I threw the bottle across the room, all conversation abruptly ending as it shattered against the concrete wall, I slumped to the floor flicking my lighter between my fingers. Silence as a piece of me died. Eyes filled with pity, not daring to come near.

Warm rain whipped my face, what seems like a lifetime away from that moment. Metallic click of my lighter opening, glow of flame in my cupped hand as I dragged on the cigarette. Palming it, the dulled gold of the brass between my fingers picked out by the street lights, I wound up and threw it out into the sea. Stepped back in the cab and continued to my flight.

The small cafe bustled with the late afternoon rush, I flipped my lighter across my knuckles as she looked at me blankly.

“So like a lucky charm?”
“Something like that.”
“How many have you had?”
“Eleven, but this is number 10. Gave my 11th to someone else, that would be the third I’ve given away.”
“Ah… but why do you still have them?”
“…some things a person has to keep to themselves, I carry them because I do. It’s not easy to explain, it’s not something flip, I started carrying them instead of cheap disposables for a reason.”
“Fair enough. More tea?”

I don’t carry lucky charms, but I believe in those things.

- Christopher Walken

I held an icepack to the side of my face as I sat on her bench and watched her cook, the fish slowly frying in a pan whilst the big black pot bubbled away. She talked non-stop as she worked, wrist deftly flicking spices and stirring the wonderful smelling stew.

“You didn’t have to do that you know… he’s a loud jerk but he wouldn’t have hurt me.”
“Certainly looked that way.”
“Yeah… well thanks. I forget sometimes how useful you are to have around.”
“Like I always tell y’all, you’re my blood. Ain’t a thing I wouldn’t do for y’all, now what do you call this stuff again?”
“Chicken gumbo and fried catfish po’ boys”

I watched my boys dig into the food fresh from the truck, the fresh flavours and warm day a perfect start to my week off. Snapping off photos between bites and loose talk about the things that concern men, discussing the party happening later that evening.

“This is pretty good man, what is it again?”
“Chicken gumbo and catfish po’ boys. Haven’t had em in years.”

(In other news, I’m quietly freaking out as I’ve lost my lighter.

A situation made awkward by the fact when someone asks me why it’s important, the most I can manage is mumbling something about it being a long story whilst staring at some imaginary spot in front of my shoes.)

Trust no one unless you have eaten with him.

 - Cicero

I leaned back on the old cafe chair, balancing on the rear legs.

“Y’know, I’ve only learned four things in my life.”

She looked up with a half smile, deciding whether or not to take the bait.

In the last few weeks we’d built up this little game, one of us saying something fairly innocuous, a blithe remark about something or other. The challenge lay in turning that into something more cerebral, it started with a comment she made about the particular cup her coffee was in and ended with a rather involved tale of woe in South America.

She looked down at her coffee, seemingly unimpressed.

“Really? Only four?”

I half stood, flipping the chair one-eighty and sat back down. Chin resting on my hands and studying her movements, she played with her spoon with deliberate nonchalance.

“Real talk… ask me how many I remember?”

Blue eyes glance up beneath freshly trimmed dark fringe. A cheeky grin creeps over my face as I watch the gears of her mind tick through the possible responses.

“Okay then, how many?”

Game on.

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.

- Plato

Went and saw this concert the other week, it was old school hip hop. An icon that I’d listened to for years and when I heard he was finally doing a tour down here I had to see him.

As I rode the train to work the next morning, I felt like I was back to myself. That part of me I worried had been evaporating had come back in full force, my heart restarted by the kick and the snare, my brain refreshed by the raw lyricism, my soul soothed by the smooth melodies.

I am hip hop.
I live hip hop.

It’s who I am and I’m not going to pretend otherwise for another second.

Rap is something you do, Hip-Hop is something you live

- KRS-1

Eyes closed, faces contorted and twisted in a symphony of raw ecstasy and almost agony. Ragged breath drawn between deep moans before, in one pure moment, the “ne plus ultra” of euphoria. She collapsed on my chest, exhausted. Our breathing falling out of harmony as I held her in the still night.

It is, (in my humble opinion), one of those gloriously intangible moments that make existence worth the prices we pay daily. The French (as they so regularly do) have a phrase which I absolutely adore, “la petite mort” or “the little death”, which so wonderfully describes this release. A seeming transcendence of physical and mental into something pure, for a fleeting moment, a flawless second we touch the edge of our soul.

And then in the next breath, return to life.

Let us enjoy pleasure while we can; pleasure is never long enough.

- Propertius

He drew the knife out slowly and placed it on the table. We sat in silence, the low hum of the florescent tube above our heads holding conversation with the regular creak of the ceiling fan. I reached out and took the blade, running my thumb down it’s length, the black steel was razor sharp and cold. I returned it to the centre of the table and leaned back in my chair.

His face was weathered, the combination of black and grey flecked stubble and lack of sleep added years to him. A deep scar ran over his right eye, the skin on his left arm had been burned once and the hint of a bullet wound hid just inside his tank top. None of which had healed properly making the scar tissue even more prominent on his darkened complexion.

He told me about how he woke one night as a young boy to the smell of his home on fire. The heat was so intense the door was smoking, so he grabbed his little sister and fled through the window. They ran through the dense jungle, the screams of their friends and family, gunfire and flames were the only other things he remembered of that night. Holding his sister and running into darkness. He joined rebels who kept his sister safe in return for his help ambushing the soldiers who razed his village.

