CHOKE

 Sunneith,

 August the 4th, Amsterdam.

De Wallen, Amsterdam. This place reeks of shampoo and death. And her, of course. De Wallen is probably the biggest red light district of the country. Ever wonder why a place named after a colour that says ‘Stop’, is so inviting? That’s because it is.

So I’m here in this shithole of a city again. I’ve been here too many times for my own good. Never alone, though. There are the tourists, the shopkeepers, the whores. But you know what they say about crowds being solitary confinement for the insane, and the insecure. I’d like to believe that I’m not. But she disagreed. Or at least I think she did.

Oh, Amsterdam. It seems like the city had a growth spurt, and then suddenly stopped growing. And what did happen is that everything around it grew, matured, double-fold. Like an under-age hooker dressed up like a grown woman. Or an ageing escort who chooses to wear school skirts because her only regular client told her that he likes it as he promised to be back; Even though she hasn’t seen him in a year.

The De Wallen district has no mirrors. None. The only glimpse you’ll get of yourself is in the display windows, backgrounded by a fake smile, cheap bleach, and come-ons. It is almost like the district doesn’t want you to see your own ugliness.

De Wallen has an evil twin. It is the morning. What is out there in the night, stays in the morning. But partially hidden. And that is what makes it even more disgusting. Like an abscess. Only hidden. Wouldn’t you rather have what stinks right in front of you, than look for it?

I walk by the 917, past Murphy’s and I realise that I’m a little too familiar with this dump of a town. It’s her. It always is. I walk into Route 66. Like we did that night. Oh, that night. The inn-keeper recognises me.

“Hello. You’ve been away for a while!”

“Yeah. Been around, though. How is business?”

“Can’t complain.”

Then he gives me a strange look. Like he is halfway between a thought and a sentence. I know what he wants to ask me. He wants to ask me where she is. He wants to ask me how is it that I’ve come alone. He wants to ask me the reason why my hair is parted to the right. He wants to ask me about the bandage on my left hand. He wants to ask about her.

“So, uh. Should I get you the usual?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I smoke. And I leave. I hit three more coffee-shops. The ones we hit that night. I walk out of the third, stand on the sidewalk, and just look around. The cobbled street still smiles. The beat-up lamp post is still bent. The ‘Amsterdam died here’ graffiti still looks fresh. The sidewalk feels the same. Only, the soles of my shoes are all worn out.

That does the trick. Lines from a Death cab song. Suddenly, I feel like someone punched me in the gut. My eyes widen. My hands shake. I feel the bandage on my arm get soggy. A lone drop of saliva drops onto my jacket and I hear the loud splash it makes. Deafening. Pain. Malignant and hopeless.

Ever reach out to a hand that you know isn’t there? Yeah. Then I double over. I feel a hand on my back. But it’s just the hood of the jacket. The irony.

I feel like I’m going to die. I’m going to die like a dog on the streets of De Wallen with a Chinese family across the street, and Arora the whore as spectators.

Whores have things go dead inside them every day. And the Chinese have no souls. Fuck it. Not worth the show.

So I run.
I run like I did that night in Portland. Harder, even. I run like that morning in Philly, when we ran from postman. I run to make love to the wind. I run around the same streets we walked that night. I brush against the same walls, the same shops. I run, and after a while the stitch in my side reminds me of when she used to pinch the flesh around my ribs every time I made a joke at her expense. So I run harder.

I run.

The tears on my cheeks felt like palms.

ASHES TO ASHES
Namaah,
August the 14th, Amsterdam.

De Wallen, Amsterdam.
This place is cold hard bitch that’ll convince you to love her while she whips you blue on already sore skin.
This makes me smile because those are the exact words he used to describe me once.
He always said this city was me; by another name.
And I liked it.
I liked hurting him. Letting him see my ugliest. Repelling his every instinct.
Most of all, keep him coming back.

We came here a lot, him and I. It was like our little place in the world. Because when you’re hiding from yourself, what better than a place so ugly, you feel virginal in comparison.

