Making Cat Eyes at the Bar Flies
My NYE was perfumed with musky scents and forgiving lighting at my local bar.
Mari, my bartender, decked to the nines in glittering sequins and ample cleavage. Red wine percolating inside my bloodstream to the swirls and riffs of rock legends blaring from a nostalgic jukebox. The lurid volume served as an auditory cloaking device, a muffler, against mental cacophony, or even worse, the eerie rasping of mind decay.
Guised in the name of a glamorous gambling resort, this is the sort of place people come to when the gambling is all done and they're seeking to cash out. The only thing that is still game are their liver cells and the chance transmission of bodily fluids. Perhaps, even the remnants of self-respect - always the prized pawn. It's the infirmary that cradles the epidemic called loneliness; people go here not seeking a cure for this affliction, but to share it. Quarantine a safe space for the lost and lonely souls.
Seedy bars are Death's playground. Shells and husks reside there. The sharp bitterness of alcohol is only contested by personal experiences.
Yet, there is vitality as well. Laughter. Comadarieship. Misfit/outcast/loner community. It might sound a bit warped of me to admit, but I thrive in the midst of the urban life grit that's apparent in these places. What a conducive environment for eclectic storytelling - the best there is, really. Stories told by others, stories told by me, and stories that occur in front of my eyes, right in that very place. Even the bitterness, regret, resignation shows that these shellfishes had once lived their life. Growing older leaves too much time for introspection; this will always bring heartache. I hope to live in the vice versa fashion.
I savor these tales on the back of my tongue.
By far, the finest cocktail the place has to offer.
One patron found it almost incredulous to find a single, young, woman celebrating NYE in a bar by herself. He is a waiter for a swanky hotel and said he that would definitely notice if I walked into his services. He wanted to know my sorrows and my secrets, in which, I only responded with a smile. He assumed I had plenty due to the fact I was present in the bar.
My 50 year old lover (or ex-lover, rather), Chris, was there and his eyes lit up at my warily-approaching face. My bartender told us rumors wafted around the joint that Chris murdered me off. A rumor that was taken seriously. Chris was offended. I didn't help by laughing uproariously.
Such a reaction from me on a grisly hypothetical is just askance for a guttural death, n'est pas?
Gradually, under the influence of Johnny Walker, Chris admitted his nagging insecurities to me in a low murmur. He said he missed me but didn't dare call me because he felt that I was finished with him - that he served whatever ephemeral service he had to my emotional/physical whims. I didn't entirely disagree.
An artist fellow who frequents the bar offered a night cap at his place. He wanted to play us some of his concocted, guitar music while we hung out and smoked some hash (optional). We agreed to do so after the bar closed. However, Chris compensated a bit too much NYE cheer into his liver and was incapacitated to even walk steadily when that time rolled around.
As the three of us left the bar, Chris kept drunkenly insisting that I should go to the artist fellow's home on my own if I really desired to go. He opted out.
I distinctly tasted the tone of jealousy slurring out of his mouth.
So, the artist fellow and I started walking toward his place, while Chris walked across the street to head toward his. Just to be clear, I had no intention of sleeping with anyone that night. Contrary to dubious behavior as of late, I'm really not that kind of girl.
I felt eyes boring into me.
I turned and saw that Chris, successfully crossing the street in one piece, had stopped to lean on the building residing there, his eyes burning laser holes into me. I knew I had to go to him and make sure he arrived home safely. You know, personal responsibility and all.
On our walk down the long block, I asked him what did he possibly expect out of this relationship. Needless to say, being heavily intoxicated is not conducive to these sort of questions.
He wanted to talk inside his apartment. We went in. He told me he found me to be so beautiful and sexy. He wanted to be with me. However, it was apparent to him that I didn't want to be with him. I didn't disagree. I didn't want to BE with anyone.
My story is consistent to those who may cross paths with me.
It was the apologetic simpering of the "it's-not-you-it's-me" speech.
I've always known these sort of "relationship evaluations" as being banal and tedious; almost insulting, but the reality of conducting one made it practically unbearably so. I nearly stated that fact aloud.
In intermittent spurts, Chris would pause in the middle of his emotional baring and excuse himself to be sick in the toilet. Yeah, I feel you. Makes me kind of sick to bare myself too.
While he was occupying himself in the bathroom, I gazed around his apartment. Taking in the mess. They say a messy surrounding/appearance foretells a disorganized mind/life. Maybe so. My mind turned clinical at that moment. I gazed at photographs he had haphazardly strewn together on a tack board. I only got to three photos of a beaming, youthful Chris before my eyes snapped away deliberately. Easily. I remember consciously thinking that I shouldn't be drawn in...detaching myself cleanly without any peripheral pull toward my currently allotted consideration for him was best. I picked up a piece of unopened mail he had laying on top of some books and realized I had spelled his last name incorrectly. For inexplicable reasons, this was most irksome. I had to physically stop myself to repeatedly look at that envelope, pull out my phone, and correct his name in my contact listing.