He told me of the first time he took another person’s life, his eyes changed…they became darker and empty as he described every detail. This moment etched forever in his mind happened at the same age I went on my first date, when I was trying to hold my crush’s hand in a cinema he was holding a rifle. His hands trembled as he lit up another cigarette, I took a long drag on my cigar and waited whilst his mind tumbled back into the past.

He told stories about how he watched so many of his friends die, their names, what they were like. The stories of laughter and joy that came from the middle of hell on Earth. We poured my gift of scotch and toasted to their honour, measuring a generous glass for the house shrine. This continued long into the night, he told me of how long he fought, dreaming of a way out until he sneaked himself, his sister and another rebel out of the country. A chuckle as he recalled thinking it was the end of their troubles.

It continued on long into the night, his sister and wife joined us and shared their stories as well. His wife was more fortunate, escaping with a missionary team, but she too faced incredible struggles as she desperately sought to find her family too. As long as I write I could never dream of the things they told me, the suffering they endured, the people they became. It broke my heart to think that anyone could go through such hell and yet filled my with immense inspiration that in spite of all of that they were had remained human, whole and satisfied with the simple act of living.

I ran out of cigars, he ran out of cigarettes, we both ran out of scotch, taking my leave, saying goodbyes to the household and then taking a taxi back to my hotel. I didn’t sleep that night, the stories I had been told stuck with me. A boy being forced to grow up too fast, then commit and suffer such horrors that no child should ever witness to protect the only person left in his family. I thanked God neither I nor my future children would ever experience such terrible things and for my own easy life.

“I want to show you something.”
“Okay.”
“This knife was given to me by a man who is now dead, he was once a teacher and that was his only crime. This knife saved my life by taking the lives of others. I keep it to remind me of what I sacrificed to be here.”
“…tell me your story.”

War is something absurd, useless, that nothing can justify.

- Louis de Cazenave

I flicked my lighter around my fingers whilst she settled the tab. The cold air outside was a surprise as we strolled through the damp city streets, a far cry from the scorching heat of the previous weekend.

Summer doesn’t seem to last long in this town.

I gave her my jacket as we made our way back to the car, I casually teased her clothing choices and she punched my arm for the privilege. We drove down to the waterfront and listened to the waves crash on the empty sand.

“Why don’t we talk as much any more?”
“I dunno.”
“I miss this.”
“Yeah, me too.”

Driving back to the hotel we talked about the future, plans made to meet up in her city, I smiled as the memory of the bustling metropolis flashed through my mind. The conversation slowed as I leaned against the car, the bellhop brought her luggage around and we waited for her taxi. She took my hands and we said nothing, in an instant she flashed a smile and skipped across to one of her bags. Fishing around for a few minutes she produced a dull silver lighter, it had been immaculately engraved once but the markings had almost vanished, the stainless steel rubbed nearly smooth.

“Recognise it?”
“Wha..? Yeah! It’s one of my old Zippos I gave ya when you and Jay left”
“Mmhmm, well I kept it. When all that shit with Jay went down, I carried it in my pocket for luck…well, you were right. It didn’t bring me the luck I wanted, but I did get the luck I needed.”
“Heh, c’mon you never seemed like the luck type.”

I flicked the lighter around, it had seen better days. The message engraved on the side had been altered, a name scratched out.

“Well I’m not, but… it helped. I was miles away from home but I still felt like my friends were there.”

I loaded her bags in the taxi, palmed the lighter into her back pocket as we hugged our goodbyes. A kiss on the cheek and watched her go, flicking my own lighter around my fingers. Driving home in silence, the smell of her perfume still on my jacket.

Old friends, new memories.

Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly.

- Leo Tolstoy

Summer rain.

A small shiver as I sat at the end of the pier with a coffee, the paper cup slightly warm in my hand as I watched the sun rise. Warm golden rays momentarily washing over the horizon before being swallowed by the dark storm clouds above. I pulled my hood a little tighter around my head, slow hip hop instrumental softly playing on my headphones.

Mind was ticking over a conversation had last week, unsure how I felt about it and more-so about the circumstances that brought it about. Nonchalance seemed a bit too cold, but then forcing myself to care more deeply would be…fake? At the least not true to myself, deceptive perhaps? But then who am I intending to deceive? Not others, myself then? An easy mark at the best of times but I doubt that even my over-analytical mind would be duped by that.

The music is interrupted by a phone call, we talk for a few minutes and they seem satisfied. Small silence, final goodbyes, the music resumes.

I sit for a while longer as the rain starts up again, the sea spray licking the bottom of my shoes as it crashes against the pier supports. Coffee cup runs dry and the icy bay winds pierce my warm jumper, the suns rays fully consumed by the grim clouds.

Another phone call, slowly standing and walking back down the slick wood platform as I talk. Thoughts fade into nothing, questions dissolve and are replaced, my mind ticks over the next problem. My world, such as it is, keeps on with the same pace and I neatly step in time with it again.

A dance repeated, seldom perfected.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
…
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

- The Four Quartets, “Burnt Norton”, II, T.S. Eliot