There are the tourists, the shopkeepers, the whores. But you know what they say about crowds being solitary confinement for the insane, and the insecure. I’d like to think he was. But he disagrees. Or at least he thinks he does.

This city reminds me of him in the strangest ways. But only by day. By the night it reminds me of me.
But you knew that already.
I walk by the 917, past Murphy’s, disappearing around every corner. I realise that no matter how many times I walk down these streets, they’ll never be a friend. It’s him. Strange, distant. Silent, but only outwardly. A sucker for punishment.
I walk into Route 66. Like we did that night. Oh, that night. The Inn-keeper recognises me as one half of a pair.
“Why, hello there!” Says he in that funny way of his.

I smile weakly. He flashes me a questioning look. I can’t tell if it’s directed at the staggeringly immodest hem of my schoolgirl skirt or the fact that I’m here all alone.

“He was here last week, that boy of yours. The lord bless him.” He says, limping towards the back of the counter.

I nod, hiding my surprise, but not very well. Thinking of the myriad reasons that he’d visit a city he knew too well and liked too little. A place he knew I’d come to when everything I knew was falling.

“So, uh, the usual, then?”

“Ye’sir, that’d be nice,” I say, in the back of my throat, choking on every syllable. But this Amsterdam. Every sound is a yes, every shaking of hands, a deal.

I reach inside my shirt for a few crumpled notes and flatten them out on the counter. He hands me a little transparent packet of blow that I take to the room in the back and lay out on the glass-top of a table and make four fine lines out of. I snort one. Then I bend and lick the remaining three off of the glass.
Seconds later, or they could’ve been hours, maybe, I find myself standing on the sidewalk outside of a shop that sells hope. Or so it would seem. Because it’s empty, not abandoned. The lights are on, and the shelves pristine. But nothing rests on them. Nothing but air heavy with anticipation.
The anticipation of finding what may not exist. Or seeing what no one else does. Everyone likes to have their little secrets. And what is Amsterdam if not for the dirty secrets she’s willing to keep.

But I have secrets of my own. And sometimes I think they may be think they may be too many. I feel them weigh me down with each step i take and it comes to a point where I can take no more. So I run.

I run like I did that night in Portland. Harder, even. I run like that morning in Philly, when we ran from postman. I run to make love to the wind. I run around the same streets we walked that night. I brush against the same walls, the same shops.
I run, and after a while I realize that if i found him waiting at a street corner, I wouldn’t have the words to say I was sorry. I wouldn’t know how to explain the garish make up and the clothes that were as good as none at all. I wouldn’t have the heart to break his again.

So I take the bus home.
Well, not ‘home’, but y’know.
A place to hide in a place to hide.

I sit beside a woman who does not approve of my disposition and throws me a look so condescending i can almost feel her eyes burn little holes in my skin.
She doesn’t know me, but she hates me.
She and him would really get along, I think to myself.
And then I laugh uncontrollably.

Ha ha fucking ha.
You funny little whore.

I’m keeping the wound away from the water. The only reason why I’m letting myself trickle into the sink is because the floor of this bathroom is green, and reminds me of my mother's blanket. Till I was nine, I couldn’t sleep unless my mother slept next to me. And it was always the same blanket that she’d be curled up under. Soft-fleece.  Green.

“Listen”, she says. Again.

And then, a lot of things happen. She grabs me by the hair at the back of my head, and slams my mouth onto hers. Then she starts to kiss me. At this point, I have no idea what her hands are doing. Had I know, everything would have been different. The tube-light behind us is flickering like eyes halfway through an orgasm. The tap is running, and for some reason, reminds me of the cheer of a crowd. I’m aroused. My right hand parts with the wound and holds onto her bony waist to pull her near. Then, she grabs my injured hand, pulls it under the sink, kissing me the whole time, and squeezes to get the blood out.

She's got a vice-like grip on my hair, and I'm unable to pull away from her mouth. Pain. I pull in air through her lips to scream.

