Pleasure

In the left corner of the room smoke billows towards the ceiling licking upon nicotine stained paint. In the shadow of an open window, a figure sits, looking upon an empty street lit by the light of human creation. Her eyes cast guilt and judgment upon each shadow and reflection that her squinted eyes pick up. In the back right corner of the room there exists a bed, though to call it a bed would be kind. It more accurately represents a space in which to lay. Laying beneath stained sheets lies another solitary figure. Although there exists two human beings within the confinements of four walls, there exists an intolerable loneliness which hangs in the air, adding a mist of despair and agitation. Both figures are naked. Both are silent. To the left of her there hangs a picture. The only picture. It is abnormally bright and cheerful with bright impressionist colours, and a robust thickness that conveys impatience, but mild reflection. It hangs at eye level, slightly askew. 

The rustle of crusty sheets interrupts silent thought. Eyes fall upon the sleeping figure in the back right corner of the room. A bare foot taps the cold floor, working in a strange rhythm. The room smells cold, heavy. A frost is noticeable on the thin paned windows. She lowers her hand, still holding the smouldering cigarette. The light glow of the end casts shadows onto her visage. Her lips are thin, with the left side of her mouth permanently risen, as if a string holds it in a half grimace. He hand is held aloft, echoing the same puppeteering image, with a finger out stretched in 50's elegance. 

The foot stops tapping. The heel is held upright, ridged. When looking at the foot alone it calls to mind the foot of a deceased, caught in rigor mortis, as if the departed was killed in mid-step, fleeing. He stirs. 

Her eyes widen, but not in fear. There exists a mist in her blue eyes. Some would call it love, others passion, but she calls it pleasure. Her leg curves, her back straightens, and her hand tightens upon the burnt filter. His head lifts, and he roles unto his back. Pale brown hair rests lightly upon a yellow pillow. Eyes lift open, beckoning her. A smile plays across his tired lips, matching his half opened eye lids. A man at ease. 

His eyes follow her. Her pale legs reflect in the morbid light, adding death like beauty to her youthful contours. Her walk, as her smile and pose, summons images of strings, delicately controlling her movement causing her to glide across the bare wooden floor, unhindered by gravity. Light plays across her bare back, bringing forth images of darkness, decadent playfulness. Jaws, teeth, and claws splay across her arched back, melding with the scars that lay painted and pale. 

She lowers herself slowly to the floor, her knees touching ever so lightly, grazing the frozen floor. A shiver wavers through her body, the only signal of her humanity, of her existence in this world. He raises his hand and strokes her cheek, resting his thumb upon her bottom lip. His index finger rests at the corner of her left eye, just below her brow. 

His eye lids lower, though his smile remains vaguely on his lips, ghost like. There comes the feeling that if one simply squints, they will be able to see the same smile laying transparently upon his lips. She climbs slowly beneath the sheets, feeling his body, his skin, upon her own. Her breath quickens, her heart beats faster. His presence sends fire and ice through he veins. She feels her entire being tighten. She lays upon the bed softly, stroking the air with her hands, with a puppeteers smirk curled over her yellow teeth.  

Jeremy

Day after day, Jeremy worked the line. He took a small component, which he didn't understand, and he placed it into a compartment of a device he didn't comprehend. He took great care at his job. He first lightly grasped the device, making sure to hold it between his thumb and middle finger. He tried his thumb and index, but he squeezed to hard and broke the mechanism. Once he had taken ahold of the machine, he placed it lightly into a square box, in which it snapped into a smaller box. He originally pushed with his thumb to insert the device into the perforated plastic box, but, as was the case with the index and thumb grasp, he broke the vital component. He learned to push on both ends, for the device was rectangular in nature, and as such the steady pressure allowed it to snap into place safely, as was intended. Once this was done, he had to lift his hand quickly, for it had to be prepared to repeat the process. 

If he hesitated, or wasn't prepared for the next identical action, he would slow down the line. He hated to slow down the line, as he hated when others did so. Didn't they realized what their job entailed? they where all trying to making a living. He loathed his co-workers. They complained about their menial responsibilities, and they always lagged in their work ethic. Jeremy was far from a simple man but he was neither complicated. 

He was handsome, though he bore some odd scars above his eyes, of which no one asked about and no one wished to know about. He had large, but deft hands, which possessed out of sync callouses which did not match his work. His shoulders where broad, but his hips where narrow. Jeremy had green eyes. 

