Three in the morning, down the street from Colonel Fabien

My newfound friend apparently from Jamaica, which also apparently made us America brothers, had thrown off his backpack, and a small French man had whipped off his belt swinging it high above his head towards the 3 AM Paris moon.

The three young women sitting down watched on as if a brawl was soon to unfold. Then shooting eyes at me to keep the peace.

It was madness, certain wild crazed madness.

My Jamaican drinking buddy pulled out of his backpack the last bottle of red, garnishing more than just his dukes.

“FUCK NO!” I had yelled and jumped on his back, holding back his arms.

“Listen big guy, you don’t want to wreck this old fool, because you know when the cops show up who they’ll come for first.”

“He no mahn, fuck em.”

“You really think this bitch is worth it?”

“Maybe no, I don’t know man, this wine – it make me angry. You’re right.”

“I know I’m right motherfucker, now grab your bag and just get out of here before you hurt this son of a bitch.”

"Come sit with us, that was good, you're good." One of the young women said.

She had big green mystic eyes, and messy hair. She handed me some whiskey. 

Everything after that seems even more now truly unreal. Hoping in that cab, when it got to be 5 AM because the Paris skies started pouring rain.

"Come with us."

 Not knowing where the hell I was headed. It was okay though, because it ended up arriving at the Parisian utopia.

Now I just have flash backs, and see things or smell things that remind me of those dream like nights, and days sitting in that apartment, rolling through Hemingway territory all because I broke up a fight, and was supposedly good company.

From violence to wine to bliss, and to the canal cutting through the dark Paris streets.

And then those half French, and half Spanish eyes looking into me every morning, and night. Calling me a stupid American, and lighting up those reds, opening the windows to let the sun wake me up.

5,000 miles away and yet it feels like a different life separate from any reality ever imagined. It’ll never be the same, and it won’t ever be so real, and I’ll never let myself forget.

About a Girl

An airport is probably the worst place to be for a day. Especially when you’re leaving a place that you’re leaving so much behind. Staring at the people, wishing they were others, wrapping your head around the people you’re leaving behind. I met people that will live on in Rome, they’ll live their lives, they’ll love, they’ll regret, cry, and laugh, when I’m on the other side of the world hopefully doing the same. And the whole experience of living in a city like Rome for a month and some change is that you get to know people, and if you want to, you really get to know them. Which in the moment seemed like a good thing to do, the natural human thing to do, interaction, kisses on the cheek, a friendly ciao when I walked by, but now it just hurts, its painful in the weirdest way. Even though I said, oh yeah I leave then for this place and going to do that, and see this, it doesn’t really matter. When that last day comes and you walk down the stairs or open the elevator door it seems like just for those little moments right then and there that you made them believe that it was never going to be like this. I can go to LA or even NYC for a weekend, or a week and meet people, people that I’ll care about and want to see again. But those places are comprehendible; it’s not as difficult. But Rome, Paris, Barcelona? Those are places that will only live within the time I was there, and the people too. I don’t know there’s no real answer but it seems like when a place and people touch you, and really do, past any fabricated bullshit, hold onto it, and remember it for as long as possible. Because even when I go back, it’ll never be the same, and I’ll always be searching for the same rhythms.

Golden Hours

The sun and clouds cut colorful bright reveries down on the coastal countryside.

“No God here, babe, this isn’t the Italian Dream.” Verita said.

“Oh yeah, yeah, how about Utopia? Maybe further?”

It seemed as if the hills just kept rolling and colliding over one another, the dropping sun closing in on the far reaching horizon on the cusp of creation and where the land falls into the deep blue.

“You feel that breeze coming around?”

“Mhm, I can almost smell the salt.”

The trees in the Italian hills were plush and perfect from above it would be like a great green carpet tossed over rolling rocks.

“This is where they used to bury their dead, right here in these tombs.”

“Dark and dreary, not a place where I’d like to lay my soul.”

We sat down in the near café watching the heat rise, yet the soft cool breeze rustle the trees. True happiness, true peace, I could feel it everywhere in me.

“What for tomorrow, en la manana?”

“The ocean, the sea, that deep blue out there.” I looked over at Veritas, exhaling a drag, and uncorking the white. As she poured 2 heavy glasses,

“Love.. if this isn’t living, I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I think many would agree.”

The sun dropped, and bottles clanked. The next morning rose, and with it the heat. Veritas and I hopped on the scoot and rod the graceful winding cypress filled hills down to the oceanic beauty. She clutched my waist and leaned in with me on every turn. On one long stretch and I reared my head to the empty heaven sky and bugled nothings up at the sun god, and we reached the beach without a soul around.

“Let’s run down the water’s edge, right down with every vibration.” She proposed.

“Oh hell, sure.” We ran and tossed in the water, then set up the big beach umbrella and hid from the sun. I pulled out the gin, limes, and tonic, and started brewing.

“Oh hey love, I have some fun little things I picked from Jupiter’s garden.” She hands me 2 pieces of angelic looking remedies, and I threw them back. “Supposedly you’ll feel God, the holy trinity, and maybe some of those good old boys of the past.” Veritas said.

“If you say so.”

Modern love I thought, what a ride, for reality or for not, it’s hard to tell some of these days. I sipped my gin and listened to the rhythm of the waves, and crashing, and receding, and the dripping of life. It was a different time right then and there, rolling down the edges of the red, white, and green, creating our own stories, and possible truths, not caring about the whole damn world, but maybe just reason, and the answer to the moving of time.

“Yeah.. I see that grin, how is it?” Verita asked.

“Wild, but I think I’m here.”

“The Italian Dream, I’m pretty sure we found it.” She said.

“Yeah, yeah maybe.”

“You see him?”

“I think I feel him, like a quacking out there in the blue, I don’t know, is this the point? The reason and all?”

“I think, not everyone sees the big man, some see other things and feel other dreams.” She said.

“What? The ole boys? Them toga-ed cloud dwellers?”

“Whatever fits with you, whatever you want to see, right?”

“I don’t know Verita, what about you?”

“I think it’s all bullshit, it’s just the high.” Verita said with a smile and then with no warning to any heaven she faded into that cool zephyr flowing off of the sea.

The gin still poured, the palliatives worked, and it was all good and fine because it I knew it was real at one point, and never actually too far from the truth. I took a deep breath and looked at the unveiled sky, and then that’s when the strange music started to play, but I swear I could’ve died in those days without a worry in the world.