This may be an overdramatization, but it felt like I was dehumanizing him - the way sociopaths do before they kill their victims. For selfish reasons, obviously.
I felt bad that he risked the "intangibles" only to get the short end of the stick, but I suppose that is the bliss of my chosen ignorance. My limited empathy felt obscene, above all else. I wondered if I would be absurdly fortunate enough to be spared unrequited experiences with someone of my sincere affection. I vaguely shuddered at the thought. I couldn't ascertain if that shudder was toward that possible suffering, or of an existence devoid of it. The choice is mine.
He was regurgitating his self-loathing and insecurities into a porcelain bowl (and believe me, I'm familiar with that particular brand of stench) while I mechanically patted him on the back, brought him a cup of water, and told him that he will most likely not remember this conversation in the morning, hence, how inopportune it was. Perhaps even pointless. But he deserved to know, and I'm not a cold-hearted woman.
Or so, I like to do things to counteract that nagging insinuation.
Basic human decency was all that I could give him.
He stared at me mournfully as I left.
Unfortunately, my face must've betrayed the liberating relief to be gone.
I wanted to photograph this tiny wake of devastation I created. Not out of any despicable egotistical merit, but the beauty of it. It's like that peculiar moment when a killer gets a warm flush of admiration and respect for their victim, in some cases. I found his emotional vulnerability toward me valiant and courageous. Something I am not currently capable of. I find a strange sense of normalcy in that ability in others. A normalcy I observe clinically, autistically. These idealistic projections that we place on other individuals to validate emotional/physical/mental needs within us. It revolts and fascinates me.
The night was quite beautiful. There was a woman wiping a glass door at 4am, looking as if she was going to head out to a business conference. We stared at each other as if we've never seen another human female before. I bet she would know what I'm talking about. I wish I could've photographed her without seeming like a creepy person.
I sat on my porch at 4:30am. A minuscule beacon of warmth and red liquor. Wearing a red coat that everyone exclaimed as being the bearer of good luck. A wayward stranger approached and made inconsequential small talk. Puffs of warm breaths against the cold night. He asked for my phone number. I declined serenely.
The first dawn of 2011 was magnificent.
I felt powerful in its birth.
But, we all know what a disillusionment power and control can be. ;)
Inside my apartment, I stripped myself topless. I put on a burgundy fur-lined coat - just to see the fur against my winter skin. To purely turn myself on. I photographed myself in this state.
And then I made love to myself.
Accompanying soundtrack to this entry:
Screw resolutions.
I aim to misbehave.
Mari, my bartender, decked to the nines in glittering sequins and ample cleavage. Red wine percolating inside my bloodstream to the swirls and riffs of rock legends blaring from a nostalgic jukebox. The lurid volume served as an auditory cloaking device, a muffler, against mental cacophony, or even worse, the eerie rasping of mind decay.
Guised in the name of a glamorous gambling resort, this is the sort of place people come to when the gambling is all done and they're seeking to cash out. The only thing that is still game are their liver cells and the chance transmission of bodily fluids. Perhaps, even the remnants of self-respect - always the prized pawn. It's the infirmary that cradles the epidemic called loneliness; people go here not seeking a cure for this affliction, but to share it. Quarantine a safe space for the lost and lonely souls.
Seedy bars are Death's playground. Shells and husks reside there. The sharp bitterness of alcohol is only contested by personal experiences.
Yet, there is vitality as well. Laughter. Comadarieship. Misfit/outcast/loner community. It might sound a bit warped of me to admit, but I thrive in the midst of the urban life grit that's apparent in these places. What a conducive environment for eclectic storytelling - the best there is, really. Stories told by others, stories told by me, and stories that occur in front of my eyes, right in that very place. Even the bitterness, regret, resignation shows that these shellfishes had once lived their life. Growing older leaves too much time for introspection; this will always bring heartache. I hope to live in the vice versa fashion.
I savor these tales on the back of my tongue.
By far, the finest cocktail the place has to offer.
One patron found it almost incredulous to find a single, young, woman celebrating NYE in a bar by herself. He is a waiter for a swanky hotel and said he that would definitely notice if I walked into his services. He wanted to know my sorrows and my secrets, in which, I only responded with a smile. He assumed I had plenty due to the fact I was present in the bar.
My 50 year old lover (or ex-lover, rather), Chris, was there and his eyes lit up at my warily-approaching face. My bartender told us rumors wafted around the joint that Chris murdered me off. A rumor that was taken seriously. Chris was offended. I didn't help by laughing uproariously.
Such a reaction from me on a grisly hypothetical is just askance for a guttural death, n'est pas?
Gradually, under the influence of Johnny Walker, Chris admitted his nagging insecurities to me in a low murmur. He said he missed me but didn't dare call me because he felt that I was finished with him - that he served whatever ephemeral service he had to my emotional/physical whims. I didn't entirely disagree.