Curiosity is a trait best hidden away if you wished to work at the factory. Names where useless to remember and friends where seen as a hinderance. For most, it was a short term existence in order to fulfil long term goals. Sadly, what they didn't realize was that the moment they took the repetitive and mindless work, they had sub-consciously given up on their dreams. Jeremy not only knew all of this, he choose the life. No one knows why. Jeremy, though seemingly stupid, was far more intelligent than anyone else in that densely populated factory. He choose ignorance, though why is once again a mystery. Jeremy though was good at what he did. He placed that single piece of hardware into its chosen place with the utmost care, speed, and dedication. He was meant for that single movement. His hands working mechanically, noticeably and understandably working on autopilot. 

During the entire 8 hours Jeremy thinks. One co-worker, a young man, looked him in the eyes, and he saw something. When asked, he simply replied that he saw answers, though what the questions where, he didn't know. No one wished to examine Jeremy, they where more than happy to accept the oddity of his creation and maintenance within the factory. 

One day Jeremy didn't come to work. That had never occurred, for he had come to work everyday for 20 years, placing that piece of plastic into another piece of plastic. Jeremy didn't know what he was building, no one did. They simply built it. One day though, someone found something on the floor. It was a slight strip of paper. It simply read "Create. Destroy. Create. Destroy." It was in jeremy's hand writing, though no one knew this. Jeremy never returned to work, and someone else came to replace him. He worked slower, less productively, and less carefully than Jeremy did, but it didn't make a difference. He was completely in tune with the macro-sum, and his individual actions were not going to change the reality of the factory. Still, Jeremy was missed by the machines he helped to create, for there once was a man that knew what it meant to place a piece of electronic plastic into another form of it. Where he is today no one knows, and no one cares, just as Jeremy would have liked.  

Goodnight and Good luck

There are fascinating nights. Some are filled with sorrow while others with jubilations. Below me three wonderful individuals are caught within a strong embrace feeling the warmth and comfort of each other. Although it craves sexual tension it doesn't. There exits a comfort which defines all of human interaction despite the explicit sexual sarcasm that envelopes all relations. It doesn't mean things will continue as they will. The future is not known and the past is a dull ache that is able to express itself in both constructive and destructive manners. With that in mind the moment is that which lends itself to itself. A cycle of subject experiences that follow a unique version of time. The touch of bare skin can feel as if it has lasted for hours while the brush of hair lasts less than it takes to draw a breath. 

Intimacy can take many forms. The sexual and the platonic forms would seems miles apart but in reality they are barely discernible. An embrace has many layers but they are all based on the basic principle of comfort and caring. With a friend in my arms holding me as one that loves the other I can't help but feel thankful for that small token of intimacy. It means more than anyone would know. It acts a release and a reminder that although I feel alone I am not. I am surrounded by those that love and distance does not apply. Distance like many other concepts is one of subjectivity and inherently dependent on technology. 

Listening to technological music and caught within each other the two lovers and the man away from his beloved lay in bed. They hold each other while remaining apart. It seems contradictory but it isn't and I ask only for your faith in my interpretation of events. I understand that certain things may seem unlikely but fact is stranger than fiction. I lay in my panda onsie considering the sight before me with a mischievous smile. Write what you know hemingway would tell me despite my lack of masculine traits. I unlike hemingway am not the man's man. I am still a child caught in a vicious cycle of sexual intrigue and moral dilemmas. Some will pass without beings unhinged while others will remain haunting my conscious. I am afraid of everyone and anybody but the ones that I need to fear the most which is myself. It is peanut butter jelly time. I am very lucky as I receive a kiss from the man to my right. Hands tangle together as limbs intwine between I and the rest of the people in the area. No dutch rudder for I replied silents and abstractly to the friend that stays below me.

Perhaps I don't exist in this world. Perhaps I am lost without a way towards happiness and more importantly perhaps I will never be allowed happiness for all those that remain bitter and sad shall receive my support before my own. I am that way. Forgetful and neglectful to myself. A shame. 

Goodnight and goodluck.  

Conversation

"Do you ever write happy songs?" With enough persistence a question which appears to hang in the air interminably will sink like a stone. It takes a lot of patience and a belief in ones inability to hear, either of which I do no possess. 

"No, I suppose I don't" I answered after a pause of two or three minutes. She was to patient for me. Patience is the death of a musician who lives within moments. Patience for me exists between the space of two notes, and as can be imagined, the space between sound and emptiness is minimal. 

"Why not?" I looked in her direction. She was truly curious. I couldn't help but smile at her insistent nature. 

"Because when I am happy I can't write songs. The happiness is usually very great, much like the chasm of my sadness, and as such I just want to enjoy it before it goes away. Before It fades I suppose." I saw her face frown in contemplation at my answer. I have this way of making my answers appear deep in nature. It isn't very hard. I simply answer vaguely and truthfully, and when I am unable to do both, I answer truthfully but with a tinge of sadness. 

