Confrontation with the Dark City

An essay from my first visit to the East Coast, and the impression she left on me. 

I arrive a hop-skip-and-a-jump, seven hours in and out of the heartland, racing towards the origin of the rising sun. Within landing I’m taken into three different states, and at twenty-four hours all deliriousness has eroded into giggles and glee.

In the deep darkness faltering Philly reeks of the apocalypse, as if the city that practically began it all could be its own ultimate demise. Its age is apathetic and dirty- all aesthetic is coated in non-apologetic chaos. I feel as though I’m locked into a dream- a nightmare- a flash forward, as if this fear, this empathy for the wandering bohemians is a stark warning of the impending catastrophe to flood the shores of any remaining decency and prick any Achilles heel available. It laps at the shores and I leap out of its way…apprehension pumps through me. . .

And by day it is back into this decrepit delinquent place to fester some sort of creativity- which satirically is quickly translated through a loving memory of Manson meets ape and the Antichrist superstar of corporate conglomerate is consummated in a lack luster doctor’s office, surrounded by the cloistered creative collective.

A third trip all too swiftly follows the second- with the lack of sleep day is blending into night. This excursion into raw relativity is far less eventful, aside of course from the car just ahead of us deciding that the street lamp no longer serves a purpose, as neither does his right driver’s side axle and tire…it was all so unreal that none of us could speak for fear that it did not entirely happen and that the lack of sleep had finally taken it’s toll and turned deliriousness into hallucination. A noise that unnerving can never be something so trivial as a simple hallucination. I continue to observe the feeble facets of corporations, and feel sick as there is not nearly enough food in my stomach to absorb the disgust in the pompous decomposition.

The next day is predestined early on with an altercation, which sets the mood for a day of excruciating mental and physical detriment. We now shift our attentions on New York City. The big sister,  the archetype, the machine.
 The energies of the large place leaves me feeling like a foreigner in my own country- no rhyme or reason- just labyrinth after lair with only small cryptic portals to explain to you the destination of the maze into which you descend. You emerge from one distinct civilization to another fairly symmetrical and synonymous, yet inexplicably foreign entity.

Not being able to push through the barrier I wince at every shiver the frosty wind shatters me with, conceiving merciless ripples of agony.

It’s as though the chill that clings to our bones is a purposeful reminder, an assurance that the city knows of your presence amidst the millions and the masses and the melancholy. You are not forgotten, the city does not forget. It is a place where you are acknowledged, yet completely invisible; like a vampire it stalks you, counts every rhythmic breath and step and sinks it down into a collaborative syncopated heartbeat.
The fear has left me now. I have released my spirit to this mechanical mentor. I write to remember the girl that hides inside, lost, but not forgotten. She is still safe and warm as the automaton coats me in it’s thick frost.  There is a bridge in the harbor that rotates to allow for the barges to pass the waterways, cutting off passage to the land. Such is the pass to my heart, the girl safe and warm my passage operator. Fear for the day a great wave- a surge of sensation – that will flush out the passage and wash her away. 

When the doors slam shut and the cloak of invisibility disguises our ego, we are moved once again by the magnificent mechanism of the city. We stand and sit and sway in its current like seaweed in open water. In our prefabricated shell, conceived on a conveyor belt, manufactured ‘a los manos’ we are isolated and ignorant of anything outside of our immediate environment until a flash of light signals a rebirth into the number and letters that signify our bearing in this world until we dive back into the great current of innocence to ride and sway with the mechanical ebb and flow.


The Jilted Generation's Manifesto

I am angry.
I am scatterbrained.
I am scared and scarred.
I am nervous that this is ALL there is.
I am an over-achiever.
I am anorexic, but I eat anyways, so
I am guilty.
I am an addict to something, but
I am not sure what yet.
I am lonely even though
I am completely surrounded by people.
I am selfish.
I am genuine.
I am capable of many things, but
I am careful in my choice of words.
I am empty and numb.
I am overwhelmed.
I am craving a musical outlet.
I am hesitant.
I am untrusting.
I am vulnerable.
I am diseased.
I am tired of having things to complain about.
I am sick of responsibilities.
I am a hopeless romantic.
I am blessed, but
I am lost.
I am so many things that you never see.