MIRACULOUS TECHNIQUES
Namaah
June the 19th, Tokyo.

“Let it bleed,” I say.

The sky outside is the colour of war.
The air inside is the smell of defeat.
Tokyo is a cold hard bitch that’ll make you sick. Tokyo is also its own best antivenom.

There we were, in the beatdown bathroom of a forsaken speakeasy.
He, with a raw gash, running a crazed shades of red across his forearm, trying to stop the blood, saving it for a better day.
I find now what I’ve been looking for, for a while. Flashes of fear through his dark eyes.
Like lightening, but in the same place twice.

And me. Oh, I know a thing or two about bleeding. And I can tell that my nonchalance directed at his wounded arm flusters him. He almost snaps, even. But only almost.

I am rough with him. Perhaps too rough.
And I should soften down. But I can’t.
And he doesn’t want me to. He just doesn’t know it yet.

He’s standing, Staring at the green floor, leaning against a mirror; Keeping the wound away from the water. Yet letting the blood trickle down; its shapeless drops forming fractals on what was once a white sink.

I tell him he’s got to let it bleed under the water.
“I cannot. It fucking hurts!” He scowls. Louder yet less sternly than he intended, I gather.

He’s applying pressure on the wound with his right hand.

“Listen,” I say, pulling him close with more strength than I knew I possessed. My hand reaches to grab him by the cold black hair at the back of his head, and crash my lips onto his, still quivering.
Then I kiss him, under a flickering tubelight, against the cold mirror.
He grabs my waist, I arch my back.
The usual, really.
But at the speed of sound.

Then, I grab his injured hand, pull it under the sink, kissing him the whole time, and squeeze to get the blood out.

It trickles from his arm, onto mine, into the gush of liquid ice.
Bleeding him dry.

He sucks air through my lips and empties out my lungs. I feel empty. Hollow. Weak.
I am. Freefalling.

And that’s when I bite his lower lip. Hard.
There’re no sounds except for the water relentlessly flowing down the sink.
My teeth sink into the warm, wet insides of his mouth.

He may die from the medication, but I sure killed all the pain.

But then, what’s normal on such nights, by the morning seems insane.

UNFAMILIAR

Namaah.

November the 8th, Berlin.
 

It is especially cold this morning and no amount of coffee and cigarettes by the fireplace can make that go away.

Not just the bitter German winter cold, the grey coldness of a Russian film missing its soundtrack.

Out on the street, the dogs and trees and children are slowly dying.

Their worlds all drifting gently away, colliding with snowflakes, the falling clouds, melting on benches, wasting away.

Spinning madly on, then getting crushed under the wheels of unhappy looking women on unicycles.
 

I change the lens on my camera with one hand as I pick out a cigarette to light with the other.

They're still wet from last night.
 Fuck that.

I'd miss you if I could find any emotion in myself that hadn't been soaked in this bitter cold.

But without you by my side comes the lash of insanity.

Like when you go and leave behind your cigarette in my ashtray.

ribbons of smoke ride through the still air, spelling out your absence in a language I can't read.

Like the last of the wine trickling down your fingers that I chase with my tongue.

Like when you’d tell me all your dreams  which made us laughed so much, we woke the neighbours.

Like every time we talk now.

But we rarely do.

The ghost between us grows everyday.

He feeds on my silence.

He feeds on your semblance.

He paints his chest white and dolls up for suicide.

And then we die our little deaths, souls made of recycled dewdrops

Swiftly lifting from our chests                                                                          

I am a black hole;

And everything is strange.

Things seem besides themselves, but not with joy.

Like the eye in the sky had morning vision.

Things that are close seem like hellish blurs growing bigger until they disappear; things far away appear in monochromatic bokeh.

The monsters that lived in trees and lakes and other dark places now walk among us. And the people all have bags under their eyes where they hide all their secrets.
 

I pass a bunch of boys under a heart-carved tree trunk They smell like homelessness and burning rubber and cheap tea and I ask them what happened.

Weihnachten kam zu früh, they say.

It did.