Off

Dining in an upmarket fusion restaurant in the heart of the Strip. Two ladies plus me, the evening unfolding smoothly. Corporate culture at its best, the convention wraps the next day.

— What’s your plan tomorrow?
— I’m off for a road trip in the morning.

As blunt as it gets. They seem slightly taken aback.

I gave it three full days. Meetings over breakfasts, lunches, dinners. Chitchat over coffee, at the booth or in a suite. Enough. I deserve a hard pivot away from my business self. Enough. Enough of enterprise enthusiasm.

Time to be on my own.

I’m leaving at dawn, hiking through the valley by noon.

Do I wish I were here with somebody? I do. But do I care much? Not really. I enjoy being alone and there’s plenty of beauty to keep dopamine flowing.

Hours later, I watch the sunset. Just once, no hard Le Petit Prince moments. No company and very little agenda. Perhaps a good time to reflect?

I wonder when I’d be strong enough to cut ties with the rollercoaster of corporate life, the life I mostly love and occasionally hate, the one that keeps consuming time I’ll never get back.

For once, I’m fucking present, no distraction, no reception, no earbuds, no noise.

How much freedom can one bear? Albeit temporary. For now.

Speedball

They say a speedball is one of the most dangerous drug combinations known to man. Sure it is, I tried.

I was pretty much fucked the moment I saw her. Beautiful, shy and confusing, giving me all kinds of feelings at once, from heavenly highs to abyssmal lows. From extasy to utter desperation and back again — plus everything in between. And I never fully recovered from a decade-long cold turkey, only to have fallen for a faithful vice again. I’ve signed my soul to her.

I’m a junkie, never having enough. It’s been years, decades, eternity.

Ride the wave, they said. I’ve ve been tryin’, with long intervals reserved to simply staying afloat, or just casually drowning here and there.

I’m a hopeless junkie, I love my fix.

Always and forever, till the day I’m gone.

Abyss

We go on a road trip together, only to fall out within days, the fragile tie shattering into thousands of irreparable pieces.

Yet we’re still sharing a bed — night after night, motels and inns — until we reach the city. Breathing so close to each other, without a single hint that it means anything more. I manage to stay lucid. Lucid and calm.

Until that morning.

I turn my head toward her and she smiles like an angel.

— Wanna fuck me?

An everyday man’s dream come true. An easy answer.

Yet my romantic thoughts have just been murdered. We’re about to become fuck buddies. I need to adjust in an instant to this new normal as my heart is sinking.

— I do want to fuck you.

The next second, I’m ripping off her pyjamas, exposing that ivory flesh of hers, every inch of it ready to be taken. There isn’t a moment of hesitation before I enter, pushing hard with lust and greed.

I love it and I hate it. The closeness is gone, the bond seems never to have existed, morphing into a hollow affair with seemingly no connection.

Fuck me.

How easy. Just not for me.

Few days later, I wake up with a massive morning glory. She’s fast asleep, and I know better than to wake her. She only messages me once I’ve left for meetings. And I reply, letting her know how I feel:

— I wanted to make love to you in the morning.

Making love. It suggests romance, a link, or at least a hint of a liaison. I’m far from young, but I’ve had feelings for all those comets that passed by. I do care. And making love means far more to me than just fucking. This is how I operate.

We’re apart for most of the day. And then, just as I’m approaching the gate, a message arrives:

— Will you please fuck me when you come home?
— Certainly.

I do. And afterwards, I sink deeper into nothingness, a switched-off state with no release, no nauseating pain, just a pure abyss of nothingness. I wanted zen. Here it is.

Still, it lingers.

And we fuck again, maybe a couple of times more, whenever she feels like it. Until our ways part. In the middle of an airport, I’m turning left, she’s turning right, a fleeting kiss and it’s all gone.

We’ll always have Prague, Chicago, Vegas. And Paris.

But the romance, it is gone.

Principessa

Remember the scene of Marina Abramović unexpectedly meeting Ulay at MoMA during her performance? Twenty-two years after they split by walking the Great Wall from opposite directions and meeting in the middle, only to separate.

There were tears. And it was electrifying.