An artist fellow who frequents the bar offered a night cap at his place. He wanted to play us some of his concocted, guitar music while we hung out and smoked some hash (optional). We agreed to do so after the bar closed. However, Chris compensated a bit too much NYE cheer into his liver and was incapacitated to even walk steadily when that time rolled around.
As the three of us left the bar, Chris kept drunkenly insisting that I should go to the artist fellow's home on my own if I really desired to go. He opted out.
I distinctly tasted the tone of jealousy slurring out of his mouth.
So, the artist fellow and I started walking toward his place, while Chris walked across the street to head toward his. Just to be clear, I had no intention of sleeping with anyone that night. Contrary to dubious behavior as of late, I'm really not that kind of girl.
I felt eyes boring into me.
I turned and saw that Chris, successfully crossing the street in one piece, had stopped to lean on the building residing there, his eyes burning laser holes into me. I knew I had to go to him and make sure he arrived home safely. You know, personal responsibility and all.
On our walk down the long block, I asked him what did he possibly expect out of this relationship. Needless to say, being heavily intoxicated is not conducive to these sort of questions.
He wanted to talk inside his apartment. We went in. He told me he found me to be so beautiful and sexy. He wanted to be with me. However, it was apparent to him that I didn't want to be with him. I didn't disagree. I didn't want to BE with anyone.
My story is consistent to those who may cross paths with me.
It was the apologetic simpering of the "it's-not-you-it's-me" speech.
I've always known these sort of "relationship evaluations" as being banal and tedious; almost insulting, but the reality of conducting one made it practically unbearably so. I nearly stated that fact aloud.
In intermittent spurts, Chris would pause in the middle of his emotional baring and excuse himself to be sick in the toilet. Yeah, I feel you. Makes me kind of sick to bare myself too.
While he was occupying himself in the bathroom, I gazed around his apartment. Taking in the mess. They say a messy surrounding/appearance foretells a disorganized mind/life. Maybe so. My mind turned clinical at that moment. I gazed at photographs he had haphazardly strewn together on a tack board. I only got to three photos of a beaming, youthful Chris before my eyes snapped away deliberately. Easily. I remember consciously thinking that I shouldn't be drawn in...detaching myself cleanly without any peripheral pull toward my currently allotted consideration for him was best. I picked up a piece of unopened mail he had laying on top of some books and realized I had spelled his last name incorrectly. For inexplicable reasons, this was most irksome. I had to physically stop myself to repeatedly look at that envelope, pull out my phone, and correct his name in my contact listing.
This may be an overdramatization, but it felt like I was dehumanizing him - the way sociopaths do before they kill their victims. For selfish reasons, obviously.
I felt bad that he risked the "intangibles" only to get the short end of the stick, but I suppose that is the bliss of my chosen ignorance. My limited empathy felt obscene, above all else. I wondered if I would be absurdly fortunate enough to be spared unrequited experiences with someone of my sincere affection. I vaguely shuddered at the thought. I couldn't ascertain if that shudder was toward that possible suffering, or of an existence devoid of it. The choice is mine.
He was regurgitating his self-loathing and insecurities into a porcelain bowl (and believe me, I'm familiar with that particular brand of stench) while I mechanically patted him on the back, brought him a cup of water, and told him that he will most likely not remember this conversation in the morning, hence, how inopportune it was. Perhaps even pointless. But he deserved to know, and I'm not a cold-hearted woman.
Or so, I like to do things to counteract that nagging insinuation.
Basic human decency was all that I could give him.
He stared at me mournfully as I left.
Unfortunately, my face must've betrayed the liberating relief to be gone.
I wanted to photograph this tiny wake of devastation I created. Not out of any despicable egotistical merit, but the beauty of it. It's like that peculiar moment when a killer gets a warm flush of admiration and respect for their victim, in some cases. I found his emotional vulnerability toward me valiant and courageous. Something I am not currently capable of. I find a strange sense of normalcy in that ability in others. A normalcy I observe clinically, autistically. These idealistic projections that we place on other individuals to validate emotional/physical/mental needs within us. It revolts and fascinates me.
The night was quite beautiful. There was a woman wiping a glass door at 4am, looking as if she was going to head out to a business conference. We stared at each other as if we've never seen another human female before. I bet she would know what I'm talking about. I wish I could've photographed her without seeming like a creepy person.
I sat on my porch at 4:30am. A minuscule beacon of warmth and red liquor. Wearing a red coat that everyone exclaimed as being the bearer of good luck. A wayward stranger approached and made inconsequential small talk. Puffs of warm breaths against the cold night. He asked for my phone number. I declined serenely.
The first dawn of 2011 was magnificent.
I felt powerful in its birth.
But, we all know what a disillusionment power and control can be. ;)
Inside my apartment, I stripped myself topless. I put on a burgundy fur-lined coat - just to see the fur against my winter skin. To purely turn myself on. I photographed myself in this state.
And then I made love to myself.
Accompanying soundtrack to this entry:
Click to viewScrew resolutions.
I aim to misbehave.