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Monthly Archives: June 2013

A lukewarm wave of emotion overcomes him in memory of that enduring and bumpy overnight bus journey; the havoc of the uneven dirt paths that sometimes were credible enough to be referred to as roads worked every muscle in their bodies rather knowingly. The lack of space that was further cramped by the entwined habitants was overcrowded with an exotic and stuffy romantic occupant, as if a third presence had taken residence. They lay side by side, sometimes each one of their shoulders would meet, other times they’d swap a spooning, either way they’d be pressed against each other whether by choice or not. Atop the smog of lust was the unseen polluted air that drifted violently in through the fully opened sliding horizontal window, its dirt filled surface a representation of a heavy footed dusty aroma. The journey took them through various states and cities, cities and states; they shared an experience that could not be repeated by them or anybody else. Perhaps other temporary lovers who could not be publicly open about their growing adoration had travelled this exact trip, at this exact time with this exact disregard for the future. Perhaps other temporary lovers had mounted the trail from luscious beach to palm swept beach on winding hilly roads through eerie forests against the will of the opportunistic local police force. But this was their trip, their exploration of lands unknown. He arched himself to fit beneath the claustrophobic ceiling so that his face appeared above the face of his temporary lover, a strip of matted unwashed hair strayed loosely in the dark breeze. Pleasure lasted for a mere few minutes – a microcosm of the romantic span of the whole trip. This brief moment of complete disregard for barriers, sexual or otherwise, was just over four years ago. Such a connection has not since been allowed by the man who desires a unique repetition of events but lives in the rusty shackles of his self imposed stereotype.

Tonight, we met Dave.

Dave looked about 70. The creases on his drawn face were filled with stories, one of which includes that of moving from the UK and living in the US for over 20 years before returning. He told me with a mixed American-British accent, a lot of saliva passed through a sparse set of teeth and plastered itself on my left cheek as I leant in to his face to hear what he was saying. My friends were djing some really good soulful music, stuff that urges a groove, music that makes your shoulders twitch without really realising before the feet lift in rhythm and the hips follow, for a short inhibited moment. Wearing a tight tie dyed hippie-like long sleeved top, jeans pulled up beyond the belly button and a decent head of silver hair, Dave danced from the soul. He moved in a camp manner, his arms would twist and his hips would groove in rhythm to the soul that was blaring. He was the only person dancing. People in the bar would look on over, some would snigger, perhaps look down on him, others would smile with encouragement and a couple, toward the end, actually joined him. There's something that fascinated us about him, his energy was unrivalled and his balls were huge. To dance in front of a floor to ceiling window that smokers sitting in the heated outdoor area and general Friday night passers by could be witness to is the epitome of freedom. He just did not give a shit. And I love him for him.

Dave, dear Dave, I salute you.

If you had a manual, what would it say?

I’m not sure if people who follow this blog (hello!) read and actively comment but I’m putting this question out there for you to answer. I was asked the above question today and I was rather stumped. I’ve not thought about it much since being asked but the person who asked me said theirs would ask for the reader to “get to the point within 20 seconds and make sure your story has a beginning, middle and end,” and “give me personal space.”

I’m still thinking on my answer. And because of that, maybe the first thing would be “to be patient” 😉

I have this unquenched and gut love for my mother; it can sometimes bring me to shed a single tear. Sometimes I forget my own ethos in how to treat her, how to listen to her, how to sup up every bit of wisdom and courage from her. I think back over her life and I become overwhelmed by the tragedies, the crazy events, the good times, the smiles, the oppression, the repression, the undiluted love she omits and radiates. I am so fucking blessed with her and I seriously don’t know what I’d do without her. Like, I’d crumble. Even in the face of inevitability, I can’t process what I’d do and it makes me feel weak and overly attached. Even up until my current age, she has been my rock. And this is without anybody really being hers. I wish somebody could be her rock. I know we as her children are what keeps her going, she has said this on many occasions, but we’re a different level to what a man could be for her. A companion, somebody to share her desires and thoughts with.

