Choices

Four — or maybe just three days left. And then I'm gone. Perhaps I won't stop — but still, it will feel great knowing I can. I have plans. There's places I'd go to. People I'd like to meet. Things I'd like to do.

However questionable my feats and thoughts may appear to be, often even to myself, life has become much simpler once I've realised it's only my choice to live it my way. And yeah, it is fun, no matter how difficult it seems.

Retreat

Based on a proper assumption and years of experience, I took a bus to a weekend retreat. The assumption was, of course, that I would not be able to get back in time, would I need to wait to regain senses, a.k.a. get sober enough to drive. The weekend retreat is, of course again, just an assumed alias for a drinking spree covered as a Christmas party. Imagine "Last Christmas" of Wham mischievous fame, sans mountains, cabin and cheesy eighties. Sans cheesy romantic, too. Basically, what you get is a bash with a number of single thirty-somethings, all ready to rock and roll.

Anyway — long story short — while it took me four hours to get to my destination, it only took me one and a half hour to get from greetings to bed. In the meantime, I managed to get totally hammered and throw up number of times in various places, which included obvious favourites of drunks: a toilet and a balcony. Bad, too bad indeed.

Woke up at 5 AM, just in time to scribble this post, have a glass of water and return home for lunch. By bus, naturally, as my original assumption was correct. Too correct.

Abyss

Spent the weekend shivering in bed. So did she, at the other side of the city. I was nursed by my ex, she was looked after by her boyfriend.

Almost a week later, I'm driving home late at night. I've been thinking ever since I got out of bed. And I have come to a conclusion, a very painful one: It leads nowhere. It makes me unhappy — in a weird, bizarre way — this love, it burns me from within, yet it's a cold, lifeless flame of inner numbness, of unreal expectations, of fruitless hope.

It hurts, getting so close and then stall. It's cruel, unfair, incomprehensible. And it's a drug, leaving me wanting more and more, falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of unrequited affection.

It leads nowhere, I must keep reminding myself.

Enough. Enough now.

Lenny Kravitz, Prague 15 November 2011

The great gig in the great company. The usual Lenny's set, no exceptions. And me, so brutally shaken by her glances and smiles. Tough, tough life.

Main Set: Come On Get It * Always On The Run * American Woman * It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over * Mr. Cab Driver * Black And White America * Fields Of Joy * Stand By My Woman * Believe * Stand * Rock And Roll Is Dead * Rock Star City Life * Where Are We Runnin' * Fly Away * Are You Gonna Go My Way

Encore: I Belong to You * Let Love Rule

Can't Get You Off My Mind

Speeding through the night, countryside flitting behind the windows, music filling the space. And my mind — helpless, flaccid mind — keeps staring numbly ahead. Insecure, fleeting glances are culminating into a full-blown mess that is taking its toll. Both literally and metaphorically.

Life is just a lonely highway
I'm out here on the open road
I'm old enough to see behind me
But young enough to feel my soul

Few days later, having a night out with friends. Waking up slightly dizzy, nevertheless great. Missing you, the display says. Please don't make it harder for me, I respond half asleep. And then quiet, somehow hurting. Falling asleep again before taking off to enjoy unbelievably sunny and warm November.

I've got a pocket full of money
And pocket full of keys that have no bounds
But then I think of lovin'
And I just can't get you off of my mind

This really is all wrong.

Mess

Bought the tickets for Lenny's gig and read Isaacson's book on Jobs over the weekend. Walked a lot. Hardly spoke to anybody. Calmness. Inner purity. Naivety? What was I thinking? This meant to be just the quiet before the storm.

Came to work too early on Monday morning and did not cool off for a single moment of the standard twelve hours. Barked a lot. Sent a full hundred of emails, some pretty harsh ones, too. Intense, restless day. Few swift meetings. Why do people talk bullshit to express simple ideas?

