A Magician’s Old Tricks
Truth: A magician never reveals their secrets until they are found out.
I lay in my bed on a Sunday night. Without looking at the clock I know it is approximately eight o’clock. A fly zooms by my head. I feel its wings graze against my forehead. For most people this would be an annoyance, but I am used to sleeping amongst a fly or two. I roll over and reach for my mobile phone and hit redial. You answer and shortly after we end the phone call with the understanding that you are exhausted. However, there is something else. I am left with an uneasy feeling and my mind begins to develop suspicions.
I think of you; everything you have told me. How easy it would be for you to fall back into the life you have lead for so many years. More than anything I do not want your habits to define you again. I sympathize with how hard it must be to have come as far as you have, but it would kill me inside to know that you have relapsed and you are back to starting over. I know this sounds like I have lost faith in your strength, but how can you blame me. It is only natural for me to question. Especially since you have lied before.
I am not as concerned with you not being truthful with me, but more so you lying, because you are afraid of losing what you have acquired. It is so easy to do want you need to and lie about it to make your perception of the truth a reality. I think about how simple it would be for you to pull off your illusion. You played magician before while being in constant contact with someone that it would make this time around feel like a basic card trick. All I can do is trust you until I catch you with a card up your sleeve. As much as I enjoy magic shows I hope that day never comes and you have dropped your bag of tricks.
I lay in my bed on a Sunday night. Without looking at the clock I know it is approximately nine o’clock. A fly lands on my hand. I feel its legs shuffle against my skin. Like most people this causes me to shake my hand to break the contact. I roll over to face my bedroom window. I play our conversation in my head ending at the conclusion that you are exhausted. However, there is something else. Something that I cannot shake. An uneasy feeling that you are back to your old tricks.
Simplify your art by keeping it primary.
I know a great deal of artist that would never take the time to mix paint by hand using only primary colors. Why would they when you can walk into any art supply store and buy practically any color under the sun? I see the appeal to buying store bought colors, but I also find that mixing your own colors for your art it becomes even more personal. I will always be a mixer before a buyer. I challenge you to do the same. Happy creating!
Light trails of San Marcos, CA
In a Room
In a room lit by a candle,
I am not afraid,
and you are not here.
In a room lit by a candle,
they tell me you are good for me,
but you are not.
In a room lit by a candle,
you ask if I want you to stay,
and I let out a sigh of relief as you walk away.
In a room lit by a candle,
I am not cold,
and you are not standing by my side.
In a room lit by a candle,
they tell me to do what makes me happy,
but I am not.
In a room lit by a candle,
You ask if I will call you soon,
and I do, because it is good for you.
In a room lit by a candle,
I am not sad,
and you are not around.
In a room lit by a candle,
they tell me to forget what hurts,
but I do not.
In a room lit by a candle,
you ask if I am doing well,
and I say I am, because I know that is what you need to hear.
In a room smelling of smoke,
that was once lit by a candle,
is empty.
I Promise
Every time you walk out that door I will take a step back; that’s a promise.
——————-
He writes love songs, but in real life does not know how to begin to fulfill them. All I can think is that his gestures and endearments are, in someway, his interpretation of how to love. It’s frustrating to me, because I want to believe he actually has one emotional thought in his head that will not scare him to pieces and he will stay.
Life is not a love song. It is not carefully written with much planning and tenderness that will make lovers swoon. Life hurts. Life is work. Life is what you make it. You have to feel pain before you can understand joy. You have to work hard to appreciate rest. You have to doubt yourself before you can believe that you have the strength you need to not walk out that door.
My advice: Do not hide behind love songs; you will not get anywhere.
Thanks for the Inspiration
I have so many question for you.
Like what about the time when you told me about you,
Were you lying or was it true?
I have so many questions for myself.
Like what about the time when you pissed me off,
Why did I drive away without a tear?
I have so many questions for your friend.
Like what about the time he found out about us,
Was he covering for you or did he not have a clue?
I have so many questions for the girl.
Like what about the time we first met,
Did you tell her that I was not a threat?
But most of all my questions are mainly for you.
I hope you see now that you have created this catastrophe.
I have so many questions for you.
Like what about the time you stared at me while I read Kerouac,
Were you just blinded by a vision?
I have so many questions for myself.
Like what about the time I let you stay over,
Why did I do it with an ache in my gut?
I have so many questions for your friend.
Like what about the time I picked you both up,
Was he not compelled to warn me of your trap?
I have so many questions for the girl.
Like what about the time she said it was over,
Did she learn how to lie from you?
But most of all my questions are mainly for you.
I know now what you have done to me.
I have so many questions for you.
Like what about the times I cooked you dinner,
Were you just using me for a warm plate?
I have so many questions for myself.
Like what about the time we kissed,
Why did lightning strike, but I felt nothing?
I have so many questions for your friend.
Like what about the time at your show,
Was it pity that made him follow me or was he hoping to get lucky?
I have so many questions for the girl.
Like what about the time she spoke highly of me,
Did she just run her mouth to appeal to you?
But most of all my questions are mainly for you.
In the end everything I do will be in spite of you.
Thanks for the inspiration.