Somewhere, inside of me, is the truth. It is spectacular and overwhelming and omnipotent. I feel the need, repeatedly, to dig deep, “hunker down” and process. I also feel the need to scream, but cannot find the voice, nor the sentiment. Instead I sink down, and nest in, fighting the storm. This “truth”, this fossil which I have discovered is quickly dispelled by any new colorful distraction to my hands and mind in good company, or some newfound irrational fear. But it is there: screaming and silent, mischievous and melancholic. It is something I battle and struggle with- often overcome with grief. A frustrated restlessness overrides my senses and suddenly I’m thrust deep into my nest of temporary sanity. I dig and press and push, until it screams out at me again, and thus: I purge. So, there it is. I know the truth- in its terrifying entirety. I’m sure that you are just dying to hear it- this girl, this naysayer, what could I possibly know about the truth? And, you may ask, the truth of what? Your questions, I’m sure, are many, and your doubt heavy and hazy and thick. But then again, I know the truth, so….I must know how you feel about my own admittance. Well, I have disappointing news for you, and you may not choose to read any farther, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I know the truth, I know it’s there; I just haven’t found it yet- much to my own dismay, you might imagine. Trust me. (Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t- this is, after all, my story.) The time has come, though, to quit hibernating, time to stand up and dust off- as one would say where I’m from: It’s time to “cowboy up”. So this, my dear friend, is the truth in its horrifying entirety, and we shall discover together what exactly it is that we seek. The intention here, is to tell my story and to purge all existence until I stand pure and full of light, face forward.


Here's a link to my Blast Magazine author's bio. It has, at the bottom, all of the active links to my travel photography articles.




Tunnel // Migration

The tunnel runs forward ahead of us and I wonder where my sun is? Is She out there. Will I ever break back into Her wash? And then-She is there. Steady and objective. All the white cars like doves fly with us on this road, fanciful flight towards migratory grounds.

Forward frozen
Hesitant time stamp.
Collapsing into environment

Wrestle // Waste

The smell, the pavement; The rain, the people. Worlds biggest stage. You come to get lost and end up watched. You float above or grind through the middle. Underwater.
the submarine.
Suspended and hanging with no one or everyone but your thoughts. still and languid seaweed forest.
Hip forward balance and god on the loudspeaker. Destination determined. Just rush.
Swim upstream.

My days are not long enough to gather my thoughts. Day makes it's impression as night erases Her from me and again I am left to gather my thoughts. Librarian of the muses I clip and catalog.

Stay with me as I wrestle with my day. Sing to me when the sleep has forgotten my face. Be ever present. Ever near. Form like fog around me and blind the atrocities. Leave those to wander confused in my midst whilst our path be clear.

And lo, though I may waste away I melt into the atmosphere slide particle to particle so that you may breathe it in and be new again. Free of me and complexity. Though the vines will wither in the weight of the berry the birds will sing heavy songs of duplicity: tragedy and empathy.

Run from these words! (These ghosts.) Harken not to their haste and vile influences.

Wven // Villegas

A Collection of Writings II

all post-2007. previously unreleased.

Collection of Writings II

What to say today?
Next stop dreamland.
Push and whoosh and away
we go.
Molded plastic negates discrimination
Static slack
Old Man River,
lead the way.

Like a stranger lost in
The streets of New York,
I long for your familiarity.
pierce the pain,
rain down sincerity on me until
I am drenched in your desires.
Deceit, despair and delusion
I send thee away-
Harken not at my door-
I am no longer there.
I wander the streets...
spinning through the
time-lapse commotion.

robot reflexes
quick to the best
save the day
can't look away for
lack of seeing in the dark
RegEdit, repeat

sweet little sundays
sideways daze
smiling sunshine eyes,
staring at that which calls
you up into
big blue skies
skim the top
hide the lies.

riddles, rhymes,
puzzle piece found
fuzzy recollections of
half-earned memories
storm surges
breach of levy
sink just shy of sickness
ink immersion
search the streets
sandy shore, hunt
amongst your feet

potential platitude replaces
first found footing.
I sleep in the tree , but
I am afraid of heights.

