hectordd

[hectordd]

Viktor; Saturday Morning

    It’s a weekend morning, so Viktor gets his coffee black. No food, too early. He stares out of the café window, foot traffic slowly builds up. It’s a foggy day, much like his head, after a night of shots. The coffee pierces his nostrils and wakes him somewhat. He takes a sip. Lately Marx’s been on his mind. He tries not to, but can’t help thinking how people are viewed as a commodity. How many figures do they make, what car do they drive, where do they live? Blah, blah, blah.     Ugh, it’s too early in the morning for this shit. He takes another sip. An organic feel radiates the hood at this time. There’s a gentleman in his 60’s selling tamales in front of the carnitas place. A lady next to him selling religious trinkets and even some of the panhandlers have slowly made their way to the liquor store just past them. No hipsters out yet, sorry. There’s a wealth of stories waiting to be told but does anyone wish to hear them?     For a hangover, Viktor’s mind is quite active today. Was it Durkheim who believed the economic changes in a society leads to feelings of alienation and a degradation of values? Some people think that even the smallest exchange has some sort of economic motive, you know, trying to extract something from that person. Viktor has never believed that, but he can’t help thinking how bad he is at selling himself. Perhaps it’s the reason his ex’s passed on him for doctors and pilots. But that’s not what’s on his mind this morning.     The coffee starts to taste quite bitter now, he adds a spurt of sugar. Is a being a decent human being even an attractive quality nowadays, ha! The fog is starting to clear and half a block away he spots Joel. He says hi and Viktor says, “Buenos Dias.” On Cinco de Mayo, the day the hood’s invaded by intoxicated suburbanites, Viktor met Joel on 18th street. Viktor sat on the steps of a vacant storefront, fiddling with his camera.     “It’s too early and you’re too young to be drunk on the street, mijo!” Viktor laughed. Joel doesn't shy away from sharing the fact that he is an alcoholic and lives in Dvorak Park. Yes, ‘in the park’. He’s homeless.     “There’s nothing to shoot out here, it’s just a bunch of drunk kids,” Viktor explained.     “You can take my picture,” the 54 year old veteran exclaimed. Viktor got up, held up his medium format, framed Joel. Click. Hell he even bracketed it. Despite being homeless, an alcoholic and abandoned by his family, Joel loves his life. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst of enemies, though. “It’s no way to live”, he adds. The coffee is getting cold, so he gets a top off. It’s not the best cup of java, but it does the job. The hood is vibrant now, and families are out on their ‘mandados’. He spots a lady he met at his local bar months ago. She sees him through the rain spotted windows of the café and smiles. Viktor waves and she waves back. He can’t remember her name, she always seems to be in good spirits though. She has two kids, a boy about 8 and a daughter that’s not quite a teenager yet but’s old enough to understand her father’s a piece of shit. Viktor’s almost certain the lady’s name is Anna. She married the P.O.S. despite his infidelities. Pushed him to work hard for the last 15 years and now’s a manager at some factory, doing quite well. So well in fact, he’s cheating on her with some floozy 15 years younger than Anna.      “No le da verguenza, cuarenton paseandose con una muchachilla de veinte.” (Has he no shame, 40-something strolling about with a 20-something?) Anna doesn’t want to see all the hard work she’s invested into her family being thrown out the window. His success isn’t only his. It breaks her heart that he’s willing to sabotage his family, his relationship with his kids, for some middle age crisis. Some stupid fling, last hurrah.      “You know, she’s just using him. She doesn’t even know what she wants. She’ll get bored and move on. He has everything to lose and he doesn’t even see it.” Anna feels old. The piece of shit flaunts her, takes her out on nice dates, like he did Anna when he was courting her. Anna feels ugly, she knows her youthful beauty has slowly deserted her and will never look as pretty as the floozy. Her eyes well up but Anna bravely holds her tears and composure with a quiet resolve; the unmistakable quality of older Mexican women who’ve toiled all their life under a machista culture.     “I should’ve known better. Once a cheater always a cheater. It was only a matter of time,” she adds. “I’m just keeping it together for my kids. Someone has to.” Anna thinks of going to the gym to feel better about herself. She brushes away the dampness on her eyes and apologizes for laying this all on Viktor. He mentions there’s no need to, comforts her with the fact that she’s still young and can meet someone who’d want someone as strong and brave as her. She laughs and lightens up. They have a shot and then heads out at 2:30. Her kids are almost out of school.      The Commodification of Human Worth. That’d be a nice title for a thesis. The second cup is almost gone. Viktor thinks this over. Why are people’s values and worth weighed in an economic sense? Does anyone value Joel’s frankness, his sense of humor, the wisdom he dishes out? Just seen as a haggardly beat up shell of a man. A drunkard, an unreliable and unhire-able panhandler. Funny, he never once asked Viktor for a dime. And Anna? Why doesn’t her husband value her strength, courage, dedication to family and success? He only values youth, the shell of beauty that slowly degrades with time.  Viktor looks within, asks himself why people always share their stories with him. I (the narrator) think he’s actually a great listener. He’s empathetic, possesses an acute sense of attentiveness to the subtleties of the human condition. It’s his sixth sense. It’s a shame he tries to drown it out with cheap well shots at dive bars. Can you blame him?      It’s late, Viktor stretches and gulps the last remaining drops of coffee that’ve gone cold. The skies haven’t cleared but his head has. He heads out the door, spots Ricardo, the mariachi guy from Monterrey. He’s walking towards Ashland Avenue, and Viktor quickens the pace, hoping to chat him up. Boy, does he have a story! But that is for another day to tell.

[hectordd]

Summer Segue

Summer days are fleeting. The cold breeze encroaches, fall is sliding into summer’s DMs and after much persistence it looks like it might finally get a date. The leaves on trees haven’t gotten the memo, so they radiate their chlorophyllic greenness that line hundreds of city sidewalks, making curtains obsolete for those that sleep naked and love to walk their living rooms in their undies. Soon the plants sunbathing on the windowsill won’t sprout as much, their growth will stifle and they’ll long for those hours of summer sunlight, in short, they’ll be thirsting for the D (vitamin).

Deep in the closet the long sleeves are getting second looks and that gets them giddy. The sweaters and hoodies have noticed this and they know they’re about to get some action as well. They’ll be hitting the cafés, smelling like chai lattes, layered, brushing against scarves and T’s, hopefully within the crosshairs of other fall garments. The coats? Well, all they can really say is, “Winter is coming.” They’ve never even seen Game of Thrones.

The living room sofa has been rather lonely the last few months; subjected to the occasional evening nap and little bits of drool, yet still firm and spotless it stands, as it awaits to be put to good use through a decent amount of Netflix and Chill’ing. The bookshelves also gots lots looking forward to. Its movies finally shuffled around by cute strangers, the dust in the hidden crevices shaken off as its books get pulled to be read in a chilly mornings, carefully caressed, bookmarked, and queued up on the coffee table and next to the bed lamp.

The war between the furnace and comfy blankets will wage once more. The blankets tossed aside when it gets toasty; the furnace switched off in preference of blankets and intertwining toes when blazingly warm. Finally the bed will enjoy the extra warmth of an extra body. No longer perturbed by an early sunrise, it longs for feminine scents, prolonged murmurs of sweet and passionate mumblings well into the late morning, while the bare walls reverberate late night moans of guilty pleasure, sensuous discovery, and inebriated kisses of one night stands, impromptu liaisons, maybe even a much needed significant other.