Some fifteen years ago, there was this enigmatic beauty whom I got to know and meet occassionally. After dark, usually.

Now, we’re sitting here across the table from one another. She’s so beautiful, I notice. She did not age, my lord. I’m all grey, watered and worn. And she’s so beautiful and radiant, I have hard time keeping my cool.

And I can only wonder what future holds, or what would be if — this beauty has always been so enigmatic in public, majestic yet untouchable.

Oh well, I need my squat back!

The morning after

She didn’t stay the night but I came over to see her in the morning. Crashed on the sofa, snoozing off.

And she, the queen of the house, passes in the radiating nude in front of me, waking me up instantly.

Drop-dead gorgeous.

Did we really melt into each other last night? She doesn’t seem to be interested in the slightest.

She walks in again, this time in her bathrobe. So elegant! That second I’m next to her, first studying those feline eyes of hers, then untying the belt to make sure I haven’t just imagined the beauty underneath.

And as I start exploring her skin, I’m kissing her over and over again.

— What are you up to?
— Wanna make love.
— We have five minutes.
— Yes.
— No.

Never without my permission, I remember that much. I let go.

She’s definitely far closer to a perfect being than I am to Korben Dallas.

I leave hungry — but not disappointed by any means.

Few hours later, there’s a message:

— I feel safe with you.

And it has just made my day. Or more. Considerably more.

Flashback

Years back. Many years back. A squat; that’s what I called it. Central enough, large enough to host a party — yet empty, in every sense of space and purpose. I lived there for what felt like eternity.

A mattress in the middle of one of those echoing rooms. A mattress and a projector, the only witnesses, the only spectators of my life back then. And a wide white wall serving as a silver screen.

Emptiness was colourful, fascinating, inspiring, even sexy. Or else it was dark, cold, oppressive, heavy. Still fascinating, though.

I never held a party there.

I never had my best mate over. None of my friends, in fact.

Yet there was flesh, there were bodies, there was heat, there were secrets, escapades. There was fun, laughs, tears, there were life-changing and life-defining scenes, all unforgettable.

And love, yeah, there was love.

It wrapped up with a happy ending: a glass of orange juice, an early summer morning, tender skin under a dressing gown — and a photograph on a balcony, one to remember.

That beauty did not come to stay; she came to take me away with her. I did go, and my squatting days were over. I moved out, started a suburban journey, and sold the squat.

And yet, now and then, I still secretly miss my rock-star life.

Jen

Here we are, one year later, at the top floor of a skyscraper overlooking the city and the bay. A Michelin-starred restaurant, a reception soon to be turning into a drinking spree.

She takes the seat next to me and I sense something more. She’s spontaneous, charming, beautiful. And her delicious accent — oh, dear, it’s gonna be tough.

She wants to socialize. With me.

I do, too, but I’m conscious. Knowing myself well enough to see few steps ahead. And I do not want to risk that road.

So I keep my cool.

— Shall we have a glass of wine?, — the angelic voice asks.
— Not tonight, babe, I’m staying sober.

She is not, though. It’s wine. Then cocktails. Then shots. Then more cocktails and more shots. Tell me she’s English without telling me she’s English, right?

By midnight, there’s a few emerging contestants circling her, hoping to get lucky.

It won’t happen; I’m pretty sure, not on my watch, unless she’d want to. And she does not, pulling me aside, complaining about some guy grabbing her arse and another being too insistent. Well. Welcome to Eastern Europe, honey. Stay calm. You’re safe.

The venue closes and the mob is about to go clubbing. Jen’s tipsy to say the least and vultures are flapping louder, ready to engage. She scans the crowd and finds my eyes watching from the distance. I smile gently and walk in; this is my moment.

— We’re going home, babe?
— Yes, please.
— Hold my hand.

She grabs my hand and we slice through the pack starring in ave like two sweethearts in love. Oh, she’s so naturally radiant. And wasted.

— You’re my sugar daddy, — she whispers.
— Sure I am.

Back at the hotel, I score a kiss before the elevator doors close. More than I expected. More than I asked for.

I sleep well.

