Jazz Club

So I always go to this jazz club and they always give me a hard time on the style of the brass I like. But the way they play it... It's like the music isn't even hitting my world in a way. The world cannot tell me what I want to hear. It's not like the world is still spinning and it's not like I could care. It wasn't anything of use to me and I don't know if I care. But there's this starling noise humming through every single one of my thoughts and I can't understand what it means. The reasons behind the dull pounding haven't gotten me thinking or made a revelation. It's not the way it works for me. Music simply gives me a small escape form the rest of the world and it gives me a reason to look on the brighter side of things. The sound of the brass is what makes the symphony exciting and new. The jazz with a breezy feel and serious message gives me a reason to smile, or cry depending on the circumstances.

But the way they play it that jazz club... It's so FAKE. The tenor sax is playing, but the sound doesn't ring through the room in the same way. The alto sax is playing, but the sound isn't booming the room in the same way. The piano is playing, but the keys aren't producing the same quality of music, as the piano that's tuning in my dreams. The trumpet... The bass... The drums... It's not the same. None of it is. It's not the same music I once gave up my life for. It's not the same music I fell in love with. It's not the same music I listened to in my dreams.

How do I explain this? The jazz club in great for business, with it's new popular music selection and rowdy teenagers.

Heart's Over

He walked down the same alley way he did an hour ago, a month ago, a year ago. He sang here when he was drunk from the numerous successful expertise business meetings, desperate with a broken heart, high on drugs killing his life.

Yet, this time it was different. He stumbled around looking for a couple dollars of change on the ground so he could start saving for his next shot. Kevin needed hallucinogens to forget about the pain of mourning and escape the hopeless society he once called home. But drugs don’t ease the pain for very long, and when he couldn’t handle his broken heart any longer without contemplating suicide, he turned to drugs. Now, the drugs have turned on him and taken him into a dark abyss.

Kevin found himself lying on the ground of the alleyway, finally too tired from lack of sleep and proper nutrition.

As his job, friends, wealth and family one by one abandoned him, the musical melody that was stubborn and strong stayed with him. Giving him the inspiration and heart the write the most incredible songs, he still couldn’t pull his life together to continue his career as a singer - song writer. It was easier to stay in the alleyway, peddling money until he got enough for his next dose, his next prescription of medication for the wounds his dead wife left, anyways.

No one could heal those terrible slashes.

‘Why bother forgetting?’ he thought, ‘It’ll get better after I get. It’s the only way to freeze the images of the blood won’t stop flowing. It’s the only way to escape the reality where his wife killed herself from depression; a reality where he never noticed.’

“My heart won’t stop aching,” he said aloud, breathing heavily, on the verge of tears.

Like any other time when the hurting of his shattered heart became too much to bear and the next available hit of his narcotics seemed too far away to imagine, he sang.

The ocean of flooding hearts

Open up a hole to hide

The scattered parts

Of my love that has been shot from the inside.

The sea of lost emotion

Could not understand

My painful under-estimation

Of the King of Kings and the sovereign holy land.

The love he took away

The hope it stole from me

The nights that blend into day

Make me unable to believe

She’s really flown off to a better place, he finished in his head.

The applause should have startled him, but at that time at night, the roads and alleyways were not the most respectable place a person could be singing, and sudden noises were things he quickly adapted to. His life as a homeless man was an infinite amount of times less stressful than his musical career. But that might be due to his lack of reason to live. Death didn’t shock him. Blood didn’t startle him.

His wife had already abandoned his dimension, and the purpose of life was lost that moment.

The check for a thousand dollars that had been handed to him, however, shocked him to no end.

“Who are you?” Kevin demanded suspiciously, taking the check nevertheless. Only thinking about when the nearest bank would be open and how quickly he could rid of the heart ache, most of what the gentleman was saying was lost to the wind. The question was only a distraction so he could run away if the man offering him help was police.

Deciding to suddenly turn away from the man in front of him that was introducing himself, Kevin felt the other grab his arm. Tensing him muscles and getting ready to fight if needed, he found himself facing the second shock of the night.

“You can start over, you know.”

Kevin shook his head.

Life wasn’t that easy. A person can’t just wipe the footprints he imprinted onto the path, clean; can’t go back in time in prevent events; can’t deal with problems differently.

“A person’s heart can’t erase its memories and start over, you know.”

Marching

March is suppose to have something significant, right?
Like January is New Year.
Like February is Valentine's Day.
Like every month of the year is suppose to mean something, right?

All I can think to look froward in March, is March break. Still, it seems too long, already. For me, it wasn't the biggest deal is elementary school and it's not a big deal now.

Especially this year.
Especially when my mother hates my dad and my dad has finally had enough. There a startling revelation that decided to explode over my head like a hand grenade. The intimidating silence is already haunting my dreams and I haven't even thought about the "separation." My parents are too business for a divorce. It's bad for reputation.

There's really not much to look forward to March break. When the only time I get off, is to think about whose house I want to live in, how much money I can squeeze out of my parents, and how many nights a week I get to spend sulking, cause all friends are with their families, maybe you can get my drift...

It's not the prospect of a vacation that sickens me. It's me.

I know I shouldn't be taking out my anger on a month.