"You seem like a very sad guy." I looked in her direction and looked into her eyes. She seemed truly distraught. For some odd and unknown reason she cared about me. She wanted me to be happy. 

"You know why people play the blues?" My question seemed to surprise her at first. I don't think she expected me to add anything to our minimal and one-sided interaction. 

"No, I don't." I smiled. 

"Well, the blues is sung by myself and others to remind ourselves that life isn't so bad.  We sing to remember the lowest and saddest moment of our life. We are than reminded of what we have been able to endure, to survive from. We sing of broken hearts, lost loved ones and sometimes jail. I guess it is a reminder than we can overcome a lot. So it makes us happy and strong you know?" Once again her face pouted in concentration. She considered my words deeply. 

"So you sing your really sad songs to remind you that you are happy?" I laughed. I couldn't help but smile at her. She was sweet, kind, and deeply fascinated by all things, I could tell. 

"Exactly!" I exclaimed with a smile "for compared to those really sad moments, no matter how sad I am today, I am happy compared to that very sad day." She smiled with me as well. When she smiled her eyes seemed to scrunch up together. It was adorable in a way. It reminded me. "So how old are you?" I asked. 

"I am 20 years old." She responded with a smile. I could tell. She had the curves of youth and the hope in her eyes of a life not yet lived. I think I would write a song about her someday. Perhaps. 

"You have much ahead of you" I whispered to myself. 

"What?" She seemed confused.

"Thanks for coming over to chat" I responded "I like it when someone is curious about my music and music in general. Did you have a good time?"

"I did!" She answered happily "you are really good!" I frowned. 

"I know" I answered quietly, "I know."

The Doppelgänger Experience (Thoughts)

I saw a Doppelgänger. I am thankful to say it was not my own, for they say if you see your own Doppelgänger your death is eminently near. Instead I saw a woman who shared the same striking features of an old friend, a current acquaintance, future relationship unknown. It is fascinating to see another character sharing the same features of another who I once knew platonically-intimately. Much has changed in our relationship, and its unhindered decline is undeniably upon my conscious, I was the creator of its seeming demise. We are both happy though. I am sure she is and for that I am thankful. 

Seeing her Doppelgänger made me wonder what has changed and what has remained the same. Although the other woman shared her features I know she has not shared her thoughts, experiences, and memories and as such her outwardly exterior and aesthetics, as irrationally unnerving as they are, are but a sliver of what it means to be human. My friend, for although much has changed, how I see her within my heart has not, possesses, for I believe it still holds, a strength and feisty attitude I have grown to respect and love. I wonder though what about her has changed? Through the plastic connection of Facebook I can see her smiling face and busy life intwine with the cybernetic universe we both share. Her long term boyfriend has given her the stability she so deserves and her life seems to be filled with joy. 

If I came face to face with my own Doppelgänger I wonder how I would react. I have met individuals who have told me they have seen my Doppelgänger, and I have seen theirs, but I have never met someone who has met their own Doppelgänger, have had the Doppelgänger experience. It entails coming face to face with a seeming mirror image in the flesh, but more importantly, coming to look into the eyes of another human being who is eerily as perturbed by the image before them. At what point does the body and the soul depart? At what point does our image as perceived by others separate from the image perceived by ourselves? That is a question that has been studied in terms of identical twins, some who enjoy the Doppelgänger experience daily, and others who may learn of their seeming Doppelgänger many years into their lives, looking into genetically identical eyes but perhaps not a genetically identical soul. 

I believe I saw my friends Doppelgänger as much out of the reality that she shared features with her as I missed her and wondered what she was experiencing and what happened to the friendship we once shared. I know that in some respect I miss her, and I hope that one day our paths will cross and that that will correlate into the rekindling of something old but new. Perhaps our relationship will be that of a crocus, one of my favourite perennial wild flowers. The crocus is reborn every year, but over the winter when the cold settles in it remains dormant. I would like to think that our relationship is in dormancy before the coldness of our strained truth, one that I accept is of my doing. As the seasons of our shared experiences change, soon spring will reappear and our vibrant and shared affection will blossom within our hearts. As summer comes along we will flower and reach for the sun and the energy that flows beneath our roots and above our spreading pedals. We will pray that fall and winter will never take away what we have and perhaps that will occur, and the frost will never come, and our happiness will be forever caught in the Doppelgänger experience. 

