Missing Freddy tonight...

 

| Love of My Life  |

A Brick...

Alone,

you get to decide

where a brick goes:

you can put it here

you can put it there.

In your hands,

a brick is free

to be anything or nothing.

A poet,

from the baltic sea,

found grandiose desires

in each brick he saw,

and when he parted this life,

he had not a brick to show;

yet his structures

will outlast us all.

If you have

all that you soul desires

you can place a brick

behind your doors,

to prevent someone

from taking your possessions.

I wish

that bricks were free

to be anything it desires,

God,

made it eternal,                                                                                                       

and cursed man with free will 

and infinite crossroads

with no undergrowth

only plenitude.

With so many roads ahead,

man despairs,

and in doubt,

grabs a brick

and set his roots 

here, there,

anywhere:

creates a village, meets a girl

makes other man

to sacrifice for.

Nothing makes a man prouder

than sacrificing for a new generation:

among all the species,

man is the only one

that can exude heroism

while in full retreat.

The bible

talks about man

but it says nothing about bricks:

man was created

at God’s own image;

but man perishes

in a well of uncertainty,

bricks are everywhere:

solid, determined, eternal.

At the end of his life  

every man should have nothing but a brick

to leave behind,

somewhere,

for a child to find.

The Anatomy of a Kiss

                                             ‘Beatrice’, by Marie Spartali Stillman

On the face of a girl, any girl, there is a protruding bone medical books erroneously named the zygomatic bone; a revision to this lack of romanticism is needed. 

The kissing bone is where an astute boy places his thumb to kiss a girl, his other four fingers should touch the back of her neck gently, and as he leans in for a kiss, presses a bit harder.

His fingers on the back of her neck exert just enough pressure that she feels all fingers against her skin throughout the kiss. When the kissing is over, the girl, if the boy has done exactly what was described above, will move her head back to look at his face, and as she does, his fingers on the back of her neck should feel like a light gentle breeze, breaking on the skin like waves.

Of course, there is the consideration of proper hygiene, and by that I mean, clean hands. If a girl is about to kiss a boy and he realizes his hands are unclean, a different protocol takes place . 

The boy must then place his hands firmly on her shoulders, that, however, is an extremely delicate place since the shoulders are so close to her breasts.

A boy with dirty hands then needs to squeeze her shoulders hard enough so that she feels all his fingers on her shoulders throughout the kiss, because you see, a kiss has nothing to do with lips touching lips; but where a hand is placed.

The first milliseconds of a kiss is when the girl determines whether or not she will enjoy kissing you. Kiss her in that manner and she will feel safe and lean into your kiss; allow your hands to be free and she will spend the entire kiss wondering where your hands will land.

A boy who thinks a girl wants to be touched in as many body parts as possible during a kiss is a fool. 

A girl who wants to be touched in as many body parts as possible during a kiss has already been kissed enough; you will waste a good kiss on the wrong girl.

Everything that matters in this world takes time and requires skill.

A kiss is an antidote to a hurried life. In a kiss you can bend and shape time, slow it down, disconnect from the physical world, and fly for a bit. Your hands, will determine how high you fly or if you take off at all.

Every girl in the world has a kissing bone and the memory of a kiss, a light gentle breeze she craves in her fingertips. 

If you've ever seen a girl lost in thought, running her fingers on the back of her neck; she's remembering a kiss.

"Move Along"

from the series LA NIGHTS | tab above |

  Los Angeles, 07.03.2021 

Day 3

ONE HUNDRED AND ONE steps, is the count for this beautiful stairway in front of the central library in downtown Los Angeles. I lived a block away with my kids, and we woke up everyday at 5am and ran up these stairs three times, unto Hope Street and downhill to Hill Street where our building stood: a beautiful earthquake refitted 1920's subway station. A block to the right of the building was the Geffen Theater and the Disney Music Hall; two perfect examples of the opulence in this area.

On our run around the wide block we came down a hill, beneath a bridge; today overtaken with tents which is the residence of many. The contrast is staggering. Looking down from Hope street we can see the Central Library...

... and a small change in our perspective... 

...and you can see the front door...... 

...and a gentleman trying to catch some sleep.

... before the city employees and security approach him to gently ask him to "move along" which it appears it is the city of Los Angeles new modus operandi to deal with the homeless. But move along where? There are not enough beds to the thousands of people who live in the streets in this area, which is in full display by the tents; improvised homes, in one of the most expensive commercial real estate per square foot in Los Angeles.

     A block from our home, there was a park; nothing special: a water fountain, dog park, playground for children, and on Wednesday, a farmer's market filled the space with fresh fruit and vegetables and artisans selling their creations. It is one of the most beautiful images I have of my ex-wife, an amazing chef, as she took her time prodding and choosing, her face beaming with fulfillment. 

     Ironically, the people who could use some fulfillment, the homeless, who hang out on that park daily, were never there for the market. I never understood where they went. When the day was over, I sometimes saw them roaming around the nearly empty tables getting the spoils from the well to do people who lived in the buildings nearby.

     Also not there were the teenagers I met while living here: gay teenagers who were forced out of their home by their parents when they decided to come out of the closet. Their Christian parents, not approving their "choice" followed the principles mandated by the bible and the Roman Catholic Church and tossed them out. Apparently, God does not approve of homosexualism and they wander the city of angels finding warmth, understanding in each other's arms. In a time of their lives where they should be planning their college route, as Anna did, they spent their days leaning on each other trying to understand how their lives ended up this way. My relationship with any God ends when he begins telling us to hate and despise each other. 

     But it is 10 years later and the teenagers are no longer there, in fact, neither are the homeless; a few security guards hired by the buildings are making sure to move them along. Where is not of anyone's concern; as long as it is not here. 

     So, at night, they ride the subways until the very last train and after that, they hop onto the buses all night to sleep. An existence that I am observing to be inhumane, as well as a very hard way of living. 

But it appears, it is okay to the rest of us, as long as the streets are clean and we don't get to see them.

"Volver a los Diecisiete" written by Violeta Parra | 1962 |

 

| sang by Milton Nascimento e Mercedes Sosa | | 1976 |

The "life coaching" Industry.

      Doesn't anyone have dreams anymore? Is it all about the paycheck? There are a few professions I could never do and coaching is one of them, for sure. Every single commercial on social media is about "making money coaching" which is a euphemism to cheerleading. Ironically, all the commercials are about becoming wealthy and none about being passionate about something with your body and soul.

     Strange society we are building; I am not a person prone to retrogressive ideas but there is something to be said about building something, striving to do something difficult that takes years to achieve. Something you do alone; because anything worthwhile you will do alone.

     It isn't until you reach a breaking point in your work and the clock on the wall marks 3am, 4am, and you make coffee, have a banana nut keto muffin  to eat and the last thing in your mind is sleeping; it isn't until then that you know: you are doing what you were meant to be doing. 

Hiroshi Shimizu