We skip the event the next day, hanging about together — beach, walks, coffee, pier, long chats and lunch. And eventually a taxi and a quiet sofa in the lounge at the airport.

— I’ll have wine with you now, it’s safe.
— Here, it certainly is.

One more kiss and she’s back to her life, as I’m off to mine.

It hits me later — this might have been my Lost in Translation moment. Fleeting yet unforgettable.

A Day in the Life

It’s 4:00 AM. I’ve been sleepless for most of the night, but finally, I made up my mind and set off for a walk through the silent streets of a deserted city.

Play the Beatles, I say, and Siri obliges with A Day in the Life. Beautiful. I like the choice.

The city is fast asleep. I lived here for many years and maybe I will again someday. I still call it home, though only part-time now.

I keep walking until the rush hour hits, then I catch a tram back. Shower, shave, and a drive to the airport.

The lounge — a few calls, emails, and then the first flight. Another airport, and as I approach the gate, they call my name.

— You called my name, I believe?
— You’ve been upgraded to business.

That ticket cost a bloody $3,000, so it’s a bittersweet redemption. Maybe I’ll finally sleep on the plane!

— Thank you, that’s wonderful.

And it truly is. It’s over a ten-hour flight, so lying flat and getting some sleep will help pass the time. Porcelain plates, tablecloths, champagne, and olives don’t thrill me anymore, though.

The steward calls me by name.

We land in Denver, back to reality. Just one more flight to go.

— What are you going to do there?, — a friend asks during a badminton game.
— Not much, really. Meet some people, walk a lot, and take a few photographs.

That about sums it up.

Vegas, baby, Vegas. I haven’t been here in six years. I’ve forgotten how to navigate from Caesar’s to Mandalay Bay through tunnels and corridors alone, and I’m about to find out.

Not just yet. Not yet. Uber, hotel, lights out, aircon off, bed — coma.

I’d love to turn you on.

FOMO

I’ve had a decent run at doing nothing last season. Not so much this one. As I’m boarding a plane for my fourth business trip this month, there’s epiphany striking hard: I’m falling down the rabbit hole fast again.

Longing for an adventure calls for an easy fix — and then one’s hugging the pillow at 3 AM, just to go places. Does that make any sense? An empty, cold suite someplace far, is this what one wants? Dying alone ain’t ever going to be fashionable.

It’s a drag.

This week, I fell asleep twice during presentations I attended, a clear manifestation of my drive and ability. I don’t give much fuck, but I’m a junkie and edging is my favourite sport.

Listening to Air or Pink Floyd, spending time walking around and in a gym; it’s like early noughties, sans illicit drugs, late-night escapades and chasing chicks.

Sipping a coffee, this black viagra of business, to keep me going. Got a promotion of sorts and I’m dragging myself through more airports now, trying to remember more names and make an impact on a larger scale.

I guess that’s the nice part — when I see they want me to come and change things. When they ask me to step in. When they trust I’m helping.

I have to learn to see myself that way.

Right, right, just I need a bed first.

Flame

It’s fucking raining all day long. Speeding through the downpour, through heavy torrents to get there on time.

And there she is, a silhouette in the window, looking for me, calling me. What took you, she serves, yet it’s so sweet I’m melting.

I score an intense, heartening hug — and then I get an hour of laughs before we part ways again.

Without any hint of what may or may not come next.

A messed up thirteen year old with a driver license.

Carousel Life

The sun is setting. Licking ice cream and feeling the vibe of long forlorn days of Prague and Sydney. Mostly alone and often lonely, that’s what I was.

Does it feel any different now?

Had a great meeting in the morning. My only attempt at work today. I love the smell of money in the morning far better than the one of napalm. Good meeting, I say.

Lunch with friends. An hour which turned into three and a half. A Lebanese cuisine in the middle of nowhere. Mexican beer. Nonalcoholic.

Licking ice cream while the sun is setting.

Two more hours to drive home. Should I hurry? Sometimes I wonder.