My hitched perplexed mind cannot stop wondering what is to come. I seldom feel so vulnerable, so naked. But maybe more so is she and it's me who fucked up. By even thinking about it.

I'll rip you apart — I'm being told fondly.

And I just keep wondering.

Shakespeare 2.0

Sans tragic ending, this would make a great love story with a twist: Juliet having balconies at two opposite sides of her bedroom — and while there's two troubadours, there can only be one Romeo.

And it is not me.

Addiction

7 AM and I'm back at work. Switching on the lights, making an early morning tea and flipping through business news. Deleting spam, answering emails, checking yesterday's figures. Looking at the empty yard below, sipping from the hot mug, meditating. I should get ready for a meeting.

Blink!

It's 7 PM and I'm still at work. Drinking an evening tea, slowing down. Regular dose of heart attacks, agitated discussions, heated phone calls, tireless explanations, meaningful or less-so meetings, emails sent and received, plus a good laugh, a good laugh above all, is coming to a close.

It's freaky but it's fun everyday.

A momentary lapse of reason

It's surprising how boyish you are — she contemplates — you seemed to be totally different when I first met you.

I'm trying to decode what is being said.

I would not mind working for you — she adds.

She left me speechless. Does it means extra points or have I just lost some? Before, they all used to say that they would have hated working for me. Loath, not hate, hate sounds too sweet.

Is she talking about the same demanding reckless prick, selfish unyielding brat I happen to know?

Something must be going on.

Communiqué

I'm driving her to my place for the first time. It's only her and me — and her German Shepherd. Though I've never had a dog, I feel fine around him and it appears that this feeling might be mutual.

I did not plan for this but looking back it seems it was inevitable. Suddenly we're only inches apart and I cannot resist the temptation. Fascinated to say the least. She's giving in, too, and airy touches transform into an absorbing fever in a blink. Here she is, in my bed, beautiful and nude on the verge of ecstasy.

He's watching the show sitting a mere meter away and somehow cannot handle it. Before she is to erupt, he makes known his opinion.

Throwing up was a crystal clear declaration of his thoughts.

Content

Sitting on the sofa, facing each other. Her cousin is just a meter away checking his Facebook account, entertaining the party with details of his life, e.g. dogs, work and home renovation to name a few.

I'm hardly listening. I'm only capable of exchanging fleeing glances with her and an occasional random smile. After all, that's all I long for.

She wants me to stay over but won't let me sleep in her bed; not tonight. Nevermind. Instead, she's stroking me as I'm laying my head down, then disappearing in the other room a minute later.

So little and so much happened in last twenty-four hours. I'm leaving her place before she wakes up early in the morning. The city is bathing in autumn fog but I cannot care less.

I'm at peace with myself and everything around: content with whatever's happening and whatever is or is not to come.

Game

The very last warm night of summer. Sitting high above the city, late at night. She led me over and I have no clue if this is just a friendly walk or something deeper. How the heck should I know? Guys are generally the last ones to figure out what's going on. And I've only known her for few hours.

She hints there's a boyfriend. But she gives me her number. She seems to like spending more time with me. But her body language is eerily neutral. She's evasive. But asking me if I'd stay over…

I just don't know. Well, whatever. I'm game, that's the point. Definitely game again.

At the party

— What do you do?, she asks.

— I fly around, courtesy of a multi-national corporation, enjoying posh hotels, quality food and great wine. I do nothing, in fact, not because I'm smart enough but because I've been shown how to forward emails.

She looks puzzled.

— Nuh, I'm just pulling your leg. I work 14 hours shifts, starting with Red Bull sans vodka at 7 and returning totally destroyed late in the evenings. You know, like, kaput! And then I answer emails till 2 a.m., but hey, that's just a hobby.

She looks even more puzzled.

No, this ain't the way. I should have known better.

Final cut

It just happened. It was inevitable, yet I could not project a moment it would. And then it seemed so natural. And calm. Yes, it was calm. Caring. Just tears: they quietly gave her away as they were rolling down her face.