[hectordd]

Where have all the Chapsticks gone? (Not a love story.)

     It never really hit me she was gone until I needed her. I looked for her in all the usual places, retraced my steps to find that point and place where I’d lost her. Yet for all my efforts, nothing. Forced to walk in that blistering cold without her, I licked my lips, feeling the swollen redness around them, they missed her soothing dearness, now drying/dying in her absence. Out of habit I patted my chest, I carried her close to heart (an inside pocket in my parka), but she wasn’t there either. She was undeniably gone.

     I lament the day I took her for granted, sometime on a stretch of warm days in the middle of December. I’d gotten acquainted with her around October, when the days were growing colder and were doing a number on me. I stopped at a convenience store a few blocks around the block. There I saw her, dangling behind the counter, dressed in bright canary yellow with a shiny red cap (she had CARMEX written all over her), out of my reach. I paid my dues (to the man) and took her with, offered warmth, my home, took her everywhere, in exchange of her cooling, soothing balm on the lips. It mustn’t have been enough, since she bailed, slipped out of my jeans.

     Every year, every fall, the same recurring tale. A need and want for something to placate the burn, assuage the blows of the brutish winter. Every year, opening myself, only to be abandoned. Yet, once I’ve moved on, sought out someone else, she’ll reappear, in the midst of a load of laundered clothes, deep inside a forgotten jacket, or beneath a seat of an unvacuumed car. By then she’s changed, tattered, often grimy, inevitably dried up and lost her soothing touch.

     How tiring the cycle. That’s it, I’m done. I’m out. I can no longer play this sordid game. Moving to warmer weather, where lip balm ain’t needed, ain’t relevant, ain’t even sold. I’ll only have to worry about getting sunscreen. Yeah because I couldn’t possibly lose that. Right?

/x7oZ0ή�a� �

[hectordd]

Random Autumn Feels

Just a snippet of some short stuff, been writing a lot lately. Fall and winter gets the creative juices flowing, here’s a bit of that nectar.

Java for Two

Hi, would you care to get a cup’a coffee with me? I know there’s none much exciting about the offer, just bean-steeped water, really it’s an excuse to chill and chat with ya’. How do you take yours? Lots of cream or sugar? Maybe you’re more into lattes? (Please don’t say pumpkin spiced ones.) I take my coffee black and I guess it sorta’ defines me. Not because I’m dark (in skin color), but because I like simplicity. Black coffee, raw, not sugar-coated or diluted. Where’s the fun in that, huh? I’m not picky or very much hard to please. It’s very difficult to fuck up black coffee; about the only way is to serve it cold. With that said, will you have a cup with me? Before it all goes cold?

Autumn is awesome, my fav season. Don’t you wish sometimes you were with someone special to enjoy it with, especially over coffee, by a window, watching the petulant Chicago winds blow the leaves every which way?

Trump-shirted Man 

Trump shirt with cutoff sleeves; a troll perhaps? But I sensed a complete lack of humor, his putridly black pupils focused on the cold steel. His big, bulked, bro torso moved unwaveringly from machine to machine in a way that showed a complete lack of empathy. He lifted the bar bell, in the most gruntingly disgusting of ways, undoubtedly wishing to one-up the much stronger gay patrons. But no one stared, no one even snickered, no one was triggered. Ignominously he disappeared into the lockers, then the showers, cleansing himself of sweat, while the pestilent hate still lingered on his brow, broad shoulders and wee bit weenie.

Autumn and politics collide every four years. This year it’s Goliath vs. Goliath. There’s no underdog, just two giants no one likes. One of them is worst than the other, he’s despicable, a bully, slowly becoming a face for the worst this country has to offer. Guy at the gym is most likely one of them. 

Writer’s Drive

Hey whatta ‘bout me?

No doubt that oughtta be,

the name under that book’s title.

For all of us of whom,

have a dream to seek,

who words, emotions, letters leak.

To unleash passions, our opinions bound,

and express the suppressed,

especially what we’re afraid to address.

The voice of every writer:

restless, never dormant, yearning,

to be heard, read, trigger page-turning.

Daily, laboriously reading and writing,

practicing, improving my craft.

I know; still raw, rough, jagged, I’m not daft.

It will never end, been at it for ten…

Years, transpire yet this desire to write never peels

Ending til’ death, extinguishes the capacity to feel.

- I’m no poet, even if I dabble in it. I write, everyday becoming more convinced, it’s what I do best, the reason I was placed on this blue ball floating about, called Earth. Emotions have always run deep and ardently within (me), simmering, running rampant and furiously throughout. One day I decided to put them to paper and everyday since has been a struggle to portray those feelings adequately. My goal: to reign them, organize them, bind them, print them, and make others feel what I feel, the incredible range of human emotions; the ups, the lows, the numbing plateaus. The dream still lies far from reach, but somehow it feels doable now. Someday I’ll grace the space beneath the title of a paperback (and I won’t do it tamely) but first more hard work. 

[hectordd]

A Nervy, Dreamy Night (in the Loop)

“Long for something long enough and you’ll find a way to attain it. Long for someone long enough and for sure you’ll lose your nerve when they come.” – H.D.

           It’s curious what that innate desire, the one for finding love, can do to a person. For instance, it can make someone stay up into the wee hours of the night spit-shining a pair of boots that’ll probably only get a split-second’s glance. Or perhaps weary-eyedly spend it pressing a myriad of slacks and button-downs, trying them on, mixing and matching, only to choose jeans and a hoodie the next day. To be honest, it’s not like he’d be getting sleep anyway. Our friend, let’s call him Victor (or something that rhymes with it), tosses and turns in bed every night, anticipating for days, then weeks, whether he’ll see this charming gal again. Will she return his calls, his texts? What if she’s met a much cuter, smarter, charming guy with ambitions who works out and … Ah! Millions of doubts. At least she’s committed to tomorrow; but what if she last minute flakes? All this on his mind, but what really worries him is that with every passing day, that engraved image, of her smile, her pout, her mannerisms, her other listless charms, will slowly fade out of consciousness, become a distant memory, white noise in a mind full of clout.

           The very next day, he makes the trip down to rendezvous point, aka, Starbucks. He shoulda’ gotten breakfast, or light lunch, but he’d been on errand runs all day. Beside he’d want to have a polite appetite for dinner, right? Cometh the hour, cometh the nerves and so naturally an urgent need to urinate crescendoed. This always seemed to happen in the most inopportune of times, like when about to take a 5-hour long GRE exam. Thankfully he was at Starbucks and a quick leak was but a marble’s toss away, but first he’d buy something. Cup of java? No, no, no. Coffee breath. Tea? Isn’t that a diuretic? Maybe a croissant or Danish? Who gets a pastry while waiting on a date? A frigging weirdo. Maybe just a good ole’ pack of gum, because that’s totally not weird.

            He stood in line while some tourist asked directions, inevitably testing the limits of his continence. He felt the ground shift under his feet, or maybe his head circled. It wasn’t looking good for Vic. He needed sustenance, calories, food; anything to keep him propped on his feet. He was almost certain he’d faint within the next hour. A slight pang of hunger threatened, while a urinary need of relief persisted. He rushed over to the bathrooms. Nada. What kind of coffee shop has no restrooms? One in a downtown area frequented by tourists and panhandlers. He took a seat in the patio, crossed his legs, waited patiently, his options were few, but at least his breath was fresh.