My friend posted this song on her facebook wall today. It’s made me wonder what conversation must have happened for my friend to have posted this, so freely on her wall. People sometimes forget to be nice, to be honest, to talk from the heart. Especially guys. In my case, it’s a fear of exposing vulnerability. I envy people with such disregard for what others think. My mind is still young and immature in this sense, I am not free of myself or the fears that I know are irrational. I see this song and the fact that my friend posted it as a little reminder, a sign somewhat, to remember to be the best I can for my mother. So to my friend, thank you, and to my mother, as much love as I can possibly give without suffocating. She is my world. If I can possess a fraction of her strength and courage and determination, I’d be a hundred times the man that I am today.

A raver perhaps, you’d be.
A swift sniff
of your neck
as time slows
to a hazy
single second moment
of lustful atmosphere.
Lasers jitter
a robotic green,
they scan our bodies,
a room full of
messy concoctions.
Hands raised
in a school boy manner,
bouncing silhouettes.
These are the times
of our lives,
a brief passing
of unguarded bliss.
An arm wraps itself
around her neck,
an acceptance
of closeness,
a common bond
of release.
Sweat drips from bodies
to the floor,
from the ceiling,
into drinks,
it’s all oneness.
Feet bend to jump,
tiptoe to see,
legs raise
in simultaneous joy,
the thud of jumps
unheard of
beneath the
sandwich filler
of subliminal noise.
Sounds elongate
as the moment,
this one moment
of freedom
is allowed upon us
by the frequency of one.
It’s a room filled
with love,
it presses itself
against you
like a lover,
a romance novel
unfolding
without
the
luring
and
the
chasing.
We just are
and together as one
we
for a single moment
forget
what it’s like
to be in
reality.

I’m taking a dive in to the world of teaching. The form of teaching I profess is that of TEFL, which for anybody who is reading and doesn’t know is “teaching English as a foreign language.” It comes under many different guises, all amounting to the same thing. My other personal endeavour has taken a back seat somewhat whilst I assimilate myself to such a venture. The previous business is like my actual child and though I’m a man, it feels like I’ve actually given birth to it, so spending less time on it feels like the moral outcry of child neglect. It’s my passion turned business that doesn’t make a whole lot of money but gives me 10 times as much satisfaction. Of recent, that chasing of passion has somewhat deflated me. The passion remains intact but my thoughts and cravings are changing as I age past what’s deemed “young person”. I’m kidding myself on that, as it’s been a few years to what is labelled as a young person in the UK, but I think I’ve continued it for as long as possible. And had a bloody good time with it.

I digress. As usual.

My first official student is a 50+ year old bulbous father of three (or four, I can’t remember, despite the amount of times we’ve practised such conversation) from Saudi Arabia. His form is round, like a snowman, only darker. His hair lessens the further you trace up to the cone of his scalp so he has a thin mullet, without the mullet top, of which is replaced by a shiny baldness. He is short in stature and is rather very funny indeed. We’ve acquired a relationship by where he has opened up his personality, which at times is totally child-like and for me, quite endearing. I sometimes wonder how he manages to live in a foreign land without the caring and culturally submissive wife at hand. That is not to patronise, as he is a father and has lived his life as a teacher.

The English language is a wondrous thing, it’s a tool of communication and what I’m enjoying about teaching is the way in which writing seems to, at the moment anyway, come naturally. At times I’ve had such a block and I recognise mistakes but I am unaware of how to correct them. Now, I’m relearning tenses, the many irregularities and difficulties that verbs possess, particularly for somebody whose mother tongue is not English, ever more so when their language is far from European.

Slowly but surely it feels as though I’m partaking in life again, however temporary this particular student may be for me; the changes I wholeheartedly made at the beginning of the year are showing results.

Persistence, dedication, focus, will, strength of mind, maturity and even a few little requests to the universe, are what have made this possible. Really, anything you put your mind to is possible. They really are endless.