I could not recall a more affectionate moment in a long time. It was so bizarre, I could feel we were connected more than ever before.

She's gone. This time, I guess, for good.

Movie night

I called my place a freaky hotel room once, she overheard it and repeats it ever since. Why, you live there, she keeps asking. I do, most of the time, yet it still feels more like a hotel room rather than a real home.

It's late at night, I'm slightly cranky and on my own. It's been like that for over five months now. Sleeplessness is becoming occasional and does not bother me anymore.

Flew in from Portugal and am off to Turkey shortly, followed by Slovakia and finally States by the end of next week. That's awesome, say some. Is it? Can a good life be measured by frequent flyer miles? Bank account balance? Number of Facebook friends?

Tonight, I'm having a movie night supported by Red Bull and chocolate. All good, just the usual dose of whinge. I'll get by hugging the pillow.

Changes

Walking down the Fifth Avenue feels very little like Breakfast at Tiffany's. The neighbourhoods uptown do much more; my temporary home alike, complete with jazz, bourbon and sash windows.

Anyway, Tiffany's no longer works for having mean reds. For 21st century phonies and lonely slobs, there's the Apple store just one block up.

Youth

Flipping through The Telegraph the other day, I stumbled across the following quote by Richard Halliburton from The Royal Road to Romance, first published in 1925. Well worth thinking about:

Youth — nothing else worth having in the world... And I had youth, the transitory, the fugitive, now, completely and abundantly. Yet what was I going to do with it? Certainly not squander its gold on the commonplace quest for riches and respectability, and then secretly lament the price that had to be paid for these futile ideals. Let those who wish have their respectability — I wanted freedom, freedom to indulge in whatever caprice struck my fancy, freedom to search in the farthermost corners of the Earth for the beautiful, the joyous and the romantic.

English way

Caressing that marvelous body of hers, breathing in her adolescence, her insecurity, her vulgar mindlessness. Stroking her hair, kissing her. Wondering how much of those feelings is reality and how much just a projection of my own imagination and sentiment.

Rationale: that's what's driving me in most cases but this. Drowning in as there's no solution other than cut it short or wait. Perhaps in vain, perhaps forever. No equation, no fundamental law to make things right — there's no equations and no laws.

Caressing that marvelous body of hers meaning to caress my brain to calm.

Hanging on in quiet desperation
is the English way

This is not my way. It's only a cold turkey of Sunday afternoon.

Linger

Walking around the city helped to ease the moment. There she was, in my bed, her youthful body inches from mine.

She could; she knew she could; and I felt I could, too. Yet we didn't.

Paraphrasing His Steveness: I’m as proud of what I don’t do as I am of what I do.

Brake

A car in the middle of nowhere. Wound down windows, loud music. Early morning.

Sunrise like a nosebleed
Your head hurts and you can't breathe
You been tryin' to throw you arms around the world

Here I am — everything's running smoothly, everything's been just great lately. Work-life balance represented by new toys I buy along the way. Watches, perfumes, attire. Dining in top-notch restaurants, traveling the world. Everything clicks perfectly. I tend to get things done my way.

Here I am — on the verge of the total physical exhaustion. This is the way, this is how to fight insomnia. Yawning.

No need to pull the emergency brake. This is what I chose.

Numbers

I'm flat, baby, and I mean it — I'm uttering as we're taking a walk.

I'd smoke but I don't. I'd drink but I can't. It's so simple to list a number of things I'm not interested in. Holding her hand and casually making love again and again seems to be enough for the moment. And falling asleep effortlessly — that's what really counts now.

Great and grim

A bit dreamy today. Woke up home all alone — yet it almost felt like having somebody by my side. Thoughts were piling, slightly nightmarish, slightly joyful. Bittersweet.

Slowing down to recharge over the weekend was a great idea. Only I have to keep reminding myself it can hurt.