            The anticipation grew; would he recognize her? Would she? What if this thing went sour the moment she spotted him? More questions, more doubts. His date dialed, let’s say her name’s Liliana (or something that rhymes with it), announcing her imminent arrival. Somehow he wasn’t excited. He was no longer in the patio of a restroomless Starbucks; he felt like an injured wildebeest dug in a trench of African weeds and tallgrass, while the corner of his eye spotted a blazing cheetah flying down the savannah, ready to feast on his demise. Seconds seemed eternal now.

            And then she emerged, a long streak of black hair, a cheeky smile and a carefree stride. He’d only known her for a mere couple of hours and yet he felt like he “knew” her. His worries fleeted with her every step. A soothing presence; someway or somehow, she’d made the air less arid, the mood lighter, his nerves at ease. They paced along the swanky storefronts dodging the tourist hordes and burgeoning rush hour traffic. Was there awkwardness? Of course, getting lost within 5 minutes of meeting is no easy feat to beat. But he smiled because if there was any person he’d want get lost with, undoubtedly it’d be her.

            They made their way up some stairs to a rooftop nest, a nice refuge from the hectic streets, though soon he realized the bar was a bit too posh. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t a joint he regularly rolled in (pun intended?), but was it perhaps too pretentious for her? After all there was a guy in a suit on a date with a gal in a dinner dress having mimosas (insert other ritzy cocktails here). I guess that meant they’d have to be on their very best behavior, keep the obnoxious laughter to a minimum, and exhibit exemplary table etiquette. Right? Wrong. The perfect icebreaker to cut through wiry tension is not a good joke, asking questions about jobs, hobbies, or anything of the sort, it’s stirring up a fracas. Listen and learn, this is how it’s done:

What you need to do is something that will attract attention and ire of the staff. Breaking a glass full of water, preferably within 5 minutes of arrival is a great example. First, you need to engage in an act of subterfuge, like reaching for an I.D. from a purse and drawing it out with great force, in fact pretend it’s glued or welded on. Next, when you manage to yank the damn thing away, which’s no easy feat, very carefully and precisely with the elbow nearest the glass, strike it about 2” from the brim. I can’t stress this enough, precision is key here. Strike it on the brim and it will only spill on the table, hit it too low and it will only topple slightly, but hit it on that sweet spot and the force and momentum will send it tumbling down the table. Now sit back and watch the domino effect. Your date will put on a display of nimbleness, try his best to reach for the ill-fated glass, possibly even lay a finger or two on it, just enough for others to think he knocked the thing down. The server will lean forward wide-eyedly, helpless but greatly annoyed. The patrons will then shush and…

[Take in this magical moment, close your eyes imagine yourself on a hammock, lulled by the pleasant roar of waves crashing at a beach, away from all worries, while this song lightly plays in the background]

Los mariachis callaron,

de mi mano, sin fuerza,

cayo mi copa,

sin darme cuenta,

ella quizo quedarse….

 [Now open your eyes]

The patrons will give their disapproving stares, sigh and roll their eyes. Isn’t that great! Finally, apologize, apologize. Apologize to the staff, to your date, to the nearing tables. When that gets old, apologize some more, the server will go out of her way to avoid you, maybe even holding a grudge and cut you off from any alcohol! What a great audience participatory activity, don’t you agree?

           Perhaps it’s dawned on you that no normal person should attempt this. But then again, Vic and Lil aren’t exactly normal. Not quite unhinged, but charmingly kooky. They’re smart and very passionate in their interests, yet love to chortle and cackle at inappropriate times, quite frequently too. If there was a fly on the posh place’s wall (this is October, so normally there aren’t any, but if there were), and it could speak, it’d say that H&M's table was the place to be. Their laughs were the loudest, their cheeks the rosiest and their blood the warmest. Vic didn’t care about broken glasses or proper etiquette, his eyes, his ears, were fixated on only her. In fact he was so engaged and swept away, he’d even forgotten about pissing for 3 hours.

           Day came and went. The sun made its last stand teetering between edifices, the Chicago wind picked up, gently blowing, brushing her hair, while the rays of the sun sweetly caressed her vibrant dimpled smile. Vic absorbed the image. If he were an artist, he’d paint her ala Van Gogh with blurry skyscrapers under a blueberry sky infused with the dying, burnt orange embers of the sun; its rays reflecting a dark glow of life on her cheek, while white streams of subtle breeze whisked through her hair and slender arm that held a half scarlet glass of pinot noir. But Vic’s no artist, so he couldn’t possibly paint, draw or even trace this new image he’d engrained of her, if he tried. Instead he’d write about it.

           Their night, unfortunately, was drawing to a close. They’d sipped, they’d toasted, they’d laughed (veni, vedi, vici?) but now they’d have to go their separate ways. Before their goodbyes, she stopped by for a chocolate chip cookie, obviously the dessert of choice for taking a late stroll. What better way to end a night than getting lost in the midst of the Loop, yet again, prolonging their inevitable adieu, while pecking off bits of a giant cookie? They stumbled and drifted on their way, fueled by wine and spirits, while the tall order of consuming the large pastry was far from finished. In desperation, she stuffed his face with crumbs and bits of chocolate, inevitably leading to more bursts of hilarity. His heart gushed, not from some sugar high or BAC, but from it being the most absurdly, unique, romantic gesture he’d felt in years. What a great, awesome gal (this is the great understatement of this tale).

           Someway, somehow they reached Lake and State, the fork in the road, their point of divergence. She’d climb up the stairs to the “L”, he’d tread down them to the subway. He’d go north, while she’d head south. His nerves and doubts, reared their ugly face once more. When would he see her again? Would she even want to? He had a great time, but did she? He offered his goodbye in the form of a warm embrace, thanking her for her time; she responded with a smile, a kiss (maybe two, or three) and a parting gift: bag of chocolate chip crumbs.

            Then in a split-second, her back turned and she was gone. He began to doubt the plausibility of the dreamy last couple of hours, even an arm’s pinch wouldn’t suffice. He made his way jovially down the stairs, sporting a wry smile. He feasted on the chocolate chips, even dropped a few along the way, leaving a trail of crumbs, just in case she changed her mind and decided to follow him, wherever his heart might lead.

#Arimana

[hectordd]

Beyond (Cupboard Plea)

The vibrant colors of her cupboard,

fuchsia, lavender, periwinkle blue,

of secrets, passions, ambitions, cluttered,

unseen by eyes other than her two.   

Beyond the finely lacquered doors,

past the tinted, glass panes,

can only surmise, what she stows, stores,

and what else she wishes to attain.

Precariously bold and deftly tall,

wherever placed, where she goes,

centerpiece in a room, above all,

if only that, is as much he knows.

He doesn’t wish to possess or encroach,

instead taps, gently raps the door,

beseeching, entreating this much;

A wee place in her drawer, her heart, betwixt the colors past her cupboard door.

[hectordd]

A Bourbon’s Burn (away) from Bliss

     The faces, the chatter, the place, life itself, was but a blur; remarkably, not an alcohol induced effect. He took a sip, but even the burn of bourbon was bumming him. The storm outside, incessant. Even a party wasn’t sufficient shelter from the shit pouring down. Desolate, dreary, dismaying, all too familiar synonyms for life. He trudged on, fulfilling his duties, obligations without protest or complaint, but for how long?

