Romance In a Moment (Thoughts)

One day removed from Valentines I turn my exhausted mind to romance. As I often do, my thoughts turn and revolve considering what romance really means to me. What does the word truly entail? If I was to see an act, how would I define the romantic from the unromantic. I must say, it was a difficult definitional challenge and one I can not undertake within the short span of attention I am usually able to conjure when delving into written thought. Instead of giving you a definition through vague conceptual terms I will tackle the question differently. 

I will narrate acts which when I witness them bring forth surges of romantic inclinations within. Romance cannot be defined within a single day, instead romance is grounded by the foundational simplicity of daily actions, which when are stacked upon each other build a tower of love and romance that cannot, in my humble mind, be disputed. I see youthful glances and well worn stares shared among the young and experienced lovers alike, expressing well misunderstood feelings which, despite thousands of years of well meaning contemplation are still not truly understood. A young hand brushing away chaotic strands of hair from a frustrated visage and a lovingly patient smirk reacting to stressed and angry response colour my day of cinematic moments. A gentle hand resting on a tense shoulder and the relaxed comfort of two bodies sitting side by side enjoying the light contact that only two familiar bodies can share. The carefully uttered validations passed between two people and the excited jittering that occurs when anticipating that meeting of a new and seemingly perfect interest. 

The key to all of the moments I have been appreciative of witnessing is that they are never rehearsed but are expressions of what each one of us can individually offer to another. Each romantic act I have spoken above are shaded by the personality of the individual, and though they have flaws I see the beauty of each action, the virtue which emanates and fluidly encompasses those which we wish to share our experiences with. All the above moments and the like can occur naturally, possibly hundreds of times between the same individuals, occurring without notice and if noticed rarely ever considered.

I turn now to what romance is not. Romance is not benign. On the contrary romance can be terribly dangerous. When I see the struggle of romance I hear the powerful words of Reagan telling the world to "tear down this wall!" Each act of romance when accepted structurally weakens the walls which we surround ourselves. Each brick removed is one defence that has been diverted or converted into a possible weapon. Its a baring of our soul. When that young man brushed her hair from her eyes he is telling her that he is willing to risk great pain at her hands and the same can be said when she lightly touches his shoulder. Romance is never nor should it be if it is to remain beautiful and worth while, benign. 

Most importantly I wish to end my short treatise on the question that has plaguing me most. Why? If the risk and the pain that can occur when romance expresses itself is terrifyingly palatable why do we sentimentalize romance so? At first I did not have an answer (and I may still lack one) but when I continued to turn and analyze the problem I couldn't help but come to a simple conclusion, and please excuse me if its unappetizing but … what else shall we risk all for other than for our fellow romantics? 

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Dry lips. That is all I could think of when we kiss. Dry, chapped lips. Every time she pressed them against my own I would sneak a peak by opening one eye which would widen as I noticed that for some utterly unknown reason she appeared to enjoy kissing me, with those dry, chapped and cracked lips. In unison her hands would run against my scarred back and I could feel her chewed fingernails sprawl against my skin, the indents caused by her nervous appetite. 

"You are SO sexy babe" she uttered through gasping breaths. Pause. Relative truths. 

I felt a hand creeping down my waist line struggling with the jean button that found a way to considerately halt the moment as she pulled away and smiled, promising to do more things that were inevitably going to occur. I smiled? back with a mischievous? look in my eye. I watched as she struggled with the jeans I wore which both accentuated my thin legs and my robust waist; I am more a walker than I am an active person. As her blurred outline finally removed my pants I noticed that she pulled an article of clothing from herself, watching as dense fabric darkness broke the less dense darkness behind her silhouette, unveiling white broken by pink in the middle of the blurred image which knelt 5 feet in front of me.

The mammal sprung, covering the 5 feet faster than I would have thought likely, impossibilities are often unlikely impossibilities so one depends less on the one but on the size of the number below the loneliest number. This time her lips mercifully kept its focus upon my skin, scraping against the base of my neck and the centre fold of my upper chest, which heaved through the driving force of my hormonal bypass system, successfully installed in the summer of 2004, no updates of yet. I felt my hand instinctively grasp at comfort, taking pleasure at squeezing and rubbing without much thought, through with dire consequences. 

Without warning I felt her hand darting to explore my anatomy, grasping with an equivocally inane and primal curiosity which I imagined paralleled my own emotionally apathetic romp through animalism. Her hand slowly transformed into a medium of slow and and fast patterns, moving away from mindless grasping. Echoing the transformation I myself decided on an idea, hoping it would create the desired intentions. Our biology reacted as intended. 

"Please" she whispered in my ear. At first the plead meant nothing to me, I didn't understand what was being asked. At first I hoped her mind was in tune with my own but when she repeated the single word I heard the elongated middle "e" and the almost silent "e" at the end of the word prophesying that my hope was not to be. I knew I was easily capable of doing what was asked but I hesitated for a moment. In that moment she took it upon herself and before I knew what was happening I was like a puppet on a string, playing the role expected of me, at the very least connected to a human being. 