Corporate Chill, Part Two

Took a mini-holiday, courtesy of a multi-billion dollar enterprise. Got to walk by the Thames, wander through Regent St and chill in Camden. Ate local English breakfast and local Japanese dinner. Met people I wanted to meet and declined to see some others — to spend more time by myself. It’s better for one’s well-being to take nighttime photographs than socialize with corporate folks. I know what I’m talking about, I’m one of them.

Drank Czech beer and English one, too. Plus gin, of course.

Got a nice phone call just after a lunch in a former don’t-be-evil office. The topic I asked about the other day.

Flew home relaxed.

More holidays to come.

Corporate chill

I drive slower these days than I used to for ages. Along the way, I listen to music collection which I stopped updating about twenty years ago. No, I don’t use Spotify.

It’s only work, I remind myself, no need to rush. They don’t really need me much, there’s no point to stress.

Seems that I can finally take things somehow easier now.

Executive meeting.

I love them, especially when our corporate president shows up. Everybody’s making jokes, yet they’re a little clumsier than usual. A shade of anxiety is hanging about.

Still, it’s a game. A guy with a salary of millions of dollars plus stock options will share his precious time with mere mortals who make ten times less. Or less. Sharing his time and valuable advise on shit he only knows from a helicopter ride.

He pretends he knows and we pretend we learn and accept his view. Yeah, right, sure.

Oh, how much does it remind me of myself sharing my valuable advise with staff in offices across the continent.

Then, we dine at a Michelin restaurant only to split again, meeting again in a few months. Vienna, Istanbul, Prague, Paris.

Convenient, at least I can take those long night walks on my own, snapping a picture here and there. I’m not asking for more.

Except for a payrise.

Lockdown

What would a year-long lockdown do to a fellow who has used to spend half of his lifetime on the road? Whose essence was to lead a trouble-free double life of Dr Jackyll and Mr Hyde, sans horrible crimes of the latter?

I came to know. First few months were a sort of a game. A sort of a challenge — oh, we’re locked down, cannot travel, what are you going to do, huh?

Challenge accepted, I learned to walk from one of my places to the other, taking advantage of having two of them, conveniently located about two and a half miles apart. A nice stroll along the river. And it was spring, so fresh air and gentle sun were a regular bonus to me walking.

Then the summer came and went. I left one of the places permanently and settled in a house large enough to keep me occupied for years to come. Few visits abroad made the illusion of normalcy and freedom almost perfect. Yet I was deceived.

The autumn was dark and rainy — with one particularly bleak shivery morning I can never forget. It was numbing; numbing more than anything I’ve been through before. And it still lingers.

Where was I? Oh yeah, lockdown. It started hurting, it’s been a bit too much, nauseating, obnoxious.

Went to the mountains for a few days. Unplugging and seeing the nature showing off with three different seasons within a span of a long weekend was rejuvenating. At least for a moment.

Winter? Well — it’s been a long cold lonely winter as somebody put it a few decades ago. Haven’t seen that much snow in over twenty years. But I didn’t have to clean the windshield or unfreeze the car. It just sat quietly in a garage, waiting for its moment which failed to come. I haven’t traveled for four months.

A new spring is coming. And maybe it’s all coming to a close. It’s a kind of solace I live with, too tired and longing for times that are possibly never to return in the same way, form or shape as before. A little more complexity for lives of commoners seems inevitable.

And here I am, a year later, desperately hoping for this nightmare to end, indifferent to few more regulations, accepting the new normal as it unfolds. I cherish the family. I cherish each ride I take. I cherish each place I visit. For I learned the hard way what I knew but never fully realized — that nothing can be taken for granted.

Notably freedom and life.

Correction

Originally, it meant to be oversweeten:

A bowl or rice, a green tea, a romantic movie. On my own. What changed since the heydays of the noughties? A totally different part of the planet, though it feels almost the same. Yet there's a twist: I know where she is, I know that she's mine. I'll be packing soon; leaving the place, the quarter, the city and the country. Not to be falling asleep alone anymore.

Well, I suppose I leave it that way.

Stuck

Two days of nothing. I hardly left the bed over the weekend. There's nobody I'd like to see and I can't think of anything of any interest to me. Having a call or two but just listening quietly rather than talking. It feels a bit like dying, yet I'm unable and unwilling to fight it.