     He smiled, listened politely, conversed when necessary, camouflaging the turmoil of a weathered spirit. He was older, calmer now, leapt through his fair share of hurdles; the wrinkles lingering about the corners of his eyes and those squatting on his forehead could easily vouch for that. He took another sip, the slow melting ice, mellowing the ardent liquor. He opened his eyes, looked around the room, a beautiful crowd, young, vibrant, still optimistic. Could he ever be that again?

     A bell rung and a busy host buzzed a few more blurry faces in. His glass was perspiring, the ice now fully dissolved, the burnished amber hue gone, a pale gold took its place. It didn’t burn, instead, gently warmed its way down his throat, like an evening autumn sun generously shining down on a carefree arm by a windowsill. He took a last sip, seeking out the considerate host to say his goodbyes. It was time to bail, right?

     And then the door opened once more. A pair of mysterious eyes made entrance. His eyes glimmered interestedly; her presence pierced through the crowded room with the light tossing and swaying of her long, dark hair. She did so quietly, chatting with her friend and only acquaintance, the rest incredibly unattuned to her. Slowly she made her way in, now standing only feet away from him was her smooth, lightly bronzed skin. He stared at her smile composed of perfectly pearly ivories smack dab in the middle of her peach lipsticked lips. Her eyes glanced his way and he offered a subtle crooked smile. Unacknowledged, he quickly went and got another drink. Surely, leaving was out of the question now?

     Time slowed and his pulse, his interest livened, remarkably not alcohol induced either. His problems and worries, he neatly folded, packaged in a sack and hurled mightily out the balcony. Contemplative, carefully choosing his words, on the couch he sat, he bid his time, seeking out the perfect time and perfect line. But his train of thought was lost when nearly sideswiped by a gal walking with the grace of a newborn fawn.

     “Hey, are you okay?”

     “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” the young lady responded with false assurance, blinking heavily, sitting on the backrest, only to lose her balance, stumble backward, cartwheeling her way to a seat on the couch. Good dismount. Form and poise, about a 4 but technique and creativity a solid 9.

     He chuckled for once, and perhaps that was more effective than any line or timing, as his thoughts were interrupted once more by a stranger to his right. He looked up to the stranger’s eyes, the dark mystifying eyes he’d been dying to meet, inches away.

     “Did you just see that? She’s like, ‘I’m ok, I’m ok,’ and then she…pfftt,” he said as he reenacted the scene. It wasn’t very suave but was it effective? She laughed, in fact it was more than a simple laugh. It was a boisterous one and obnoxiously unique; one that bordered on a cackle. Unfiltered, unbridled it lingered in the air, like a discordant symphony, jarring yet beautiful.

     “Oh my God, you have the most awesome laugh,” he confessed and giggled, but the truth was, he was instantly spellbound. It was a shame Ulysses’ men couldn’t tie him like they did their captain to the mast or an anchor, because he’d just heard the Sirens sing and was willing to jump ship and plunge into treacherous waters, open up and expose himself, to hear her a bit more. His job for the night was a very obvious one, to coax out that buried laugh, and in return resonate and lift his spirits, so he carried this sacred duty with much aplomb.

     With every ticking second he spent at her side, an urge, a desire blossomed, to know more. He could sense unrest, trouble, much like his, emanating from her. Perhaps for her as well, the liquor blunted the brutal blows of life, like the melting ice did to the sting of the bourbon. But despite their identical plights, she was reticent, ceding very little ground, as if their meeting was destined to become a Las Vegas cliché; what happens here, stays here?

     At this point, his inner self, conscience, superego, his whatever-you-wanna-call-it, might have intervened and said, “Stop. You’re headed down the gangplank. You’ve been burned before buddy.” But not that night. He pushed forward, as if under a spell, with every joke, with every laugh, one step deeper, absolutely entranced and enamored. And when they stood on that balcony from where he’d chucked his worries, and his jet black eyes were only millimeters away from hers, he pressed his lips against her delicate, peach lipsticked pair. He summoned the same crooked smile he offered earlier and in return she offered a much better one with the daintiest of dimples on her left cheek. A faint birthmark to the adjacent right, the cherry to complete the dessert perfect smile. He peered into her slender, mysteriously dark, yet troubled eyes, appreciating her, taking in the moment, one almost too surreal. Too surreal to be replicated another day?

     What happens next? The night ended and they went their own way. Like two comets whose orbits came crashingly close, for hours sharing the same trajectory, riding the same wavelength, streaking through the vacuum, and lighting up the endless abyss. But the pull of gravity was greater and the larger celestial order (fate?) pulled rank and diverged their paths once again. As they now soar away in opposite directions, at hundreds of miles per second, one question remains, will their orbits ever cross again? An astronomer would say, “You’re in luck, bro. The orbital period of celestial bodies recur infinitely in an infinite amount of time. In a million years, perhaps even a few hundred thousand, YES, it will happen.” That makes him smile, not because he thinks they’ll cross paths again, but for being lucky enough to have soared above his troubles in great company, but also have seen, felt, touched, kissed the splendorous, the celestial, even if for one night on that balcony.

B��-r� NaaiMar

[hectordd]

Pushing Her Buttons

Rich had about 60 seconds.  Once the bathroom door shut it was a mad dash to the remote.  

    “Where’d she put it?” Rich thought out loud.

     He stuck his hand between the cushions, clawing his way between a week’s worth of lint, loose change, and bobby pins with his chewed down fingernails.  Nothing. Unsatisfied with his results he intensified the search, this time tossing the cushions and pillows to the sides along with any disregard for the popcorn and drinks on the table, desperately seeking the clicker.  

     “Shit, did she take it with her to the can?  Maybe she dropped it, when she got up?” he muttered, just low enough to not be heard beyond the wafer thin walls of the studio apartment.

     He let out a disgusted and frustrated sigh, slapped his hand on his thigh and got on his knees with the swiftness of a senior citizen.  He faced the front of the beaten couch, the last remnant of their house, the last place that witnessed genuine and abundant smiles.  Much had changed in eight years when he was kneeled in that exact position and offered a gold band to the only woman he’d ever loved.  His heart pounded frantically at the prospect of getting rejected by Beth, but eventually his cheeks hurt from the huge cheesy smile drawn on his face that day, one he tried holding back and not look like a kid on Christmas morning.  He carried that ecstatic smile all the way to wedding day; after all he was marrying a young beautiful woman, who was intelligent and ambitious, perhaps more so than he. One who’d keep him on his toes, his parents would often tell him.

     No one doubted the success of their union then, and yet the quiet gossip now, gave them a year, tops.  He wondered what had gone wrong, none of the guests intervened when the priest asked if anyone had any objections.  They certainly weren’t forever holding their peace, now.  Maybe he should have knocked on the wood of the altar after the till death do us part.

     Rich swung his hand frantically underneath the couch, the precious seconds slipping.  It wasn’t there.  He dusted himself off, hunching defeatedly with his palms on his knees.  He glanced to his left and got a glimpse of a rectangular piece of black plastic laying on the dull, faux-marble kitchen counter. His left leg kicked the cushions aside with his once plush purple loafer now turned grimy brown; a color that perfectly matched the shaggy carpet and staleness of his daily life.  He limped as he cleared the way, his left leg the culprit, or rather the consequence of being T-boned at an intersection by a sober driver.