Within moments I felt myself contort and I knew I had to pull away, knew that I had to remove myself from the current predicament and as I pulled away I felt myself unveil itself and watched as all my energy drained. I rolled over, making sure not to be in contact with the person next to me, and I felt shame and unworthiness wash upon myself. Inadequacies came to fruition and the very idea of my role in that moment came into pathetic focus. For a heart pounding moment I hated myself until I felt a sympathetic touch on my shoulder. 

Silence Of a Calm Winter Snow Fall

The silence of a slow winter snowfall adds to its patient nature. The beauty of snow's descent is heightened when un-availed by the force of wind, when allowed to glide without interference or inference. Upon such a sight she left her home and climbed into her poor excuse of a truck. It held greater visual and structural relation to a rust-bucket than to the truck it was meant to idolize, but it moved through the magic of combustion, and though it painfully creaked, it held together by some basic act of molecular physics. 

As she picked up speed and struggled to climb the snow covered hill beyond her home, the passenger of said rust-bucket began to feel tears sting her heavily mascaraed eyes, unleashing a stream of war paint which encompassed her pale cheeks. Her eyes shrunk as her driving become more haphazard and while her vision blurred she realized that her truck, though diligent and stubborn, could move no faster. At that moment without thought she slammed upon the brakes and felt the subtle power of momentum overcome the subtler power of friction and gravity. Rust-bucket slide upon the slick snow covering hidden ice with a wonderful fluidity and for a moment Rust-bucket appeared to be at home upon the ice. With a blink her deeply black eyes peered through the poorly swept windshield looking upon a blackness of white snow impenetrable to all. As she slide the snow carefully parted to the heaving and hole riddled Rust-bucket who glided towards an embankment growing in size before her slowly widening eyes. 

The wonders of winter remains in its silence. Movement always appears to coincide with sound, but as Rust-bucket slide painfully fast towards the embankment the silence remained. The engine, though running, did not break the spell, and she couldn't utter a word for what would be the point when utterance would invariably fail to change the coming circumstances. No, the slide and the collusion held the deep sustenance of silence for the pillowy sound enveloping frozen liquid encompassed Rust-bucket in its cold embrace while very quickly succeeding where gravity and friction failed. She heard nothing. 

The amount of time that passed between moments cannot be gaged. She sat in Rust-bucket considering her surroundings. Rust-bucket appeared to have finally lived up to her appearance for she was undeniably immovable, and as such would be fated to remain in her current position. Tears still filled her eyes, though wether they where from the previous moment or the future current moment cannot be said, only that they appeared during a moment either remembered or unremembered. 

Slowly and carefully she unveiled herself of Rust-bucket, exiting through the back window and stepping into the cab of her once faithful and trusted vehicle. Taking a deep breath she soaked in her surroundings through her blackened eyes. She felt the slightest hint of a cold breeze from the west and felt in her bones that a fierce wind existed beyond the horizon. She slowly climbed from Rust-bucket, feeling the ache in her muscles from the impact of stymied momentum and unwrapped a pair of snow shoes that lay in the cab. With gingerly patience she placed each foot in each set of straps and methodically tightened. Looking upwards she slowly struggled uphill, towards the same direction in which she was driving before. With a last moment of pause she looked back, blinked, and once again trekked forward with abandonment. 

Silence Unbroken (Poem)

Silence Unbroken 

Pen to paper between and upon lines

notes playing on repeat in your mind

dotted lines and expressive cursive 

bleed and scribe upon the empty page 

hands resting on white and black 

dense and clean to well versed tips

applying pressure to hammers inside

filling space with something not right 

pen to paper between crossed out lines

notes haunting echoed chambered mind

frustrated cursive and aggressive lines 

flood and expelled upon the busy page 

hands pounding upon black and white 

dense and pained to over used tips 

striking with unhindered hammers inside

unable to hear himself despite concentration 

When You're Gone (Poem)

When You're Gone

You would like to think you matter

that the world would be a little sadder

when you're gone

rest your eyes love and go to bed

the sheets are warm and you are cold

you imagine flowers and red bouquets 

laughter among the young and old 

when you're gone 

rest your eyes and come back to bed

the sheets are cold and you are warm 

I imagine life would be infinitely dull 

filled with greys where once was blues

when you're gone 

so close your eyes and lay with me 

the sheets are cold and so are you 

I Am a Liar: a Song Elucidated

I've used the blog format to showcase my writing and my poetry, though I have yet to take advantage of the medium in unveiling my greatest passion, music. I see myself first and foremost as a musician and that is where my artistic energies are focussed. I also adore the art and trade of composition, so I would like to explain my thought process when penning and composing my humble musical creations. I suppose you can see me as the magician who unveils the tricks of his trade (though I assure you I am no magician). 

The song I will be unveiling tonight is, as the title suggests, I Am a Liar. I Am a Liar possesses numerous genesises, all of which would be exacting to express, but I would like to break down the logic of my recording process (as poor as it is). The initial guitar riff, originating in Dm, is the backbone of the piece. It is where the melodic lines, both vocally and instrumentally, grow. The riff is in-itself melodic, building upon the Dm and the Gm7th chord structure, but its potential I believe is unveiled within the lead guitar line, which is importantly incredibly repetitive, and the vocal melody, which, through its use of octavus jumps, adds depth to the piece. It allows the listener to be engaged. The engagement is incredibly important for the structure and the layers within the song are by design repetitive. The Song is built upon the classic verse-chorus-verse structure, allowing for a vocal coda built upon the layered verse. 