Leave the lights on
stereotypical slacker.
salivate, palpitate
empty lots, dirty pots
stagnant water....
Parasitic infestation-
fluidly amoebic dissension from logic.
Unraveling propaganda which
lead me to feel
now decays in the
distrust of my own defeat.
demon dressed as delight-
the stars arise tonight,
saving grace of an otherwise
lightless palette.

dilapidated disease,
disinfect, dissect-
dissertation desperate.
decay despondent-

Bullshit basketcase
out of Balance,
out of Time.
Roof bound,
bounce back and forth
battle between benevolence and
bewilderment beyond my control.
It seeps in below.

eternal sunshine
fowl and feline
awkward, asinine.
My thoughts leave my pen behind.
As she comes around again...
Knobby kneed spirit
freed from Finishing School food.

Lilting, lifting sighs of percussion
mimic the rocking of the
mobile mechanism racing
toward its Mothership.
Another cog in The Wheel,
Advancement of the
Ministry of The Maze.
Miracles waved in our faces
while we all become
Sacrificial Lambs,
lost little martyrs.
Mystified by the Method.

A Collection of Writings I

After a couple requests to see some new work, here's some from the depths .... I have this mismatched, severely unorganized way of scribbling down my thoughts, usually on a train, for fear that if I don't record them the second they breeze through my heart and my mind that my lips will surely forget their substance. Yet, by not compiling and organizing they remain just that- a breeze that I remember once, in a distant undefined place scribbled, collected somewhere...

Here is the attention they deserve, for they are in actuality living breathing things, full of opinion and spit-fire. They are a breath within me, a heave of my chest, a beat of my heart, the flap of a wing which intends to fly...

Collection of Writings I

I. Darling, don't forget.

simple minded son of a gun
its really interesting how you
thought you could run-
Kinda funny how the rabbithole
turns circles around you
pick and post your
pretty little pictures and
paste together what it is
you wanna believe
try and conceive that
I cannot be
healed and pinched into your
perception of perfection
you fed and fabled and fictionalized
forged forward and shoved me down
gift wrapped ready to go
get off your back
but i told you so
i prophesied the obvious, but
your eyes blind bound for the
poster-child spun your lies
devious deceit darling, don’t forget.

II. Desiderata

set me on fire
set me free
run with the high beams on
proof of my desire
dreams that cannot be
sedated fantasies
slowly leak
restricted access key
heavy weighted shoulders
defeated silently
hunched over inadequacies
faceted farces masquerade as
magnificent marquees
horse heavy thunder
echoed heart and mind
called asunder
catastrophic cleave
I am so far behind

III. Full Card, GO

Molecular monotony
Spend life
Star circles
Bounce and fall
Lose and call
One up fall down
Ion on
Ion off
Surge sorrow
Linger tomorrow
Tall and hollow
Minus positive
Dependent dance
Full card go
Stay slow
Trade and pay
Better day

IV. What I Would Like to Say

I would like to tell you all the things you have done to push my face into the pillow of my own discretions. I would like to paint a picture so brilliantly disastrous that the walls would cry as I repeat and proofread-

-But you have taken that from me as well- long before the need to explain came into focus. I hesitate and hold out waiting for it to speak for itself, but am too frightened to listen.

V. Polluted

beneath broken dreams
bones brittle
life, it seems has left me

screams and fists
bound at the wrists
fits and trysts
decipher delirium as
solitude delinquently seeps in

repetitious distractions persuade me deep
massaged by fear and fate
divided truths penetrate
leaving holes in which your
hesitation pours right in and
pollutes my permeable disposition

VI. Lie My Friend, Long

Lie my friend long
As the day fades away….
Winter creeps in with a kiss
A mist and a sweet whisper
Leaves linger
desaturated and dismissed

Lie my friend long
Sweet symphonies sing
You are gone and will be missed
Your melody gently rests
Glances linger
Haunting and harmonious

VII. Rabbithole

Caterpillar stairs
Cold-shouldered stares
Heirs of the mechanical
Descend into sub-atoma.
Dive in the dependable
Have your tea-
Throw it overboard

Giants thunder through
Scream to stop
Sigh underweight

VIII. Yours and Mine

Resentment against you for shutting my door-
making me save myself for just you and I.
I didn't speak- I didn't feel, and for that
you became erasure-bound.
And now I find myself somewhere in the
midst of that process minus your presence-
it lingers on.
I hide there in that place that is
just yours and mine.
That place of broken wings that
I felt was deafening has become my shelter-
resurrected feathers build a glistening shrine,
is my place of respite where the
reel plays on rewind.
It is just yours and mine.

*all under 2007 copyright.