     It all went wrong that Friday night a year ago. The plan was the usual: dinner with her friends, a drink or two and head home.  Not in the agenda was the surprise appearance of one of Beth’s college friends. They seemed to be awfully close, their catching up drew reciprocal blushes and smiles.  His jealousy starting getting the better of him so he started to give Beth’s friend a stare down.

     “Hey, Richard.  I want you to meet someone.  This is Rob, he was my bo…very close friend of mine when I was an undergrad,” Beth said.  Richard didn’t offer his hand, instead he countered by sinking down a glass of chardonnay.

     “Thrilled to meet you,” Rich responded with a sarcastic undertone.

     “Rob, do you know Richard?  I think you guys might have been in the same dorms in college. We all ran in the same circles but I didn’t meet him till grad school.”

     “Did we?  Richard…Richard.  I can’t recall.  What’s your last name?” Rob asked.

     “Raschowsky.”

     “Richard Raschowsky.  Richard…Richard Raschowsky,” Rob repeated his name, staring into the ceiling trying to recall where he’d heard his name.  Rich sank down Beth’s glass of chardonnay.

     “It rings a bell, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

     “Did I tell you we went to the Bahamas for three weeks for our honeymoon?  It was nice to get out of New England for once,” Beth boasted.

     “I would have gone to Barbados, a little less touristy.  But why three weeks, do the whole month while you’re at it!”

     “I guess, but then we had work to come back to. Plus, Richard’s job is really cut-throat.  You disappear for a month and the buzzards start circling.”

     “You know, Richard.  Sometimes you just gotta put your foot down.  From my experience in Wall Street, it’s not how well you do your job but how confident you are doing it.  You tell them I want paid vacations or I walk and I bet nine times out of ten they give in.  You have to demand not ask,” Rob boasted loudly.  Others in the party overheard and began to chime in.

     “I agree one-hundred percent with…What’s your name?  Rob?  Totally agree.  The business world is a chess game, either you’re a pawn or a king. You can’t let yourself be pushed around in this racket,” one of Beth’s co-workers added.  All of a sudden all the smaller conversations were merging. Rob was dead in the center of them.

     Rob was getting on Richard’s last nerve. Understandably, he abandoned his newly acquainted friend, the pretentious Monsieur Kendall-Jackson, for his good old college buddy, Mr. Johnny Walker.  He felt his cheeks turning a fervent red and his stomach growl. He sat quietly next to Beth, oblivious and uninterested in Rob’s business lecture.  He slammed another shot.

     “So tell me Richard. In the business world, what chess piece are you?  A pawn or a queen?”

     Rob brought the house down.  The table howled with laughter.  Even Beth snickered.  Rich’s face turned Tabasco red, only fueling the laughter further.

     “Richard Raschowsky…I remember you,” Rob stated.

     “They called you the terror of University Village bars.  You’re Red Rash Rich!”

     Richard had had enough, he leapt across the posh table and decided it was the perfect time to put his fist to Beth’s friend’s face. To the horror of his party, a scramble ensued on the restaurant’s floor, though anyone that had met ‘Red Rash Rich’ knew that such scenes were not foreign to his college frat boy days.  It didn’t end there.  In his drunken stupor he fled the scene, turned the ignition and zipped past innumerable streets and intersections.  The result was his left leg jammed by a crushed door and a couple making an unexpected visit to the hospital in the back of an ambulance.  Though if you asked them, they couldn’t recall a damn thing. They didn’t need to, there were plenty of witnesses which testified on their part.

     Rich reached for the remote and pointed it at Jennifer Aniston as he frantically pressed the right combination of buttons that turned her lovely face into a Bears game.  They were losing 28-3, middle of the fourth quarter.  So much for that sure win.

      “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” was Rich’s response as he pulled on the precious hairs not yet victim of his slowly receding hair line. Surely he was in the hole for $500 now. Bye, bye rent money.  He switched the set back to Jennifer Aniston, not because he was in the mood for yet another the romantic comedy on Sunday.          He stared at the wall, pensive of his current dilemma, oblivious to the toilet flush.

     “What the hell are you doing Rich?” asked Beth as she stepped out of the bathroom, quizzically staring at the mess he’d just made.

      “Oh, just tidying up,” Rich responded nervously, thinking of a way on how spin downing half a grand into a positive.

      “Looks just the opposite.  You had all week to tidy up, in fact it’s the only thing you had to do all week.  Meanwhile I bust my butt to put food on the table and get our lives back on track and you? You don’t even seem to…,” her voice trailed off as she nodded her head disappointedly.

       Richard knew he’d royally screwed up.  His intentions were good, though misplaced. That night’s joyride sent three people to the hospital and resulted in a financially crippling trip to court. They never really talked about that night or the events that led to it, perhaps because there was nothing to say. He was crippled both financially and physically and suffered a drinking and anger problem.  He hadn’t found a job or been proactive in his search for one.  All he did was lounge around the house all week, emanating self-pity, drenching the place with his contagious misery.  So far the only application he had filled was the one for martyrdom, thoroughly at her expense.  Richard could sense that Beth’s patience was running thin and now here he was about to test her resolve yet again, perhaps for the last time.

[hectordd]

Molly

She hung up.  I could sense it.  Today is the day.  That voice of detached feeling.  A stranger’s voice.  The stranger I befriended a year ago, a stranger again.  Today on Halloween.

I get up, head for the door.  I grab the keys, the wallet, the goodie bag.  I turn the key, ease off the brake and head to the day of reckoning.  The pancake house she said.  It’s 5 till 6.  The sun is edging into the horizon.  Like me.

The lot is empty, I choose a spot nearest the door.  What will I say, what will I do?  Questions I never had time to ask.  I step outside my Taurus, it’s pouring.  Just like last Halloween.  Like I care.

Golden Nugget Pancake House, a Vegas styled sign announces.  I step inside.  Full of Halloween décor.  I know where she’s sitting.  The usual table?  The question lingered.  I didn’t bother to respond.

A half smile, half grin, greets.  Then a cold hug.  I sit down, the chat would be long.  First the chit-chat, then the segway, finally the apocalypse.

She sips her coffee. Two creams, two sugars.  I know how she takes it.  Three more cups of coffee before getting to business.  I can’t wait.

How was your day – a weak voice asks.  I respond something.  I can’t remember what.  It’s unimportant.  It’s small talk.  She wasn’t listening, her eyes avoiding mine, focusing on the approaching clouds.

The waitress came. Poured a second cup.  Two creams, two sugars followed.

Are you happy – a voice on the other side of the table asks.  I responded gibberish.  It couldn’t have mattered what.  This was only a segway.  This wasn’t a dialogue, it was a monologue.  Her eyes still avoiding me.  Staring at the ceiling, recalling the script.  My ears were shut.  This was only a segway.

The waitress filled the cup a third time.  Two creams, two sugars spilled on the mug and saucer.

Listen, we need to talk – the voice reverberated inside my head.  Apocalypse now.

I head to the restroom, splash my face.  I check the mirror, a skull grins back, stupid Halloween décor.  I reach in my jeans.  Pull out a goodie bag and pop a roll of skull candies.

I head back.  Her eyes meet mine and start to fill.

I can’t do this anymore. You never listen, never change, you don’t care, you don’t… – her voice trails off.  I didn’t matter what she had to say with only a minute or two left.

I’m pregnant.  I don’t want my baby having a junkie dad.  Might have it, might not.  Not like you care – a voice asserts, rapidly fleeting.