The Enlightening of My Youth (Thoughts)

This afternoon I walked home from work taking a well worn path I used to trek during my early adolescence. For those that are well versed in the geography of the Crowsnest Pass there is a path that is situated behind the Cinnamon Bear, down the road which leads to Bush Town. I used to walk that path almost twice a day to see my then Girlfriend Sage. That summer, and later on through that year, I came to a sexual and intellectual awakening, learning much about myself and who I wished to be and who I was. I was caught within the grips of young love and youthful confusion. The simplicity of my life at that point still appeared unseeingly complicated filled with treacherous paths and possibilities. I was scared but characteristically bold wishing to embark on a journey of self discovery. I was unaware of the doomed reality of my love and the difficulties I was about to face as I decided to move to calgary with my meagre possessions in tow and a small financial goose egg I had been able to squirrel away during my first foray into the work force. 

I was caught in a love intwined within economic class warfare. We where blind of it of course. I lived at the top of the hill among the upper class contingent while she was down below among the hard working but downtrodden world of the poor, and yet we converged, caught in an embrace as right as it was odd. Our convergence taught us about the many human qualities we where able to share within silence, the beating of two hearts that worked under the same rhythm, our blood as intwined as our arms and legs. In time we would grow apart as much through geography as through emotion. Our class distinctions became more apparent over time and we would see our convergence become a divergence, an undeniable separation of lives. It seemed unimportant who would cut the final tie for the rope of our affection was already strained. We would fall apart as our rope is severed, each falling in different directions never to see each other again, never to share a thought. 

It is hard to believe how I have grown since those years. Now I am closer to a man than a boy and I have met and lost many in my life. Some have left of their own accord and some I have let go myself, wishing to be lightened from their burden. Other friendships and relationships have grown stronger, acting as stabilizing pillars on which I depend. I have also met new people who have bolstered the foundation of my social well-being allowing me to become a better person by showing my virtues and uncovering my flaws. Yet the summer of adolescence stays with me. As I walked along the physical path of my early awakening I perceived youth much like sage and myself; youth trying to find themselves in a quagmire of echoed lives. I am reminded that my own path is well worn and shall be continuously walked until humanity ceases to exist. 

I wish I could tell her story, not just my own, but that is not an option, but perhaps someone else will tell her side of the story through another life that parallels what Sage and I experienced those handful of years ago. Two young lovers walking down the path behind the Cinnamon Bear trying to understanding while never knowing what they where trying to understand in the first place.  

Breaking The Ice (Thoughts)

The term "breaking the ice" has many connotations and seems to possess numerous layers. When I hear or consider the term I think of risk, reward and failure. If we successfully break the ice we are allowed to swim in the river of our own successes, but if we fail to break the ice successfully we are caught underneath a sheet of cold reality that drowns our hopes. The above term perfectly epitomizes the double edged risk of social interaction, and rarely does it fall within a grey area of neither success nor failure.

I despise ultimatums and as such I have little to no fondness of the need to "break the ice" with anyone for any reason, yet I must, for I am in all intents and purposes a social creature who struggles for the need to socially interact. I have grown successful in being able to minimize my time trapped under half broken sheets of ice through the negligible art of educated guesses and risks, except for in one specific area ... romance! Oh the dreaded word which I have once again uttered from my quivering lips. Yes romance and all its follies have proven to be as treacherous and seemingly insurmountable as the poets and writers of great have warned! It lies within us the need to experience the splendor of touch, sexuality and intimacy that can only be experienced through the darkened woods of romance and love! How easily it is to be lost within the forest within brightened skies.

I don't despise romance. The act of romance is filled with a beauty and a need for exploration I greatly enjoy, romance does not exist within ultimatums. Yet the creation of romance, the catalyst and birth of that impermanent concept is usually one of ultimatums. And for that I despise the risk of romance, the risk of "breaking the ice" and all that entails.

Today I am meeting with someone who I wish to break the ice with romantically. I want to be able to kiss her, hold her hand, and hopefully hold her in her entirety but I am afraid that if I do I will be faced with a rejection that would spell the end of our relationship. I fear this ultimatum; romantic affection or none what-so-ever. Such is the constant continuation of my new blog posts main theme, that of fear. How fear stifles the mind, the heart, and the soul is undeniable and undefinable but we all face its grueling realities and some of us are strong enough to overcome that fear, to hold it at bay and to plunge within that frigid river and attack the drifting ice until it breaks before our will or until it breaks our will. I do not know if I possess that strength, bravery, confidence, stupidity or all the above. One thing is certain though, there are no absolute truths in life. I was once faced with a similar situation in which I had fallen for a dear friend and I endured romantic rejection and for a short time social rejection yet the ultimatum faded and we once again grew to love one another as was meant. The reverse had also occurred. To fear the unknown is normal, if not expected, and that is something I must accept about my humanity, but I also possess an insatiable and truly insensible curiosity for the unknown which may bring upon my untimely end. That is life. That is how I wish to live.