A Few Months Ago

My parents split up three months ago, in the fall, but they said the three of us would still go to this Mexican resort for Christmas because we already had the tickets and all that. By the time Christmas rolled around my mom said no way, she’d changed her mind and my dad said okay, it’ll just be me and him going to Mexico. Then, on the day we were supposed to leave, my dad wasn’t at his place and I couldn’t reach him on his phone and I said to myself thanks guys, you’ve really pulled out all the stops this year, and I went anyway. I mean I went into my dad’s spare room and took his “rainy day” money and my ticket and all the hotel information and I called a cab to take me to the airport.

The road to the airport was an unfamiliar one. As I looked out the window, trying to ignore the guilt quietly slipping onto my conscience, I suddenly felt so tired. I was fed up with all the fighting, the conflicts, and the problems my parents seemed to make up, only because they were frustrated from their own broken dreams
My phone rang at that moment, interrupting my thoughts. The taxi driver turned to stare at me, probably wondering why I wasn’t picking up and whether I was a troubled run away, teen. The tension broke after I turned my phone to vibrate and the airport was in sight. Without looking back at the road that led me here, I walked in. Standing and waiting for the line to diminish at the check-in desk, I desperately tried to suppress that unbearable sense of regret; I had done nothing wrong. I just needed a break away from the disaster area I called home.

When it was finally my turn, I went through the usual procedures of the airline and sat down in the designated waiting area. Waiting again. I didn’t if the empty feeling could cut me any deeper than it did already, but apparently I had no idea what pain felt like. I got a text message.

Where are u, darling? Your father’s in the hospital and the doctors diagnosed him with a stomach ulcer

The tears rolled down my face. But I boarded the plane nevertheless. I was tired. I didn’t have the strength to look back. I didn’t have a justified answer for my actions. How was going to explain to them what it felt like to be in the middle of WWIII and while both of them are armed and ready, I’m fruitlessly trying to negotiate peace? I didn’t have a home to return to anyways. It was easier to just let the uncontrollable feeling of HATRED numb. I was tired and I needed to run away. Knowing my father was sick would just add to the suffocating atmosphere. It was easier to run away.

Plus, it’d be such a waste of money if they weren’t going to use the tickets.

Oh, Internet, How I Am Dependent On You!

Today, my Internet broke. Like 5 times. So I called technical support 5 times. And technical support was like, why the F*** is your Internet still broken....

And I’m like why the F*** are you so useless....

I pay a LOT of money for high speed Internet. A LOT of money....

So I have no way to actually post this online till my access to the World Wide Web is up and running, again. I will wait patiently while this STUPID thing takes another 5 millennium to work again. I am seriously thinking of throwing my modem into the wall and watching it break into pieces, because that spectacular show of flying plastic is more useful than my useless modem right now. Unfortunately, my modem belongs to Bell and I cannot afford such luxurious products during my time of despair.

Yes, I am severely pissed off and I have issues with my life right now. Since the only way I can communicate with the outside world in the comfort of my non-germaphobic-inducing space. Yes, I have issues. And while I am forced to type this on Microsoft Document, instead of www.blogger.com, I will complain. As the sound of the keyboard represents my anger, I will be screaming at more technicians to ensure that my frustration is thoroughly understood.

There are, however, very few things I can do to enjoy myself without my handy little icon to the web, which is why I am actually writing a legitimate blog posting today. I would even put in a picture demonstrating my needs, but, like I said, the Internet has gone on strike and I don’t know what to do.

As I leave my, now, worthless computer to do something important, like math homework, remember my pain, and think of the poor children who cannot afford computers.

Sounds

Why does he sound happy?

He sounds like he's delighted to be here, when I know he's not. When I know he was focused here but the bullies. By the rulers of the hallway, he follows them like a loyal subject. Not for any reason I can think of. And I want to ask him to justify his actions, but I'm afraid I'm reading the situation wrong. I'm afraid that I'm making a mistake, and that he really wants to be here. But I also know I wasn't hallucinating when I observed the scene from yesterday. I know I saw a look of desperation.

As my friends walk towards me, I tear my attention away from boy before me and turn around to laugh at some lame jokes I don't really understand. My head is pre-occupied by what I witnessed yesterday and I'm still hung up about it. I can't shake the thought and I can't hear clearly the words being spoken around me.

Only the words he said are running through my mind at an infinite speed per hour and I see the fear in his eyes. There's no doubt what I heard was right.

"Please. Stop. I can't take it anymore," he sobbed.

But I'm still afraid to speak up. I'm still afraid to do something. It's wrong, it's twisted. It's just... not right.

Luckily, I have a little bit of courage in reserve, somewhere buried deep inside my conscience. Maybe the guilt brought it out or maybe the regret from not doing something at the first moment I watched the event brought on this newly produced bravery. I find myself walking into the office and writing an incident report, not quite sure what to describe. So I stop. I grab the first teacher I see in the office and I talk to do her. I tell her honestly what I heard, what I saw, and even what I felt.

Feeling a little lighter as a walked out of the office, I set out to make a new friend.

Say the Words that Matter

I have to say it like I care. Like the world knows me and I'm important. Say like I can make a difference and influence the thinking of others. I want to say it confidently and I want to say it well. But really, honestly, there are words that should be left unsaid and words that are are best buried under the sand of unforgiving skin. Sometimes the stares are hardest to bear, but I can't seem to speak up and do something about it. Anything. If I said anything, it would be different. I have to say it with the effort I can't find right now. Say it. Say it like I care.