My eyes roll, my head balancing between my shoulders.  A little drool, a little sweat run down.

Are you…You’re fucking rolling again.  That’s it. We’re through.  I don’t know why I even – a stranger’s voice announced.  She storms out.  I think.

My head fell from my shoulders.  Slammed into the cup.  Two creams, two sugars.  Just the way she takes it.

[hectordd]

Tu Decada de Decadencia

Esperanzas, ambiciones, sueños, de crecer, volar, despegar lejos. Sueños vueltos trozos y leños, bañados en lamentos y quejos.

En tus ojos la luna se reflejaba, pero años transcurrieron, se opacaron. La sonrisa que miel derramaba, empolvado, por felicidad no encontrada.

La miel se cuajo, se estanco, la sello, embotello y a todos privo, mientras Soledad acerco y la abrazo, fuerte, con cada suspiro y latido de su corazón.

Manecillas de sus errores sin perdón prosiguen, fuera de alcance y de vista esta el tren. Fuera de los rieles continuara su despliegue, vía ruta Remordimiento, su carga: deseos del Edén.

Cada noche la abrazan, labios tiernos y sinceros la rozan, Y cada noche su sangre de nuevo enardece. Lastima, se disipa, al abrir los ojos, al salir el sol. Y con resignación ahora va por el mundo, a tientas, sin guía, sin apoyo, sin amor.

[hectordd]

A Day with a Slayer of the Undead

When times are desperate, measures must coincide. 'Tis no time for weeping, or for mercy for the weak. The second that your guard goes down, the sec ya' turn to zombie chow, Nom, nom...Oh what a tasty treat, for all the lifeless, undead freaks! But don't stand and ponder, their soul's a gone. Beyond 'er eyes, nothing cries, beyond their jaws, much skin to gnaw! The cold and pale seek the meek. The moral and proper, dinner meat! Tis' time to act on instinct alone, I now live life by just this code: Axe to head if thou canst talk, Shovel to face if to me's you walk! Freeze, stand still, become a meal, Shoot now, ask later, is what's ideal. But overthink or start to feel, and die by this Achilles heel. Aggressive, selfish, suspicious, are the qualities to embrace, surrender all else, 'n ye'll survive this wretched place! Many say the world for living's no longer's fit, that values, God and Truth has ceased to exist. To that I say, crock of shit! My values lie living past this week, God is my weapon, slayer of creeps. and as for Truth, there's much debate, The main concern is in what's best the best at zombie slaughterfests. I tend to favor a burly sword, the cowards fancy the arrow and bow. They claim the farther is always better, I claim what's closer's the best disposer. Concede me time to argue a point, a sword is deadly, takes just a blow. Yet so prestigious, to knights anoint. A bow and arrow, fly and swoosh, a graceless weapon, by Indians used. To entertain not much's today, no Face, no Snaps, no PS4's so for diversion, death by sword! My wraths' color's carbon black, fueled by anger and bad blood appeased by sending heathens back to darkness, hell, to Beelzebub. My sharpened steel, through brittle bone, my ears enjoying their painless groans. Limbs fall, heads roll, ceasing growls, great cardio, sweat dripping from my brow My will, their fate by force imposed, my beating heart thats black as crow, blood curdles in my every blow oh yes I know, I'm more than just a bit morose. My chest fills with admiration, yet how short lived was this elation, as on my leg I felt a pang, of being bitten by undead fangs. I crushed it's head with my boots, but does it matter, as my blood pollutes? I've failed, I've broken my own code, and now the streets will be my abode. By overthinking, standing still, my ego's my doom, my suicide pill. My bitten leg quickly numbed, the growing feeling that all is lost. My lower body gives no response, my legs buckle, to me renounce. With arms still under control of mine, They too were turning blue, frail and lime. The rot spreading before my very eyes, motionless, I wish this was a lie. Day turned to night, and all became dark, rays of moonlight, shone on tree's barks, lifeless, bare, they too had shed their leaves, as if seeing my state, commencing to greave. A sinister laugh chided my name, "You're mine, you're mine", it proclaimed. Creeping in by the second, 'tis no doubt. Footsteps approaching and growing loud. My heart pounded heavily, perhaps its last beats, thumping like a gavel in a court with none to take seat. Killing the deafening silence of reality that fleets, awaiting the verdict, surely my doom to meet. Behind the tree, a silhouette creepily peers, the black shroud and sickle that all men fear. With an evil grin now confronted, the end was near, I brought this on my self, no need for y'er tears. It reached out, its cold hand to my chest, snatching my very essence, stealing my last breath. It was then and there that I knew my cruel fate, for atonement of my sins, it was much too late. To wander aimlessly was my sentence, infinite torture, even with repentance. the toll for living with no morals, and with no God, that's my sorrow. Now let me make this one thing clear, Don't worry for me I have no fear. And when those lonely streets I roam, If I see you, I'll say "Hello", But my way, with a bite and GROAN!

[hectordd]

A Very Lazy Angel with Enormous Wings.

A few months ago I decided to write a version of Marquez's short story, A Very Old Man with Enormour Wings.  It is the point of view of the angel which differs from Marquez's story which is in the third person.  Anyway the link leads to Marquez's story which I enjoy very much.. http://salvoblue.homestead.com/wings.html

Anyway this is my humble alternate version, mostly written for fun...

            The ashy dark clouds, the gloomy horizon, the rotten smelling beaches made it a perfect day, a perfect day to feel God’s wrath.  You see only a very few are ‘fortunate’ enough to actually know God, and well he isn’t exactly the wise, all-knowing, loving paternal figure that those land-roamers make him out to be.  We angels are his errand boys, his whipping boys, without us he couldn’t possibly run things, yet the exact moment we err, he admonishes us, humiliates us, threatens us.  After a few millennia of threats of being banished to the land of the land-roamers, it almost doesn’t sound quite as bad as living in ‘Utopia’.

            An angel can only take so much; I’ve never been the smartest, the most talented, the timeliest, the most enthused, or even the best ass-kisser in the winged division.  We are supposed to be the privileged ones, worthy of carrying out God’s work.  But an angel can only take so much.  It became nearly impossible to wake on time, to carry out his tasks to the letter or to even care for my plumage with distinction like the rest.  That gloomy day, after arriving late yet again to the morning mass/ staff meeting, God snapped again, threatened me again, for the millionth time.  No seriously, the millionth time, God is very accurate with numbers.  I decided I’d had enough and took him up on his offer to be banished to the ‘O so terrible land’.  I mean how bad could it be, to have no God breathing down your neck every morning?  Besides, it’s not like I was organizing a rebellion like Lucifer.

            The reaction was faster than the speed of light.  God struck me down with a bolt of lightning.  My wings flapped to no avail, my body felt heavier, the clouds suddenly enveloped me, it all became very windy.  I began descending towards that rotten smelling beach.  Upon my descent I could hear his words thunder through the thick gray clouds: 

            “Mark my words ungrateful one, when your feathers grow once more, you’re first flight will be right back to the heavens.  Not with a chip on your shoulder, but with tar on your back!”

            Not sure what he meant by that, God sure does enjoy being overly dramatic.

            Like a pig I found myself lying in the mud.  My fall lasted for what seemed like hours.  The thud of my fall might have knocked me unconscious for a few hours, but ultimately it was the lightning strike that hurt the most.  I moaned and groaned, yet the mud sure felt nice, there was no better place I could have landed.