I don't have to do much though. I did my part already and the dominoes are moving. Things are slightly changing. My work, my life, my priorities, it's happening without my further intervention.

When I made love to this girl I adored just last year, I felt very little, too. Maybe a guilt of some sort, maybe shame or humiliation. She thought it was great and I did not know what to say. I should not have done it.

Lying in bed, unable to breathe. Stuck in the state of nothingness.

Penny Lane

Once I was called over to a party; yet it was just a friend with two chicks. She was one of them. Incredibly beautiful, funny and outgoing. The more I came to think of it, the more she reminded me of Penny Lane character in Almost Famous. Just cutting the groupie scenario and keeping the character itself.

I remember we were playing darts and drinking vodka. And I was snorting white powder while nobody was looking.

That night, I wanted her and it did not happen. Neither then, nor ever again. Maybe it could: from time to time when I wasn't with anybody and she was available, too. Maybe. I don't know. I never tried again. We went through two roadtrips in America together, shared the bed innumberable times — and I never even touched her. And I thought I wouldn't. Never-ever. Because. Period.

Tonight, I did. To a degree. It was weird and asexual. Tonight, I saw her crying for the very first time. I embraced her clumsily and said it would be okay. I know it's going to be okay, it always is, only it takes time sometimes.

Some dickhead got her pregnant. Somebody who doesn't really want to spend his life with her.

She asked me so I told her what I would do but it's ultimately her decision. Whatever she does, it will not affect the way I care.

Home again

Dreams do come true sometimes. It's Christmas, I made it, I made it to her place. It's becoming my home, too, at least temporarily till I get a proper one. Preferably together with her.

I don't know how many times we made love, I lost count during those unbelievable past months; not that I don't care, I'm just trying to look furter into what's next.

For now, it's the family thing. I spend times with her folks and relatives and I take her to see mine. They know her even from our high school days, however I'm still kind of nervous bringing her over to see them. I'm paralyzed, to be fair. It goes smoothly and I'm relieved.

Few days later I'm taking her to see my squat and spend the New Year's Eve with me there. She's fine with it and she's fine with places I take her around the city. And she's fine with me. And I feel so normal all of a sudden. Just being with her.

Law of attraction

It's true. I'm here, drenched in my thoughts, all circling around a single piece of information: it's real. This is really happening. And it's happening to me.

I'm kissing her, kissing her over and over again as if to make sure I'm not dreaming; and I'm madly in love, just like in those heydays of the nineties, just a bit wrinkled and greyish, yet still young — maybe even too young — at heart. Loving and being loved — and enjoying every moment of it.

I've had this recurring dream over the years, hidden back in my head, showing up unexpectedly from time to time, leaving me shaken once I woke up. I'd take her out, we'd talk, I'd see her off, she'd let me in, we'd make love.

I'm overjoyed and fascinated. And above all, happy, happier than I would ever hope I'd be.

Fingers crossed, I'm not gonna fuck up.

Love that never fades

It's been a while, a while approaching fifteen years. So much has happened, so much I've experienced. A lot's been forgotten, a lot crooked, a lot has gone amiss.

But there were good days, yeah, frankly, most of them were good. And the faith that there would be some even better ones, that faith kept me going and does until now.

Yet here I come, back for a week, with feelings that went unnoticed for ages. This is my city, I proclaim, not even being there yet, just imagining the high street with its bars and shops, with its preserved intangible atmosphere, unseen and unfelt by strangers, imagining the parks and backstreets with genius loci untouched by time passing by.

Do I belong here? I keep questioning myself; and I have no means to tell. I suppose. Or suppose not; I've lived in so many places, so many apartments which I called home that pointing at this one as the real one seems creepy. It has to grow on me, and even if it does, I'll go back to my current home in seven days and I might keep looking for a new one again all over again. A constant wanderer, a constant nomad fueled by craving to seek beauty wherever I move.

My city. My love that never fades but unceasingly calls for being apart to excite. Until I'm back and for a moment I stop in a silent embrace with this centre of my universe that once shaped me into what I still am today.