Monday, May 4, 2009

Upon a Brooklyn Drizzle.


It's a constant drizzle - the rain here in Brooklyn. My mind is fluttering across the Rolodex of the past year or so. Introspection. Sure. Self-reflective? Maybe.

I spent the past few hours going through and organizing - literally - thousands of emails in my Hotmail account...mostly stuff I've been meaning to read, or will never get to 'truly' uncover. Regardless. I think seeing the course of my 'email' life the past year was astonishing. For those of you who know me well enough understand that 'gypsy' is a lifestyle. It's the way I do things - on a whim, spontaneous - that I travel often, that I never remain still. For those of you who have just met me, or are starting to get to know me, you understand this as well - perhaps more than others.

Every now and again, I will stop, look back and listen to my past in hopes to see if I can catch a glimpse of where I am going, where I may potentially end up. (Un)fortunately, today as I sit at my current cafe enclave, I have no clue for tomorrow. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. It's just foggy. Unclear. Unsteady.

Life has crept up on me the past six months. Rather, it has pounced upon me. Like a leopard. Like a fox. I find myself a man who is headed somewhere, but doesn't know where; I find myself an individual filled with love, but no love to share; I find myself a person living out his dreams, but constantly stumbling across nightmares. In times like these, I rely on two things to get me through the night: the words, life and wisdom of my namesake, my late grandfather, and the song, "What a Wonderful World." In these brief, peaceful moments I take a deep breath and realize that life is a wonderful tragedy, a struggle towards perfection.

Ultimately, it is in our own strife that life begins to pulsate, vibrate. Achieving life's goals mean nothing without the climb to that goal. Hard work. Dedication. Continuation. Living everyday as if it were your last. Simple words. True. However, this is the foundation of how I intend to mark every moment, to live every sense to its fullest, to struggle with joy as much as I struggle with pain. To quote Nikos Kazantzakis:

"Δεν είμαι το φως, είμαι η νύχτα· μα μια φλόγα λοχίζει ανάμεσα στα σωθικά μου και με τρώει. Είμαι η νύχτα που την τρώει το φως."

which translates to:

"I am not the light, I am the night; yet, a flame lingers in my innards and eats me from within. I am the night which devours the light."

- gypsy george.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Stories for A.D.D. (and other tales...)



A Back Door Heat Wave

Summer in March, somewhere in the Valley. New Age Jazz music suffers its way through the back door of a heat wave. A hot cup of coffee only terrifies the mood exponentially. Children’s paintings hang on the walls, while the sun attempts to pierce through this mediocrity. The shadows, however, appear to have the upper-hand today.

Afternoon pouting has glazed across this café highway emerging like fiberglass expelled from a car after a head-on collision. The mundane wit soothes like an ice pick stuck in the mud of one’s soul. The clanging ice cubes attempt to harmonize with the New Age Jazz, but...harmony hates New Age Jazz. The cars buzz by along the Boulevard, beyond mere destination. Millions of souls dot this surface with only a few spots reserved for fortune and fame. An annoying cell phone ring temporarily distracts from the New Age Jazz. Some milk and foam ambiance.

Now, we are back to normal. Well, at least, Summer in March, somewhere in the Valley.

- gypsy george.