Is this the downfall of every artist? A beautiful woman... Well, I keep writing, maybe more now than before. How many drunks are out there, too scared to face their reflection in the blank page without the devil's elixir to aid the battle. Am I writing well?... what kind of writer am I if I have to deny the beauty of life to do it?
Here he is, the sniper back behind his rifle. Or whatever the fuck snipers use to shoot. I'm from Australia, John Howard took my guns before I was born! and thank god, the Americans talk about it like it’s a bad thing whilst they train their teachers to shoot their students. As if the curriculum isn’t doing that enough. I arrived in Kathmandu today. Which I pronounce Kath mandu in my head. Which reminds me of my Nan, aptly named. I held back tears tonight and instead of falling as ink they waterlogged my brain and drowned my thoughts. A cab, a plane, a bus, walk, a plane, a bus and then a cab and I have arrived. The streets are busy and full of foreigners. Full of a new set of faces to hold on to. My faith rewarded me, and now I have to let go of the rewards and stay loyal to the faith. Dharamsala was a brief admission to heaven. Waking up without a hangover from the wandering mind of the night before. Walking up the hill to the waterfall, meditating and feeling the vibration in the rock I sit cross legged on. Walk into the freezing fresh water that falls from the mountains. The tadpoles watch on as I dip into the cold and lose all the attachments of yesterday. I wonder if they want to be frogs. I type with one eye on the keyboard, the other to my phone, hoping Ayelen would message. After the waterfall I would walk further up the steps to Shiva Café. Sit there, drink coffee, smoke a little bit and watch the writing happen, watch my fingers that were bullied in high school type words they awe at. Walk the long way home. Drop into Sky high Café, my lounge room, give Yash $60 to get me hash. Walk back to my room. Listen to music beneath the dribbling shower. Too hot and too cold within a touch of the tap. Sit and listen to music until I walk back to my lounge room. Play my own music through the speaker. Watch the travellers come in and say to Yash,
“Great music,”
“It is him brother,” he would reply, pointing to me in the corner.
The bearded king. Seeing the same faces every day as if we are in the same energy currents subconsciously sending us to areas. Me laughing at the universe for being so obvious. Now I'm here with a new set of nuances, a new strip of bars, a new currency, once again a vulnerable little boy who wants to find a corner to hide in, like a fat spider.
I used to laugh at fools who fell in love so easily, and now I type content in being a fool. An Ayelen sized whole in my heart. Sitting in a bar tonight I thought of my mother, my best friend Jye and as if it was my first day at school I put on a brave face and denied the bodies urge to cry. Usually whilst feeling like this I wouldn’t drink, I wouldn’t smoke, I wouldn’t use the external world to pull me out of a hole to only fall ungracefully further in the morning. But something is different.
I don’t know what. It could be financial freedom. Not having to work tomorrow. It could be feeling closer to the identity as an artist. The emotions a nice contrast on the canvas. It could be the alcohol talking itself into my blood to deny the sorrows of the morning. But I chose to drink. Emotionally. I sat alone; three American girls had a conversation beside me. Nails on a chalkboard.
“Like, I told her, if she like wants to come here she needs to like, I don’t know, like adapt to the culture.”
Girls talking about another to distract from the fact they’ve got nothing to talk about. Whilst I sat beside them holding back a cry, judging them.
“Mushrooms? LCD?” Asked a man on the street as I walked,
“No thanks” I replied, with no energy to pursue any transaction.
But maybe that’s the next venture. Swallow a fistful of mushrooms and remind this ego it isn’t in control.
Life is one sick trick. We have the ego that’s addicted to monotony in fear of death and the immortal soul who is made from the fabrics of existence and bored in the reality where time does not exist. They both make such good arguments and I watch on, listening to them talk. One through the words in my mind and the other with memories of when I had a different face. I ask you this. If souls are just consciousness. Then how are some younger and older than the other? If they are just the same source of a realm where time does not exist, then how are some more progressed than others? How do souls evolve without the notion of time? Is it because the universe is still expanding, that new energies are being birthed?
Ayelen described my writing as apocalyptic, that I made her feel like the first day of the last. I picture her now, dancing to the doors in my hotel room. The songs that brought me joy yesterday bring me sorrow today. Wanting to bend time on itself and relive the moments. To feel the touch of her hand where the black jewels sit of home made jewellery. That is the thing though. If I was worshiping the past, as I am now, I would have missed her. Now a new set of present moments blossom in my arrival to reveal themselves as new memories to cherish. But I don’t want to. I am still that little boy, the one too scared to enjoy Christmas holidays to prevent the sorrow their ending brings. It’s all just indifference. My natural state at a low frequency. I slowly fall back home and my body interprets it as depression. The same feeling I feel now convinced a younger me to die. Now, through the fog I am happy for it. To hear the music that reminds me of moments gone and smile instead of frown. To just give it all up and find a new tune. Its hard to love yourself and the truth at the same time, maybe even impossible. I hope its impossible then I can stop worrying about it. But I know that truths, like emotions, are fleeting. I wrote this about her;
She makes me want to drink less and smoke less, not because it makes her happier, she doesn't really give a shit, but because my sober self enjoys her so much. Is this the downfall of every artist? A beautiful woman... Well, I keep writing, maybe more now than before. How many drunks are out there, too scared to face their reflection in the blank page without the devil's elixir to aid the battle. Am I writing well?... what kind of writer am I if I have to deny the beauty of life to do it? Either way, she makes my heart spill. She makes life easier with the excitement of seeing her. I have to keep the rest of the world going. I must keep my world revolving around the sun and growing towards God, other than her, but as it revolves, no matter how I do it, I could sit comfortably watching her live, watch her laugh, listen to her stories, and feel the warmth of the sun. The fire in her eyes that burn with passion for her yoga, for writing, for life and towards the end, even me.
So now I sit, as Pavlov’s dog, a salivating mouth for the approval of a beautiful Latina.
“Alright buddy, toughen the fuck up,” I think to myself.
Then I change my language, understanding I'm talking to my inner child,
“Okay buddy, its time to let go,” I correct, he knows.
Tomorrow is the same sun and a new day. I feel as if I have left a party early. Where the beautiful girl I spoke to still dances. I feel a lot of things. More sad and vulnerable than when I first left home. I feel like I left home again, but a home I saw through a new set of eyes. Sure, it’s all an illusion, me, Ayelen, the drink, the artist lifestyle, the smile of Yash when I walk into the café. Sure, it’s all an illusion, but I really loved that illusion. The life of an artist, they’re always running away from something. Only when they turn and sit still long enough, to dismiss the screaming of the mind, then they feel the velvet hand gently caress their face. The monster they created in their mind is nothing but a story. So I sit bare foot, listening to music with no lyrics, asking questions with no answers, thinking of answers with no questions. The fear is warm. Not ready to let anyone into this bubble I call me just yet. The tears might come. The gentle stare of the soul as droplets down my cheeks. Poetry is a good place to hide. Until I feel strong enough to enter the new world out there.
