The below is awesome. I love it, love it, love it. I drop by to say this

Peace

ariblaze:

empty stage

emptier heart

cold world

where has the warmth gone?

where has the lush gone?

why is the light harsh?

why is the fragrance gone?

where is the love?

where is the promise?

what becomes of my heart now?


^{doesnt make eye contact with anyone as he walks out of the arena}

@poster

Nice!!! I like

Peace

Irma is feeling alone and sad. She is in front of her computer, trying to write, but could not. She opens up another tab to see what is on the news, what is on the papers, but nothing seems to interest her today. Her thoughts go back to Marco. He is sick. He has been having pain in his stomach and has been to the ER the other day, but without success at any real diagnosis that could tell both what was wrong in his body. He then went to another and they told him to take some pills. He has gastritis. He took the pills but nothing changed with his situation. The doctors told him that if after two days, his condition remains the same, that he should go back to the clinic so they could do further tests on him. Irma is scared that it might be something else; something lethal, irreversible, cancer.

Irma’s father had his brush with fate four years ago when he was diagnosed with colon cancer, at 75. He died two months shortly. Irma is scared to lose Marco in the same manner. She tries to distract herself today by reading articles in the New York Times. She browses through its pages on the internet and couldn’t find anything interesting to read. She stares at the front page, lets her eyes wander idly through the maze of letters and words in differing font sizes, some emboldened, some italized, all in blacks and blues, but nothing seems to catch her attention. Her mind is on Marco. She inspects the page once more, there must be something interesting to read, she tells herself but her eyes just wander off again, to photographs this time.
She sees a photograph of an old town. The headline reads The New Old Mexico. She clicks on the article and begins to read. The story is about a town called San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. It is, they say, a beautiful bohemia where American expats have moved from time and time again. They have built themselves an enclave it seems, in an ancient part of Mexico, with locals, fellow expats, young and old, a new Starbucks on Salem Street even, and some jovial and neighborly locals that, the NY Times reported, are welcoming to every new comer from all walks of life.

Everyone seems happy there. Irma thought that she and Marco would be happy there too, someday--when they retire--for it is just the kind of place that they would both enjoy. The photographs show a picturesque city, with cobble stone paved roads, locals with guitars slung on their shoulders riding donkeys, artsy Americans clad in all black walking their expensive Pomeranians ala New York mode, young Mexican girls wandering the streets alone, old Spanish cathedrals and villas, undulating roads lined with small cafes here and there, green trees, warm weather, the sun.

She wants to email him the article, just as she has always done in the past when she reads something interesting that she knows he would enjoy reading as well. But today she did not. Now she feels that it remains to be seen whether she and Marco would indeed be able to reach retirement. The prospectus for both to arrive at this stage would be old age. Today, she is unsure more than ever, whether she would reach old age with Marco considering that they both don’t know yet what is wrong with him. She emails the article to her mother instead and tells her maybe you could move there someday when you retire.

They all say that physical pain is somewhat a manifestation of psychological traumas, of psychological ills; bad and haunting memories that one couldn’t forget about perhaps or maybe sadness, unhappiness. She read once in a magazine that just like all cancers start with irritation-- where a cell goes bad, a neighboring cell gets infected with the bad cell’s karma, and on and on it goes until an entire organ gets defeated, until the whole body surrenders, until there’s nothing left but a cadaver-- a man’s spirit could also be wholly taken down by a single nagging heartbreak. Like a disease, the heartbreak spreads all throughout one’s body until one’s organs actually succumb to an actual disease and fail.

Could Marco be unhappy? She browses through the pages again, this time with a certain frenetic calm that only occurs to people who are alone and conflicted. She is alone. If they were still in New York, she would immediately phone her friends to meet for coffee, or tea, or beers, a joint, a line or two: anything to make her happy again at least, in the meantime, as she awaits Marco’s return home. But she is in London and very much alone. Unlike the expats in San Miguel de Allende, she is far from the welcoming arms of its city’s strangers, or a novel bohemia, or a misplaced rural Starbucks chain, or especially, a real prospect of retiring at San Miguel de Allende itself, now that there seems to be a real threat to Marco’s health.

Death. She thinks of death and Marco. What would she do if he dies? What if its cancer? What if she loses him? She moved to London and left everything In New York. They had just moved in London and now everything seems to be falling apart with this sudden unexplainable illness. What should she do if he dies?

She browses the New York Times again and this time sees a film review of a teenage vampire movie. Momentarily, she seems to forget her cares, chuckles, and tells herself, oh another one of those teenage vampire flicks. But Manohla Dargis wrote the review. She remembers Manohla Dargis’ pieces in The Village Voice and Irma likes her critiques. She is a good reviewer, she reminds herself. So she reads on.

The reviewer seems to like the film from what she wrote and there in the page are the clips of the movie. She clicks on and watches a clip and sees the trailer. You could see the young vampires fly and fight each other off in mid-air; the soundtrack and the shots are quirky, full of energy, lively. They are alive, very alive in fact, she observes. Vampires after all are least concerned about death. Vampire movies, if any, are always about being alive. Every time she sees one she feels a pang of jealousy for they are all immortal and she would like to be one herself because she is not. The vampire boy, however pale he is, is beautiful. Here is a super human. He will live forever. To die is human but to live forever divine, she tells herself. She thinks of Marco and wishes that he were a vampire. She wishes that both of them were vampires. If they were, they would be able to live forever and could choose several cities to retire to, different countries to live in on different times, or several lives and personas for every hundred of years that they are alive.

She sighs a desperate sigh for they are not vampires but humans. Irma’s thoughts now wander off to the Killers song Humans, how wonderful the tune is. How well written and simple the message is. How both she and Marco would listen to it over and over again when the album first came out. Her attention goes back to the page where the clips are, she watches them again and for a second feels herself falling in love with the actor (or with the vampire?). She thinks of death again and Marco and tells her self maybe if he dies, I would meet this actor, this vampire. She feels excitement for a second, watches the clip again, and smiles a wistful but lonely smile.