Focused

Just arrived from Austria last night. Shower, few emails and then bed. Woke up at five, had a blood test done at 6:30 in the morning. Buying breakfast on my way to work, sending my first email at 6:45, leading my first meeting at eight.

Working till twelve, quick lunch in KFC and starting all over again. Till 6:45 pm. I need a break, I'm tired, I'm thinking as I'm driving off. Groceries, home.

— Would you come over to set up my router, mate?
— Yeah, no worries.

Coming back at 11. Wzzzz, interjects the phone as I'm putting down things for tomorrow. A short glance at display and I can throw it all away.

I'm off to France in the morning.

Baile Átha Cliath

How do you fight it?, she asks. I stay in hotels, it has always worked, I respond with a smiley. It's late at night and I cannot fall asleep.

Few days later. It's after midnight, I've just landed. Checking in and then taking a long stroll through the centre, listening to Sinéad O'Connor, an archetypal Irish rebel. There's hardly any people in the streets but for Temple Bar. I wonder around, having a sip of Guinness, then slowly walking by the Liffey quays back to the hotel.

And I sleep well.

Pathetic

Days flow by, being passed over carelessly. Alarm clock, bathroom, car. Buying breakfast, drinking tea, working, attending meetings, lunching, working again. Usually till late. Having or buying dinner on the way back. Book, Internet, sometime sports. And insomnia.

Few things, very few things are happening. What really counts? Donating frequent flyer miles to charity? Hardly. Calls to New Zealand? Perhaps. Writing a love letter? Who knows?

I sent one today anyway, thoughtlessly ignoring it may sound cheesy. Being pathetic is the act of passion. It's been over two years and I still keep wondering — may this be love?

Execution

Took a long walk late in the evening in a desperate attempt to fight insomnia. And then spent another two hours emailing, chatting and browsing the net anyway.

Still, the ideas are quite clear. They just need a proper execution.

As if it was a job. 'Cos in a way it is.

Prime

Making money, having more responsibility than ever, enjoying the work, flying all over the world and generally doing fine. And having kids and a beautiful wife by my side.

Somehow the second part of the dream failed to materialise so far. And I wonder if it's good or not.

Filling the void

Some time ago, I used movies to get over my sleepless periods. Sort of a harmless sleeping pill. I'd watch a movie late at night, browse the net and chat with somebody on the other side of the planet. Would I feel hungry or thirsty, pulsing city lights were just few floors down. And having the best 24/7 kebab shop in Sydney two blocks away, one could never lose.

These days, it's pretty much the same. I'll have Pepperoni, I'm calling the pizza place in my Gipsy quarter as I'm leaving the office. Twenty minutes, mate, the Macedonian with a thick accent replies. Suits me well.

Watched an old Czech sci-fi movie tonight, Ikarie XB-1 from 1963. I'm positive Stanley had watched it number of times before making his Odyssey. No more words needed — definitely worth seeing, even if one's not an insomniac.

Modus operandi

Drove her to the airport amidst uneasy silence. Few kisses in haste, and she's gone. At least for the time being. Blankly speeding off minutes later, the experience is numbing. Fifteen hundred miles in between make it slightly complicated for weekend visits, especially with no direct flights. In a split of a second, I am a bachelor again!

And insomnia is back with a vengeance. Staring into the night does not help. Nor does anything else. The apartment that seemed to be too small yesterday is too large for my liking instantly. And I'm restless. And useless.

Paying a visit to a jazz club. You're here?! — the singer spotted me. She tries to smile but is too tired. She's pregnant. It's been like... seven years, yeah, seven years. I wish we had something to talk about, yet we have very little in common. She sings Midnight at the Oasis, I hate that song ever since I saw it in Lost in Translation. I leave as soon as the band packs. No urge to get pissed. And I'm driving, anyway.

I stare. I'm losing the grip. I'm losing motivation. And I wonder what's next.

Must indulge in work and sports, that's the only way. Make money and get in shape. No daydreaming, no contemplating. That's the plan.