Jazz Café Experience

Surrounded by swirling smoke in the jazz cafe, I was sitting down, tapping my fingers to the lingering sound of a tune. Couples around me were holding hands like sly foxes under the round tables, kissing keenly, like the sky does the moon. Empty seats and lonesome folk were sitting as one, with scented candles burning with zeal. Strangers and friends mingled, lounging on the divan. I was focused, gazing at the starry spotlight on the woman onstage. She was singing the blues, freeing them from her soul with every gloomy note. Her voice was almost haunting, sending chills throughout my body. The band played slowly, with the music leading the way. Taking a drag of my last cig, blowing smoke rings that travelled across the room, I closed my eyes and swayed my body, left and right to the melody, digging into my thoughts and untamed imagination.

A bluesy dream, it was; the sound of the barry soothing me. I was floating on air, flying high through the smoke. I was lost in the music, lost in the moment. A heavy crowd of colours emerged; blues, reds and purples, chatting away like a soft breeze. A figure, faded like a black sketch loomed; all rubbed out and messy, but redrawn as it neared… It has bold outlines and faultless features – teasing me to insanity. This handsome painting whispered into my ear sweet nothings, sweeter than the sweetest honey. When I unclosed my eyes and took a look around, I smiled, bit my lip and guzzled my drink down. I just sat there and smoked my ciggy dry and tasteless. Tapping my fingers to the lingering sound of a tune, I let the nocturne of the keys make its mark in my mind.

(No folks, I don't smoke lmao this one isn't about me)

Lightning Bolt Strikes Gold too…Cheerfully?

“And he’s done it! He’s done it! I cannot believe my eyes! Wow! Amazing!”

He looks to his left. He looks to his right. He knows. He knows. He beats on his chest. As he crosses the finish line with ease, he spreads his lengthy arms like wings and flies across the track. He celebrates with a smile and a handful of dances. He’s broken the world record. 9.69. The fastest man in the world. Number one. Who, you ask? Usain Bolt.

This young, now 22-year old, Jamaican sprinter has a future ahead of him brighter than the biggest star. I was in absolute awe for two days straight. Usain Bolt, 9.69 seconds, 100 M? It was mind-boggling to me. It still is. He is definitely the highlight of the Olympics. Usain is a relaxed and fun-loving guy who knows that he’s a damn good sprinter. Yet I tune into my daily dose of the Olympics while I’m enjoying my breakfast and I hear some breaking news - Jacques Rogge, president of the International Olympic Committee believes that Bolt showed a lack of respect for his rivals by celebrating too early.


"I think he should show more respect, shake hands, give a tap on the shoulder to the other ones. Not making gestures like the one he made in the 100 metres,” Rogge said on Thursday. “He still has to mature. I would love him to show more respect to his competitors. He should learn that he should shake hands with competitors." - Link

Is this guy serious? Showboating is embedded in sports like a heart is in one’s body. When you score a goal, make a sick pass, cross someone to the point where they fall, of course you want to celebrate! It’s a great feeling. You cannot deny that nor can you deny how they’re expressed. And when there are far more serious controversies to deal with, such as the age of the Chinese gymnasts, this man wants to cry and whine about a little celebration. Usain is overwhelmed with joy and Rogue expects him to shake hands? Bullshit. He hugged some people, and to me that’s good enough. It’s not as if he put up his middle finger, turned around and starting running backwards, saying “Catch up niggas! FUCK YOU!” It’s not as if he did not acknowledge the other sprinters. He was as modest as he could be. Many athletes have been “showboating”. Just yesterday, during the 50k walk, the first place man from Italy was waving to the crowd, pumping his fists in the air. Volleyball players run around and yell at the top of their lungs every time they make the other team cough with their sick plays. If Usain had showed no emotion at all, there would be an even bigger whine from that rogue, calling him stuck-up and rude. Give me a break. With such a great accomplishment for Jamaica, a country full of sprinters that hardly make the podium, there is absolutely no reason to criticize a young man who celebrates his success. It’s not that serious folks. You know what’s really serious? Doping. That’s some serious shit.

Snowy Sunday

Snowflakes awake on a Sunday sunrise,
Swirling in the vivid sky,
dancing to the rhythm of peace,
Until they fall asleep ever so softly on the sill,
Silent and serenely.

I watch them in naive wonder
as they form a lovely painting;
Beds of purity lay upon naked nature,

streams of water are hidden under rinks of gleaming ice.

Snowflakes dance to the rhythm of peace.

As the sun glimmers,

I blow a kiss to my window, concealing this scene with a cloud of air
And draw a heart for the sleeping snow.
This snowy Sunday,

a winter bliss,

my favourite day.

Bored beyond bright && broad borders

When you’re incredibly bored as I am, you just ramble on about random things, wandering about in the world of words, jumping from subject to subject like you’re jumping rope (Double-dutch is still the shit by the way), and trying to become interesting and more interested in something or someone. But on the plus side, that’s probably when the best work crawls out of its shell and makes itself known in my mind. Inspiration hits me in the most awkward moments, like when I’m drinking my daily OJ. Then BAM! I have a story. It’s crazy. My persona is just random and on that WTF level of a higher power that is just works. Everything just works. But for now it’s back to your regularly scheduled boredom – in the early morning.

August 19th. Year 2008. The sun left the sky to smile in the east, leaving the shady moon behind. It reminds me of a ruined marriage, you know, the ones where the man avoids his wife and eventually leaves her…for a white girl.

2:15 am. I’m drooping down in my seat further than my bottom lip. I feel like just descending all the way down to the crimson carpet beneath me and falling asleep once and for all. Not to die, for you literal folk, but just … to let go, you know? The Olympics have been wearing me out. Yeah, yeah, it’s low and vile what China has been doing to Tibet. At this point in time, you’d think we as one world would learn by now. But noooo. Everyone wants to enslave each other’s minds and paralyze the rights and freedoms of every human being…and steal pencil crayons. Everybody wants to scrap and struggle with the next man who looks at them funny, even if they just have a lazy eye. Everyone wants to have that control, that power that makes people bow down and kiss one’s dirty feet. BUT, at the end of the day, The Olympics are the event to watch. People just forget about the troubles and enjoy the show. It’s exciting! Exhilarating! Electrifying! It’s been my life since 08/08/08. What a lucky day, eh? The 100 meter dash, 4x1relay, gymnastics, triathlon and the list goes on. Tibet what? Who? Where?

Under my eyes, bags of Z’s have made their impact. I should lie down in my bed and let my eyelids do the falling. I should at least try, put my imagination at ease. That thing is wild. But I’m one of those people who stay up for absolutely no reason. I’ll be finished the day’s tasks and be sitting down, changing channels even though there’s nothing on. I’ll be listening to songs I’ve listened to more times than a millie. I deal with my boredom that way – by writing and jamming. It’s just how I do.

I wonder a lot, you know? I was always one of those kids who asked “Why?” too much, the semi-annoying, Stewie like tall girl. I used to gaze outside windows, mostly on rainy days until the sun went down. The sound of the pitter-patter of the raindrops was so soothing. The rain would slither down the window, making a silent stream. I’d grasp its serenity with a firm grip and get in that zone of mine, thinking about anything – books, people, twister, Power Rangers, life. It was fulfilling for me to create pictures and stories in my mind from just about anything. Silence would swallow my surroundings and I’d be rapt in the climax of my story, the splendor of my picture. What can I say, I’m a curious person. My imagination runs wild. One day, I’m meeting someone from my past, the next day I’m narrating in third person with the most exquisite words, running from people with machine guns. Is that weird?

Don't answer that.