            If only I could only lie here in the mud, I would have been immensely happy, almost like a nun-massage (yeah we have those in heaven) but it wasn’t to be.  My moaning and groaning must have alerted the attention of a nearby land-roamer who stunk of fish.  He brought me into his chicken coop which was slightly less stinky than his home.  How accommodating of them!  I believe they feared my presence around their infant child, as if were going to do them the favor of taking their snot-nosed bundle of screams and tears to heaven!  HA!  How delusional.  I can’t complain though, the chickens were much better company than those pesky, noisy land-roamers.  I tried to explain the circumstances of my fall, but once I opened my mouth to speak, I found myself talking gibberish.  I believe this was either the effect of the huge fall I took or God intentionally making me unable to communicate with the land-roamers.

            Boy did they ever do everything in their power to annoy me.  They plucked feathers from my wings.  WHY?!?  Surely they’d have seen members of the avian species before, there’s plenty more birds to pluck only a few feet away!  If this wasn’t enough some would wander inside the coop and press their deformed bodies against mine as if I were to magically heal them.  Maybe they got their stories mixed up but that was my boss’s son who worked miracles, not me.  Speaking of which, boy do I wish J.C. was here to turn some of that dirty water on the trough to wine.  He is actually a pretty cool guy, not as self-important as his dad.  He behaves himself while in the presence of his father and the Holy Spirit, but in his free time he loves to hang out with the winged division.  His turning water to wine never got old and he always made sure we were well fed.  What many of the earth-roamers don’t know about J.C. is that he is a party animal, in his own sense of course.  Many of us consider him the first hippy.  He loves to wander around, meet new people and preach love and peace.  His sense of humor is very ironic and witty, some misinterpret it as being patronizing and critical, but those who really know him can see that it’s only tongue in cheek.  Those earth-roamers never really understood him, hence the crucifixion.

            Those same sadists, which I refused to engage in any way then started throwing stones.  Strange, I don't remember wearing a name tag spelling Mary Magdalene on my chest!!   Their sadistic tendencies further increased, becoming so bold as to branding me with a hot iron like livestock!  Yet all this was bearable, I would have taken all of it, but not their most annoying, constant badgering of questions.  Oh how they vexed me!

            Then finally some good luck.  The emergence of an eight-legged earth-roamer was the best thing that could have happened.  Who sent it, where it came from…who cares.  I was left to myself for once, which was for the best, I really felt no desire to take part in this world.  Day by day the air became much harder to breathe.  I found myself fatigued all the time, my health deteriorating.  I am not the most cleanly of beings but even I must admit that I was fed up of living like a pig, pardon me...like a hen.  When that chicken coop became nothing but shambles, my living quarters became marginally better in the shed I was proportioned.  I roamed the fish-smelling earth-roamers house freely, slowly gaining my strength and driving the wife crazy, giving her a taste of her own medicine.

            Then one spring, my feathers grew once more, except this time black as night.  It was then when I came to understood God’s final message.  I missed home.  I missed the wine, the errands, J.C., the nun-massages, even God's constant scolding.  I called out to him at night and he responded.  I was ready.  I don’t know what Hell is like, but surely it couldn’t be any worse than Earth.  So when my plumage grew complete without hesitation I flew away, leaving those wretched, feather-plucking, stone-casting, iron-branding, sadistic earth-roamers once and for all.

[hectordd]

Encounters with the Unknown Self A1:Scene 2

Act I

Scene II

  Characters:

   Hector

   Unknown Self/Alter Ego

  At Rise:

  The last scene ended with Hector and his alter ego, playing a game of FIFA.  Of course, Hector would end up losing, cause he plays possession but never really threatens to score, more or less like the team he supports, and even more so like his dating strategies.  Like accorded, Hector now has to treat his alter ego to lunch.  After much debate he will only go and take him to a coffee shop and buy him the cheapest cup of coffee and maybe a croissant at the most, the cheap bastard.  His alter ego has other plans, though.  Getting to the coffee shop is only half the fun.

       HECTOR:  It’s not fair man.  You played with Madrid.

     ALTER EGO:  You fucking baby, it was Atletico Madrid, not even Real Madrid.

     HECTOR:  Yeah but it wasn’t an updated squad.  You still had Falcao on the roster, he’s like a 90.  Plus you had one breakaway and you scored on a lucky goal.  I say we play 2 out of 3.

     ALTER EGO:  Enough with the whinnying, games over.  No more FIFA talk, you dork.  Enjoy the scenery.  Do you even know what sunlight looks like?

     HECTOR:  Yes, I do.  Which leads me to my next question.  Can other people even see you?  I’m gonna look like a fucking idiot talking to myself.

     ALTER EGO:  You’re gonna have to find that out by yourself.  But may I add that your social skills are abysmal.  As not like they’ll be taking a hit with you talking to yourself.  In fact they might make you more interesting, HA!

  (Hector groans)

     ALTER EGO:  No, but seriously, we’ll chat, I’ll eat and who knows if you pay attention, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two, you nitwit.

     HECTOR:  (pleading) Would you please stop insulting me.

     ALTER EGO: Naaaaaahh.  I don’t think you’ve realized that I am but a reflection of your true self.  This is how you are with everyone; it’s just that you don’t like people to do the same to you. 

     HECTOR:  SHUT UP!

  (Couple on the other side of street turn, give a puzzled look and then commence walking more rapidly)

  (Alter ego starts to laugh fiendishly)

     HECTOR:  Arggg.. I knew it.  They can’t see you.  I look like a fucking retard.  I’m heading back home.

     ALTER EGO:  Hey!  We have a deal.  You break this deal and I’ll haunt your dreams.

     HECTOR:  You can’t do that.

     ALTER EGO:  Oh yes I can.  I’m embedded deep in your unconscious.  I can make you dream horrible, horrible dreams.

     HECTOR:  Like?

     ALTER EGO:  Like, you, walking around naked on a cold December morning, in front of your friends.

     HECTOR:  (starts to laugh) I’ve already dreamed that before.

     ALTER EGO:  (antagonistically) Or how about your precious crush.  Instead of dreaming of you lulling her to sleep in you arms with tender kisses and saying sweet little nothings; how about dreaming of her hooking up with a 6’5” African American male at some random nightclub.  Then watch them disrobe themselves and start having long arduous lovemaking sessions, (maniacally laughing) or as you call it, hot sexy time!! (starts moving hips rhythmically from side to side)

     HECTOR:  You sick fuck!  You wouldn’t do that!

     ALTER EGO:  Hector, get with the program.  I’ve told you already, I can do it.  Secondly, I am but a mere reflection of you.  You’re insulting yourself mate!

     HECTOR:  I guess I don’t have a choice.

     ALTER EGO:  No you don’t.  I’m glad you resist the urge to rebel, as it is the first step in learning anything!

     HECTOR:  Well I think rebelling is part of the American spirit.  Imagine if the colonists hadn’t rebelled against the English.  We’d probably be drinking tea with biscuits instead of coffee and doughnuts!!

     ALTER EGO:  Fair enough but…(gets cut off)

     HECTOR:  Imagine if women hadn’t rebelled and demanded their right to vote and demanded equality.  Women would probably be earning less than males and we wouldn’t even have a black president!