Blacked Out Poetry
FRIDAY:
Blacked Out & Photographed by Melissa Sue Serrano
Hazy and dark without seeing took a minute to traverse the room,
The night came and in another moment came tomorrow,
Fast and hazy night came then day again faster still,
Friday was nearly done too short and not complete,
It was time I gave myself a pistol to feel what will come next as I felt then,
In one hand pressed I felt a nightmare sensation,
For a moment it had stood,
I drew a breath.
This Black Out came from the pages of, The Time Machine, written by H.G. Wells. (A must read.) Please also check out author Austin Kleon’s Black Out Work on his blog www.austinkleon.com/
Blacked Out Poetry is an art form that I will be posting the first Friday of the month. Austin Kleon is the original creator of this art form. After reading his book, Steal Like An Artist, he inspired me to create my own Black Outs and to challenge creators around me to do the same. I primarily am using his concept to create poetry, but it could be used for an assortment of creations. The idea of this art is to take a page(s) out of a book, magazine, or an article out of a newspaper and manipulate the words to tell your own story/poetry. If you would like to take a moment out of your busy lives and join me I would love to feature your Blacked Out Poetry on my Tumblr account. I look forward to viewing your work. Email: missserrano@hotmail.com
Be Gracious.
A Life Perspective by Melissa Sue Serrano
Thank people for their efforts. Fill their heads with meaningful words they would not typically hear otherwise on the day to day. Yes, this paper tablecloth will soon be trashed. However, it is the message, the thank you, that will linger long after the waitress clears the table.
So, be gracious.
el TOMA DOR
Please God, just one more sip and I’ll never drink again.
Written & Photographed by Melissa Sue Serrano
Model- Alvaro Vasquez
________________
They say it’s because he grew up rough. His life was surrounded by a quick hit to the face.
They say it was a way to escape all the pain; all the loss. All the years that Santa did not come.
They say he was always a shy kid. Always taking stuff in; never letting any of it out.
They say that the world could waste it’s time on him and it wouldn’t make a difference. He was going to zero; falling faster than a shooting star.
They say that’s why he drank his life away.
______________
They told me they knew there was no shred of hope. He was lost from the start.
“Created by hate this one.” They told me.
They told me to forget him now that there was no point in worrying. Move on with my life, I would be better for it.
They told me that night he was in a better place. A place to lay his head to rest and never have to worry again about midnight visitors.
They told me that’s why he drank his life away.
_____________
He would say nothing could ever beat that initial sip. He felt like he could fly.
He would say he was never held; never loved. He never cried when his mother died.
He would say his impulses controlled him. He would drown in numbness and not know which way was up.
He would say it was at night that he dreamt most about freedom from the life he lead. Somehow he would still wake up in a nightmare.
He would say that’s why he drank his life away.
_____________
He told me that he never had a friend until today. He thanked me with a tip of a glass.
He told me he needed time to indulge then he could stop. This time would be different.
He told me after he would drink his fill he would take hold of The Holy. He knew this would wash his sins away.
He told me that he used to pray so loud to the heavens that it sounded like thunder rolling through the grey. He was never heard though, not even today.
He told me that’s why he drank his life away.
______________
I tell myself missing him is all I know. I cannot go a day without a reminder.
I tell myself he deserved a fighting chance. How wrong it was for us to watch him sink.
I tell myself I should have been there sooner to lend a listening ear. I can still here his slurring plea.
I tell myself I should have hidden the bottle and the keys. Instead I watched him peel off in a drunken rage. How wrong I was to let him leave.
This is why I pick up the bottle today and continue to drink my life away.
the ADDICT
She took a hit. His eyes smiled as she sank in her chair looking as gone as ever. “She’s mine.” he whispered.
Written & Photographed by Melissa Sue Serrano
Model-Marilyn Rose Ortega
____________________
So, how did we, or more importantly I, get here?
It all began when the object of my adoration bestowed upon me a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something I never even dared to admit I wanted- an emotional speed-ball of thunderous love and excitement. Soon I started craving that attention with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When it was withheld I turned sick; crazed. To this day he denies to have encouraged this addiction in the first place. I know I cannot turn to him when I am down and out, because the last time we spoke he made it clear that he was going to refuse to pony up the good stuff form now on.
“Goddamn him!” I would shout going through horrific withdraws. When I would cradle my thirsting body on a mattress I would think about how easy it was to get it before. He used to give it to me for free.
The next stage, I found myself sickly skinny; shaking in a corner. Certain that I would sell my soul to anyone, who would take it off my hands, just to have that feeling once more. Meanwhile, the object of my adoration was repulsed by the very sight of me. He looked at me like I am someone he has never seen before. At least, not someone he once loved with passion. His eyes would look right through me as if I was a just another user off the street begging for a bill or two so I could hit a quick fix.
In the end, the irony of it all was I could hardly blame him. I was a mess; unrecognizable. Even my eyes had taken a different shade. It was awhile before I had come to the realization that I had reached infatuation’s final destination. The complete and merciless devaluation of myself.
I am not an addict anymore. I have cleaned up. I stay away from the hard stuff, particularly love. Every once in awhile I will take a low dose friendship, but I take them in moderation. I refuse to let myself sink so low into another’s affection that I cannot get back up again. Maybe that is wrong of me. Maybe I have not found the right person.
I let out a low chuckle as a smirk sweeps across my face thinking about the last statement. The right person? I am better off taking my chances on cocaine.
