Wednesday, October 17, 2012


The odds of crossing a partner in crime from another life. Low. In the grander scheme of things. But they always arrive impromptu. With or without an invitation for havoc. I wonder why we parted. I’m writing a novel about Canton, some sort of memoir that freezes pendulums. I’ve said that to an acquaintance before. It’s still very much under the water. I want to host a travel/food television show. I’d need to go back to school. I looked up several names. Doubt I will be admitted into any. I was going to help the kitchen at my aunt’s restaurant in Chapel Hill, but I convinced myself that they only made Chinese. It’s never too late, they say. Conviction diluted. Like how last night’s Reds just found their way to my lips. I fell for sticky habits, as if I hadn’t already. It was a relief. It was a moment of clarity. Fires and ashes and sticks with us. For a long while. I’ve lost count for the chimney that flew around the world in 2011. I had lunch at a restaurant in Vilafranca, savory game entrees with artichokes. I found peaceful silence in the co-captain seat at 6,000m heading for Sitges. The engine off and turbines stalled. All too euphoric crowds in Amsterdam smiling at the Sun, psychoactive in all processes. Paris fashion, vin chaud, and mademoiselles with class for hats. I recruited charming digits in the apartment-turned-cafes, tucked away in Taipei alleys that sing blues. Decay and uprise in the Shanghai scenes of westernization. Lugies flying out on swerve. Mercy. I hailed Ginsberg’s and Kerouac’s surviving banners of The Beat Generation. Time capsulated and expended in the Nevada desert dressed with glamour. From Harlem to Brooklyn, from K-Town to Chelsea, a few NYPD uniforms willing to pose for tourist photographs. All of theses are negatives to the same 35mm roll film. It’s been two months already since the last tour. This is what happens to youth. Discontent and dissatisfied through accumulation of what could’ve been or could be. A lighthouse of disillusionment bids my next departure. Economics of a Zippo, compared to a regular lighter? I have to soak the cotton with gasoline way too often. The fuck am I on about. A dutch and a nightcap. I’m working on the insomnia. I’ll get back to that now. Good night moon.

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