Prose: Alone at a Café in Paris

19 01 2014

The seductive sounds of a four piece jazz band—a scat-cat afternoon buzzin’ on too much caffinee.

If there is such a thing.

Thank God I’ve got this music to fill me up.

I feel so empty.

I can’t believe I left him standing there—in the rain.

It rained last night.

It’s very sunny today.

The weather irritates my mood with its inconsistency.

How can a person be less predictable than the weather?

I’m a mess.

This trigger steadied by a shaky crook-hand up my back side and I feel angry.

What did she ever give him other than his drink?

A stiff drink is nice but not nearly as nice as her sex.

I can’t figure it out.

I kissed him!

And for what?

To discover that he had shaved himselfby coincidence?

I doubt that.

I wonder what it’s like to be a man? To make love to a woman…

I wonder if he thinks… what I think?

I doubt that.

I’m a mess.





Homecoming

30 10 2011

The older I get the more I hate popular idioms. Mostly because people use them when they have nothing thoughtful to say, and they tend to stay with you for while. And this week, my first week home, I found myself repeating some useless advice in my head: Home is where the heart is. And I have no idea why I kept saying it. Maybe because somehow, I thought if I repeated it enough I might find some resolution to the way I am feeling.

I feel like I have been living out of a suitcase for the past fifteen months. I’ve unloaded a lot possessions along the way and it feels amazing to be so light. I packed for three weeks of European travel in about fifteen minutes. But what is weighing me down is this transient shift battling against my former, very anchored, habitual self. I get the sense that most people enjoy some level of stability or permanency; a sense of what is to come, at least an idea of how to speculate ones future. But when you barely have an address, when you pick up three different coin currencies off the bottom of the washing machine, look at them in your hand, you start to wonder: what am I doing? And if and when you figure it out, you wonder even more if you made the right decision.

I was lost. Somewhere between jobs, between countries, between thoughts on what I was going to do next. It’s hard to imagine that anyone could miss home when they’re touring through one of the most beautiful places on the planet: the French Riviera is beautiful. But somehow, while walking past the grand fountains in front of the infamous Monte Carlo Casino, I realized, I had no idea where I was. A ride along the Amalfi Coast is said to be a religious experience, but I wasn’t looking for God. I was thinking about home-whatever that means, my future, my past, and from time to time flirting with my super hot Italian cab driver, Antonio Sabato.

Missing home when you’re traveling is common I suppose; a natural reaction to stress, the unfamiliar. But when you finally make it back, wherever you came from, will it feel like home? Can we look into the faces of the people we love and expect the same kind of understanding that we learned to discover in ourselves? I think to some extent we can, but for anyone who has ever gone solo, attempted to question the fabric of their comfort, returning home feels less like returning and more like an invasion on static memories that have been in motion the whole time you were gone. Do I fit in here? Home hasn’t made sense to me for a long time, I left home because I didn’t understand it then. And in my search for clarity, I found more confusion. The more you learn about something the more you realize you know nothing about it at all. So more confused than ever, I’m in southern California looking for full-time work in a highly competitive field, and questioning the whole damn thing. I feel weird in a familiar place.

But you know what they say, time heals all wounds. That’s the annoying thing about idioms, they mean different things to different people. This is a common take: Home is a place where regardless of its make-up, feels good, feels the best to whoever has made it a home. It doesn’t mean you live with your family or friends, it’s simply the place or the people who you love to be around because it makes you the happiest. And I guess that’s why I feel so bothered by the whole notion. My heart doesn’t feel like it belongs anywhere in particular. I think I left a big piece of it in Korea. I definitely gave some of it up in Barcelona and Italy. And I feel like I have so much more of it to give, that it’s terrifying to think of it locked up inside a home. I’ve never been more scared in my whole life. Not even when I thought I was going to die in Vietnam from anaphylaxis shock. So after repeating the phrase a million times this week, wondering if there was some mystical power that would emerge from its intrinsic nature, I realized: I need to be a house.








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