These noises are my companions while I type strings and variables together; sentences and paragraphs on a computer monitor. Sipping on a third, forth or fifth cup of whiskey. Or beer. With every touch of that glass it stings as if it was my first time.

My liquid amber, my golden escape. The dulcet tones of Miles and his trumpet. The only time where I can feel nothing, and also think on everything and feel conflicted in 5 different ways. At the bottom of every cup I find some truth. Whether it be about you or other, there’s always that last drop holding the truth captive within its watery walls, but she wont give up her secrets that easily.

There’s a ritual that needs to take place before one can embrace her warmth. There’s a setting and mood that must act as a catalyst for your dance. A dance that sobriety and inebriation have to fight over to see who takes lead. Where their partners: reason and recklessness, take backseat. One careful step here, one gentle swirl there. Is it any wonder that a good whiskey and a beautiful woman share so much in common? With both you need to have a strong stomach to handle their offerings. Their smooth bodies make it impossible to stop.

Once you’re hooked you can’t let it go, because you don’t want to. You don’t want to lose that warm feeling that you get when you first kiss. After a while it becomes a love affair. Something you have to keep from your friends and family. The sting makes you close your eyes. Something to savor. Freddy Freeloader is what Miles Davis titled his second track on ‘Kind of Blue’. An album widely regarded as one of the best of all time. An opinion I happen to share.

Bukowski wrote a poem called ‘Bluebird’. What is it about the word ‘blue’ in pieces that I gravitate towards? Perhaps it isn’t the color blue after all, but rather the artists themselves. Both Bukowski and Davis were drunks and drug addicts.

Here’s to Kurt Vonnegut’s Tralfamadorian philosophy: this is where I’m supposed to be at this point in time. Nothing that I do to change will matter much. The past, present and future are happening with every step forward and backwards. All I have to do is close my eyes and time travel. Go back to the stardust which we all come from. Close my eyes and dream again.

Photographers: Alexis Vasilikos

Bryan Mendez

I write, and do other stuff.

bryanmendez.com

La entrada Click clack se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

She often wondered if they would be able to identify her in the morgue. In her own mind she thought of herself as a nondescript plain Jane, but how wrong she was. In her run-of-the-mill eyes, her only identifying features was a faint smell of vanilla bean. A scent that gave her away in any room she occupied and would, sooner or later, beg the question of any current baking endeavors. Artificial smells, however, fade over time. Her vanilla bottled fragrance would eventually give way to the natural odors of decay. No, her common self would only be identified by the murals she had carved upon herself.

Faded and fresh lines adorned her body the way the Nazca's lines of Peru were so intricately planned. Her wonton acts of self-mutilation were the journal entries of her life's diary. Each line and curve representing a passage, or tear stained memory. She could control each stroke and pass; depth and width. Picasso himself could not have conveyed that type of dismay or joy had he tried. With every slice her body made it known it was an unwilling participant. It threw up in its disapproval.

She was content with her canvas; she wasn't proud, nor should she be. Her artwork couldn't be shown to anyone but herself. Her long sleeves and leggings forebode such an act, and therefore it would stay hidden.

That was until she met Kris. Kris smelled of cigarettes, and what at one point could be considered apples. Kris represented everything she wasn't, but at the same time personified everything she was. Kris's dark eyes, and jet black hair exemplified her dream persona. Kris's looks and demeanor screamed, ‘Fuck off!’ A sentiment only her innermost thoughts could convey. With every interaction she thought to herself, ‘why can't I be like that?’

Their song, through many nights, became ‘Jezebel’ by Iron and Wine. Those simple nights that turned into mornings which would evolve into days that would degrade back into twilight. No one had ever seen her like Kris had, and with that she was content. Throughout each night they would create their own private universe within each others embrace.

Both dreaming of broken windows with sunshine reflecting upon each shard, and faint shadows walking past. They'd take turns holding each other through the night switching instinctively while they sailed through each others dreams. That space between Kris's overlapped arms and chest became more of a home than any house she had grown up in.

On their last night she laid next to Kris and said that she had finally found happiness, a sentiment that Kris had reciprocated. During those faint early hours, when the city stopped wailing giving way to the most intimate of sounds she whispered to her beloved.

The contents of each breath were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was that they, in that single moment of infinity, were together. She sorrowfully whispered, “I'll always be by your side.” A promise she would keep. As the clock struck its given hour she kissed Kris's forehead goodnight. Delivering it with one last message. A simple, “thank you.”

She gently broke away from that loving and warm embrace that had kept her safe through so many nights, and slipped away. She carefully tiptoed to their bathroom where her long forgotten paintbrush had slept. She picked it up once more and felt its familiar weight and texture.

During those last moments she applied some blush and lipstick. Content with the shade it would ultimately yield she laid in the tub and turned her head thinking of Kris's face laying upon a pillow. Her last breaths were meant for Kris's ears, but were intercepted by the hollowness between them. In that single and final second, her final good night had been heard.

Photographers: Michelle Owen

Bryan Mendez

I write, and do other stuff.

bryanmendez.com

La entrada The loneliest girl se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.