     ALTER EGO:  Actually women ARE paid less per dollar than males in the same positions; and I also fail to see the correlation between women’s rights and having a black preside…. (gets cut off again)

     HECTOR:  Imagine if…(ALTER EGO sighs defeatedly) the Rebel Alliance hadn’t stood up to the Galactic Empire, the galaxy would still be under the control of the all powerful Sith Lord and his right hand man Darth Vader…and …and there would have never been any Star Wars movies.. and what a shame that would have been!

     ALTER EGO:  WOULD YOU SHUT UP WITH YOUR NONSENSE!

     HECTOR:  HAHAHA!  (laughs sarcastically)

     ALTER EGO:  You’re helpless mate.  But we’re still doing this thing, no matter how much of a fool you wanna make yourself out to be.  Remember people can see you, not me.

     HECTOR:  I just don’t see what is the point of leaving the house.  I was perfectly safe and sound there.

     ALTER EGO:  That’s the whole point.  You’re living a carefree, risk-free, monotonous life, led by routine and fear of change. (HECTOR rolls his eyes) You’re letting your life pass you by.  You’ve invested so much time playing FIFA, and you’re not even that good at it.

     HECTOR:  Ok. Ok. OK!  But what’s with all the fucking mystery?  Why can’t you tell me where we’re going and why?

     ALTER EGO:  You really wanna know? 

     HECTOR:  Yeah, man; or I’m turning back no matter what you threaten me with.  (whispers under breath) Can’t believe some ghost tricked me into leaving the house.

     ALTER EGO:  I’m finding you a girlfriend, you loser.

     HECTOR:  WHAT! (frantically yells) Oh no!  I’m quite fine the way I am.

     ALTER EGO:  Really?  I’d like to know why.

     HECTOR:  Well….. I don’t have time for that silly business.  I rather enjoy my “me” time.  I don’t want to end up visiting a girlfriend on my free time.  Spending tons of money going to dinner, movies, buying her all this cheesy shit to prove my love.

     ALTER EGO:  So in other words you’re cheap?

     HECTOR:  WHAT?!?  No.  Don’t twist my words around.  I’m just so over that.  When it comes down to it, if a better looking guy, better placed financially or she even gets fed up with you, all that shit is worth fuck all.

     ALTER EGO:  HA!  I struck a chord.  Sounds like you’re really bitter.

     HECTOR:  I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.  I’m turning back.

     ALTER EGO:  LIKE HELL YOU ARE!  (makes a gun gesture with hand and shoots at HECTOR’S leg)

     HECTOR:  Holy fuck.  What did you do?  MY KNEE!!  (writhes in pain, bends over rubbing knee)

     ALTER EGO:  I told you I’m a force to be reckoned with.  Now let’s go.  I’ll make it go away; or MAKE IT WORSE!

     HECTOR:  Ok.  Ok.  You win. (pains slowly recedes)

     ALTER EGO:  Now listen.  We’re going somewhere I won’t tell you where.  There’s this nice girl working there.  We’ll make some chit chat.  Well actually, YOU’LL make some chitchat, cause she can’t see me.  You’ll talk to her and ask her out.  It’ll work, my plan is flawless, unless you bollocks it up with your idiocy!

     HECTOR:  Cool.  What’s she look like?  Is she blond?  Is she a redhead?  Is she a gymnast?  Is she nerdy cool?  Is she.. is she…

  ALTER EGO:  Oh hold on to your horses.  You’ll see in a minute.  You’ll love her!

date: 1/6/2014

[hectordd]

Tu Rostro/Bolita de Estambre

Tu rostro, bello, con cada gesto exprime emociones mias.

En el veo que muere por ceder.

¿Y lo hará?  No se. 

El orgullo, ya no lo conozco, ni pretendo bienvenirlo.  Mas sin embargo de tus poros se expulsa, de tus ojos se proyecta, y en el margen de tus labios se recuesta.  Tu piel la cansa, tus ojos los fatiga, tus labios los retiene. 

Debajo de tus cejas remarcadas y elegantes, ese orgullo se manifiesta en arrugas, debajo tus ojos cautivantes hacen que resalten las ojeras, y en esos labios rojos adictivos que retengan una sonrisa que quiere y debe ser liberada. 

No puedo contenerme, muero por que mis ojos puedan verte, que mis oídos puedan escucharte, que mis brazos puedan abrazarte y que mis boca al mínimo pueda hablarte. 

Muero por muchas cosas, mas sin embargo no puedo ejercer mi voluntad, ahora si que se me acabo la fuerza de mi mano izquierda. 

En el tanque no queda mas gas, la flor en la maceta exprimió su ultima gota de agua. 

No puedo dar mas, sin recibir una gotita de esperanza.  Hay una flor que se empieza a marchitar.  Hay una bolita de estambre sobre una cima de un cerro que ya empezó a rodar hacia la base.  Cada minuto desenrredandose, perdiendose.  Y cuando la gravedad haga con las suyas, el viento continuara el trabajito, llevandose ese hilito lejos, lejos, de ese Cerrito; sin forma, sin destino, sin retorno.

Si no lo detienes.

(Fecha 1/5/14)

[hectordd]

Huracán

Loca, caotica, volatil, impredecible.

Un huracán alimentado por una fuerza indomable.

Vale madre, distraída, inmadura, terca.

Un torbellino que barria con todo en su vereda.

Poco a poco esa oveja negra,

desvaneció el estigma de su lana,

y por debajo radió la vitalidad de una niña.

Carismatica, ocurrente, divertida.

Un diamante bruto de emoción sin filtrar.

Soñadora, inocente, ingenuamente optimista.

Una hoguera de locura y pasion.

Sin embargo fue muy tarde.

Fue mucho el daño colateral,

en el camino al descubrimiento y florecimiento,

se retiro, y en hibernación se fue…

el Corazon.

[hectordd]

Corazon desembridado

De que sirve la juventud,

si no es para vivirla.

De que sirve la piel,

si no es para desgastarla.

  De que sirve el corazón,

si no es para exponerlo.

De que sirve la consciencia,

si no es para remorderla.

  De que sirven los cuerpos,

si no para explorarlos.

De que sirve la ropa,

si no para arrancarla.

  De que sirven mis manos,

si no es para desvestir.

De que sirven mi labios.

si no son para besar.

  De que sirve mi cuerpo,

si le exijo exclusividad.

De que sirve mi libido,

si no es para ofrecerle libertad.

  Eso permite el corazón

Cuando no lo atan.

Que el instinto y el deseo,

hagan lo que les da la gana.

(fecha: 12/27/13)

[hectordd]

Un Domingo de Reflexiones, Anhelos y Deseos

Desde ese día cambio.

La magia se desvaneció.

Todo era e iba de maravilla,

y ahora todo se va ala deriva

  La fundacion que construí,

hoy tiembla a mi cada paso.

El esfuerzo que invertí,

resulto ser poco, ¿o sin caso?

  La resignación se aproxima,

las horas se vuelven dias.

La desesperación se me encima,

al intentar opacar la ternura que nacía y relucía.

  Sin embargo irme no puedo, ni quiero.

Quizás una gotita de esperanza me retiene.

"Que se caduco, se acabo, que esta por muerto";

y por medio un terco corazón que no entiende.

  Si tuviera acceso alas manecillas del tiempo,

no cambiaria nada, y nada me lamento.

Aunque si existe un anhelo, un deseo:

de intentar de nuevo, y empezar de cero.

(escrito: 12/22/13)