Georgetown
November 7th, 2012
12:37 am
A Snapshot for Closed Lids
I remember the face. Pretty; perhaps even beautiful. I remember four words, though there were surely more. A second sentence I can only paraphrase, and only with great liberty taken and honestly, I don't trust myself to do so. I remember her face, that much I can be sure of, I remember a smile, and those four words I'll never forget, small and meaningless as they were. And that scent! She smelled of Malaysia: incense, sweat, plumbing, bubbling palm oil and rain. Believe me. I've fallen in love on less.
A World On High, From Down Low
Everything runs vertical here. Everything leads the eyes up, all dreams aimed at the heavens above. Store fronts sprouting floor after floor of homes, once hollow, office buildings no one can afford to lease, gutted apartments reclaimed by tangles of untamed garden and mothers who starve so they can feed their children scraps. The clouds climb to impossible heights here, until their ambitions break, and the rains fall in sheets too thick to see through, electric fissures tearing horizons in two. From inside the artificially cooled third-world-posh coffee shop you could almost imagine cold air between the rain fall. But you know better. It’s gobi hot here. Dry or wet, it’s the kind of heat you drown in. The kind that turns the smallest tasks into dizzying tests of will and fortitude. Struggling with your belt? You got about twenty seconds before the heat soaks into you like a pissed on sponge and sweat falls out of you like the spilled innards of a swollen sky. Flash floods. Your showers ruined. It’s fitting though, you figure. This heat, too thick to see through. Rising up, as heat does, with everything else in sight. The buildings, the clouds, the foreigners with their heads turned taut. Even the most hard off seem to stretch skyward, open palms in full bloom, blossoming up from bent backs, ruined limbs, cracks in the concrete. Prayers with no return, rising to ether, a one way exchange. Everything runs vertical here. Nothing comes back down but gutted sky gods, the sparse spare change, shattered sueños, falling thick as the rains come. But there’s plenty of dreams in a place like this, so what’s a few in the gutter?
… Everything. Fucking Everything.
November 7th, 2012
12:37 am
A Snapshot for Closed Lids
I remember the face. Pretty; perhaps even beautiful. I remember four words, though there were surely more. A second sentence I can only paraphrase, and only with great liberty taken and honestly, I don't trust myself to do so. I remember her face, that much I can be sure of, I remember a smile, and those four words I'll never forget, small and meaningless as they were. And that scent! She smelled of Malaysia: incense, sweat, plumbing, bubbling palm oil and rain. Believe me. I've fallen in love on less.
A World On High, From Down Low
Everything runs vertical here. Everything leads the eyes up, all dreams aimed at the heavens above. Store fronts sprouting floor after floor of homes, once hollow, office buildings no one can afford to lease, gutted apartments reclaimed by tangles of untamed garden and mothers who starve so they can feed their children scraps. The clouds climb to impossible heights here, until their ambitions break, and the rains fall in sheets too thick to see through, electric fissures tearing horizons in two. From inside the artificially cooled third-world-posh coffee shop you could almost imagine cold air between the rain fall. But you know better. It’s gobi hot here. Dry or wet, it’s the kind of heat you drown in. The kind that turns the smallest tasks into dizzying tests of will and fortitude. Struggling with your belt? You got about twenty seconds before the heat soaks into you like a pissed on sponge and sweat falls out of you like the spilled innards of a swollen sky. Flash floods. Your showers ruined. It’s fitting though, you figure. This heat, too thick to see through. Rising up, as heat does, with everything else in sight. The buildings, the clouds, the foreigners with their heads turned taut. Even the most hard off seem to stretch skyward, open palms in full bloom, blossoming up from bent backs, ruined limbs, cracks in the concrete. Prayers with no return, rising to ether, a one way exchange. Everything runs vertical here. Nothing comes back down but gutted sky gods, the sparse spare change, shattered sueños, falling thick as the rains come. But there’s plenty of dreams in a place like this, so what’s a few in the gutter?
… Everything. Fucking Everything.