dont not venture elsewhere, the eyes are engaged in a battle to look past the other pair. It is a losing fight. A stripe from the blind strikes across her eyes, the color shown, his breath is taken again. The battle surpressed. The need to become part of her, unsupressed. His left hand on her right upper thigh and hip, he grips. He pulls her into him. She pushes him into her, using the hand on his back. Her legs squeeze around his middle. There is no comforter. There is a moon blue room, there are her sounds, there is his breathing. The cold creeps in, she has chill bumps, her sweat being cooled by the room, he takes his hand up from her hips, up her side. Her skin is rigid, he presses harder. He moves his palm and fingers up and over the left side of her chest. The light catches it. Her neck caves in and fills from breathing, he brings his hand finally to rest on the side of it. He feels her breath, he feels her pulse. She brings her head up to his, she kisses him. The kiss can not be deep enough. They try. The kiss is saline, the salt and saliva mix. The kiss is perfect. He breathes her in. He is warm. She is warm. The room is cold. Her eyes attachs to his.
A man fully awakens. He does not spring up. He faces his left as he lays on his left side. He is in a hotel bed, the headboard pressed into the wall of a hotel room, in the middle of the room. The air conditioner failed agaisnt the morning heat permeating through the window. The window, with its curtains pulled back allowing the sun in. There are no blinds. The light is prevalent in the room, sunlight. 10:32 sunlight, not a peak of the day glare, still a morning yellow. The heat of the room uncomfortable being under the hotel comforter, it scratching him. There is noise, still indistiguishable, but audible. Normal noise, nothing blocked out, nothing hidden, basic noise.
He watches her, she is dressed. His face is calmed, he does not speak. His eyes not holding back anything, the feelings supressed far behind them. He watches from under the hotel comforter. She sits on the bed, facing away from him. Her vision shakes, the corners of her mouth poised to aim downward. The muscles there waiting for the command to follow, the orders to not come, they still stand ready. Her shirt is white, and hangs off her shoulder, a slight sunburn. She slept well, she will not tonight. She walks to the bathroom. He watches her enter.
She does not use the mirror. She faces it for no reason. Her face in the hands. She closes her moistening eyes, the muscles take over her mouth. She does not cry, she does not wimper. She pushes it back down. She has no make up on. She leaves the bathroom. She is beautiful.
She walks into the open. The bed there dominating the room, a small cabinet next to it. Thats all. Nothing else in the room but the bed, the cabinet, and him. He watches her. He is not sad yet, he wants to speak, nothing comes to mind. He smiles with a regret, the right side of his mouth comes up. His eyes on hers, an apologetic twinkle, a knowing twinkle. He looks down. Her eyes are full, and big. She owed him one, her debt to him is paid. She has now been wrong.
She leaves the room. She was down to her car. She cries on her drive. The hotel room is gone. He is not.
Friendship
(An old Facebook note I wrote, I reread it and decided I should posted on here. Maybe someone else can get use out of it.)
I have decided to reevaluate my idea of friendship. Perhaps I have never done it in the first place. So I will define it, at least for myself. Sorry if this ends up sounded like a chain letter or a repost thing. Not my goal. But here we go.
I have many “friends” but I have very few close friends. Maybe due to a lack of trust or interest on my part. Maybe due to setting a bar to high for one to achieve in order to be a “close” friend. I am fairly solitairy, but do wish for the company of closer friends, as opposed to aquaintances. I am here to talk about real friends. I have the need now, as I think some people may have forgotten, what it takes to be a friend.
Trust. My strongest need in a friend. You should be able to tell them anything. Anything, worst thoughts, best stories, strangest ideas, and weirdest dreams. As a friend you do not have to agree with it, I generally think you have friends with whom you share ideas and interests with, but not think exactly alike. You need to have opposition or at least someone to question what you are talking about in order to learn. A friend will enjoy listening and agreeing or disagreeing. Trust is believing that your thoughts and their thoughts are amongst yourselfs. Not having to worry about hearing what you told them in confidence two days later.
Support. Now this is my main issue as of late. A mutuality. If you are always there for your friend, they should always be there for you. If you have an endeavour which you believe, if you have something/ someone which you love, they should support you in it. Or being your friend, they believe you are involved in something that is an extremely negative influence on you, attempt to keep you from it. There are times when we think we know what is best for us, when everyone else knows it is untrue. If I have been there for you in your worst hours, when you are at your lowest, I expect the same. Same as with the highs. Ive recently found this is the hardest trait to find. I do what I can do be a friend and positive influence and supportive of my friends, but when I need something/ someone, I am frequently sorely lacking.
I have a few specific examples of things that are really getting to me. Im sure some of you will recognize these scenarios.
You ask someone if they want to hang out, they say is there a party. No, no there isnt. Maybe I just wanted some company and would have enjoyed yours at the time. Its good to know its fine to hang out with me if there are other people to keep your interest. Perhaps I am unbearable without the presence of alcohol.
I am having a party, want to come? Response: Who is going to be there? Who cares. I have invited you to hang out. You are not in a gang, you have no big issue with anyone. If you can bear to be in the same room as someone else maybe you should move to another state, to avoid risking such an atrocity.
This note may be pointless. As I think the ones who need to read it, won’t anyway. I kept this brief. I have so much more to say. Thanks to those of you who are there for me. You are a dieing breed.
My review of Thee Silver Mt. Zion
I’ll start with problems involving myself. I am not a huge music fan. I have no favorite artist, I just listen to all kinds of random crap. And yes, it may very well be crap. Also, I’ll preface with saying this isn’t a personal attack. I saw the lead singer walking around before the show, not knowing who he was. He looked cool as shit. Cool suit, rocking the hair and the beard. You go buddy, you go. Now, enough of the opening disclaimer.
I just saw Thee Silver Mt. Zion in Birmingham. It was one of the worst 3 ear experiences of my life, and once I stuck a q-tip too far in and erased my memories of ages 2-15. I’d rather have George “Big Fingers” McCullum thump me in the ears in the Arctic for 3 days. Musically, fine, play some stuff. Never sing sir, never sing. I do not know how hard it is to sing while you stick your tongue out in the middle of every word, I am no professional. You are damn good at it. Maybe it is a talent, and makes a unique sound. Close to a unique sound. I think I heard something similar in Jurassic Park 3 when a wounded pterodactyl was being stuffed into a broken garbage disposal. It’s been awhile since I have seen the movie.
It bother me more, because Efrim, you seem like a smart dude. Which is worse, because you know how you sound. It leads me to believe it is a joke. “Hey band mates, what do you say I sing awful this cd, see if people buy it. Hey! Tour America with it!” and they agree and go on the cruelest inside joke a band has played on it’s fans.
Efrin, come on. You sound like you are doing a very un PC immitation of a deaf person. Did a deaf person steal from you? Take a toy? You thought he ignored you, but he is deaf? I did not have the pleasure of owning one of their CD’s before hand, and I literally only heard the word “Children” in the set. I really wanted to hear it. I thought you were cool. You yelled at us like a heartbroken pubescent chipmunk.
My room mate, Trace, said “Deaf people need music too!” He had a point, I imagine. I hired someone to sign for me while we listened. All he did was draw a beard on his finger and flip me off for two hours.
These tickets weren’t much, and I did not buy them. If you want something similar sounding without having to drive to see them, turn your ticket money into quarters and throw it at Mort Goldman from Family Guy. Sounds the same.
