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

 

Dante

(click on photo )

Dante Alighieri

Divine Comedy  | click on picture |

Im an addict!

      First step of recovering, says the literature on beating any addiction, is acknowledging it; "beating the dragon," " conquering your demons," all clichés one can think of, point to the core of any addiction: it is not about the drug you ingest, but human beings need to self medicate their psychological afflictions. 

     It's about pain; pain that you don't recognize you have; pain that lies so deep inside all of us that we engage together in destructive activities searching for a bit of happiness.  And we create a family of sorts to display our pain, Leo Tolstoy said it beautifully in Anna Karenina: " All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its on way." 

     Together we engage in our drug of choice, the demons inside each of us tormenting us into behavior we will regret just about the time we succumb to it: shame and low self worth seeping more and more into the fabric of us. Demons that make us take drugs, drink, take countless selfies, abusing others on social media is a new ceremony  we engage to destroy and be destroyed. All the while feeling a fleeting happiness that's so sweet that we want more of it. Immediately after the shame subside. 

     And my shame is somewhat justified since I'm not addicted to any cool drug that would make me edgy, cool; a paragon of artistic display that would make Jackson Pollock proud. No, I've never been drunk in my entire life, don't touch alcohol. Drugs, for some reason, very early on was the things losers do and so I escaped that too. There's nothing cool about my addiction, in fact is not even illegal. We sell to men, women, them, they, children and even pregnant women. We built shelves at supermarkets at a child's eye level so that they can get addicted too;  and we offer flavors such as heart attack, diabetes, diabetes type 2, diabetes type 3- formally known as Alzheimer's disease- obesity, amputations, strokes, pulmonary embolism and many many more.

I am addicted to sugar; and my drug dealer was my beloved grandmother.

     My grandmother would take an empty glass and place on the table; because I was so young, around four or five years old, my eyed level, directly across the surface of the table would give me a perfect view, and I watched her take two containers and place them next to the glass. She would take a spoon and fill half of the glass with the white powder; then she would shift her attention to the second container, and would fill the other half of the glass with a brown power. She would slide the glass to me and hand me the spoon; and I would take my time enjoying my chocolate powder and sugar cocktail. The most ironic memory of it; the countless times they told me to calm down. I had the strange habit of climbing every tree I encountered, tap on my chest, late at night, my favorite songs until the moment I collapsed into sleep or I would get hit with something to quiet me down. Whichever came first. 

     No movie star, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame musician would admit in public this sort of addiction; yet it causes more deaths than drunk drivers and  overdoses combined. At the end of World War II we counted around 15,000 amputations in the six years the war lasted. Diabetes causes roughly around 420,000 amputations in 6 years.

     I long lost my grandmother, so my supplier these days is Starbucks. And they are amazing at it. 24 hours a day. Everywhere I walk in United States I can find one within a few blocks of each other. 

2 butter croissants lightly toasted

1 lemon loaf

1 tall dark roast coffee with 1 raw sugar- in a grande cup.

$ 14.40  ( in Santa Monica, Hollywood, West Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Pacific Palisades )

$13.40  ( anywhere else in Los Angeles )

     Close every liquor store in the world and unless someone told me, I wouldn't notice. I wouldn't  know where to begin looking for drugs to buy if my live depended on it and yet, my life depends on giving up drugs. At least if I want to assure a better quality of life to my older self.  After many prolonged fasting and being sugar free for months and months only to succumb again and again to it, I decided to approach this addiction in a different way. . 

I went for a hike at Griffith park and while admiring the Hollywood sign had a serious conversation with myself. More a visualization than anything else. I imagined myself at sixty, seventy, eighty years old and honestly asked myself a simple question: 

what kind of debilitating disease are you willing to suffer from in you twilight years?

The answer was an emphatically: NONE. So I just gave up sugar again. For more times than I can recall.

     So I ask the same from you: what kind of disease are you willing to suffer from:? Because even thought we've never met I know that you are as addicted as I am. In conversations with people about my concerns, I always hear back that they eat sugar in moderation and that is the same as stating that you take poison in moderation. But the odds are not in my favor that you are even reading this now; you probably stopping reading at the second paragraph once you realized that my addiction was to sugar. How pathetic!

     To that, I challenge you to stop. Cold turkey. No more sugar. No more more refined carbs: bread, pasta, pizza. None of it. Fast for five days straight drinking only water with pink Himalayan salt for electrolytes and minerals. If you don't cheat, you will realize by the second day how seriously addicted you are and you will stop judging addicts for being so weak and unable to get their lives together. Your third day without sugar will make you wish you were dead.

     In the event you are able to complete the five days, you don't get to praise yourself and return to sugar. You are done. You will never touch a pipe again, snort, shoot or whatever other way people ingest drugs. You can't eat bread ever again; no more pasta, no more pizza no more sweets or deserts of any kind. You will cleanse your body and remain in ketosis until your final days. 

You are sugar free. Congratulations! Now we can sit together and wait to get a glimpse of Dante and Virgil when they walk by; or Godot.