The lead guitar line, which slightly echoes the initial song riff, is as mentioned before repetitive by design. It is built to link the chorus to the verse, allowing the initial melodic tendencies of the song to still exist above the changed chordal structure of the chorus. The lead line does not change, chaining every aspect of the song within the confinements of the initial melody. The phrasing of the lead line is also important. It cannot be exact to the original riff or it will fail to bleed forth from the pack, difficult to do when dealing with the shoegaze esc rhythm guitar that is purposefully layered to muddle the first guitar. The rhythm guitar by all intents and purposes is meant to make everything sound muddy and hard to distinguish. Built upon three chords, mainly Cm, the rhythm is drenched with heavy reverb and layered with an exaggerated delay/echo, ensuring that one chord bleeds into another, making it messy and hard to distinguish, such adding another layer of sound vital to the width and depth of the song. The rhythm guitar is removed when the chorus is played, but the basic feedback remains, adding a slightly different soundscape and allowing the lead guitar to shimmer through. 

The bass line and the (fake) string section are intrinsically linked. They are separated by a fifth, building a basic (power) chord and driving the song forward, but also allowing the bass to fill out and appear less monotonous (which it is). The bass is simplified to allow the hip-hop influenced beat to sound un-alien (to mixed results I must admit). At the very least, it allows the poor hip-hop beat to feel less arduous, and drives the song forward. The drums are vital for the pacing of the song, driving the song and adding tension to the work (again with mixed results).

Lastly the guitar solo. In all honestly the solo is a work of repetitive improvisation. I improvised a guitar solo over the verse section over and over, slowly piecing together specific phrases and note clusters I enjoyed aesthetically. Once piecing together 3 or 4 parts, I than improvised those tools overtop until a satisfactory take was created. Possibly the quickest and enjoyable process of the song. 

If you are interested in hearing the song, just click on the link below to my personal Soundcloud, entitled Winged Flight. There you will find other songs, which I will hopefully explain in detail on another date. 

Cheers

https://soundcloud.com/winged-flight/i-am-a-liar

What Makes a Man?

Looking at Jason I feel out of place. He sits before me, tall, handsome, and painfully arrogant. His cowboy boots and his belt buckle hold together the rest of his cowboy attire well, while his well groomed hair and awkward piercings contrast with his image. He is a man of polarizing styles which oddly makes him irresistible to the young women he has learned to prey on. The Heineken he drinks conveys wealth. That it comes from the rigs means little to his one night acquaintances. Jason has that smile which make women blush and men sigh in defeat. 

"Hey man, how you doing?" He asks in his melodic and confident voice. The master of small talk. 

"Oh you know man, I can't complain haha." My reply is as he expected. I am a downtrodden pathetic man. The antithesis of Jason. I am far from a good looking man, and lord knows I lack confidence. My clothes would be an ode to film Noir if not for their bright colours, a vast difference to Jason's Spaghetti western influences. I am a sexually frustrated and inept young man with promise while Jason is a sexually successful and charming man facing a dead end.

"for sure man haha. What are you drinking?" I look down at the Heineken.

"Ill have a Heineken as well actually." Jason smiled "good man!" The waitress walked over with two Heineken's and a smirk in Jasons direction. I look across the small bar table which stands between me and Jason. 

"So hows life man? Still working on the rigs?" Jason smiles as he takes a swig from his bottle. "Ya man, same old same old." I nod as I always do when I see Jason. "Cool, so you got a lady?" I always ask. I know the answer. With Jason, there is no point in trying to bullshit and move around different conversations. He wants to talk about one thing, women. 

"Ya man! I think this is the one. You know me, I want to settle, and this girl is real special." This is the carbon copy of our last conversation. Every girl is "the one" and Jason still clings to his frail christian ideals. I know in time, he will change her name twice, and talk about two other young ladies he is ready to settle down with. As he sits across from me I feel contempt and jealously for him. Contempt because he is a lier, thief and manipulator. I feel jealously for him because in many respects he is a greater man than I am. His sexual prowess is frustrating and his masculine projection is hateful. 

"You seem to be doing well for yourself eh Jason haha." Jason gives me that smile I disgust, yet I wish I had. He could swoon almost any dimwitted woman in any bar. His deep green eyes and his thick brown hair bring out his nose and whitens his smile. He sits with a ease I can only perceive but never conceive. 

"You know me man, always got them by the string" as he makes a reeling motion. What makes Jason more of a man then me? I ask myself this question often. I can't help but feel morally superior, and I tell myself daily that kindness means more than charm and dashing good looks. Every time I see jason though, my thoughts seem weak and petty. Who am I compare to this man? I feel like a boy, a lost one at that. 

"Well, its getting late Jason, but it was good seeing ya take care. Cheers" I say. "Sure man, take care. Don't be a stranger." I walk away hating myself and hating him for being the reason.