I would write you a masterpiece, something that would resonate within your soul and spark your fancy, that would at both times consume and elevate you. It would be an effervescent literary melody that would cease to exist as mere writing as you lay eyes upon it, and instead transform and shift into the algebraic expression of your life. And you would wonder at it, be drawn in by your curiosity, and be rewarded with a lifetime of expression within a few lines of grammar. You will remember and marvel at the possiblity of having found the defintion of yourself written by someone who does not know you, who does not understand the nuances of your life, who has not shared in your triumphs and victories, in your miseries and defeats, but who can still know you as thoroughly as a sibling with whom you have shared a life with.

And even though i do not know you, do not share in your experiences, rest assured that i love you. As deeply and eternaly as the furthest reaches of space can go, my affection for you goes further. You will give me your soul, and i will, in return, give you a broken heart. You will give me your body, and i will take you to the heights of passion, only to leave you cold, bitter and broken. And you will search for me, in places so deceptively obvious that you will cease to trust your mind. And then, you will never be safe.

But you will love my deception, you will be enticed and enthralled by it, you will write memoirs about the one who seduced and loved you, only to find yourself in the position you always feared you would be left in. And when you are left, you will wonder if i was real, if those feelings you harbored were tanglible-and the answer will be yes. Because i love you, and you will hate me. But you will love to hate me. You will be defined by it, and when you recognize that redefinition and that reconstitution of what you are..you will have realized that it is too late, you unlocked the door, let me in, i took what was worth taking, and you closed it behind me and waved goodbye.

Jorge Meneses

The thing one always remembers most vividly about days like this is what one was thinking before the impact hits them. In my case, (and dont worry, ill explain exactly what the “impact” was in just a few lines) i was wondering how the hell i was going to make it to class on time, what with the gargantuan city-sized blocks standing between me and my destination-my bartending school. Sweltering heat, a funky-smelling bum on the sidewalk chastising me for my indifference to his plight, (honestly, i really didnt have any change, but after the motherfucker called me a cheap bastard, i wouldnt have given him the lint in the pockets of my shorts. If there had been any lint in my shorts.) and a plethora of choice curse words for nyc traffic were just a few of the thoughts floating around in my head.

These aforementioned thoughts stuck with me till about 5:30, (i was exactly a half hour late) which found me at 39th and 9th ave, close to madison square garden, but not exactly there yet. There was a scaffold awning over the sidewalk, about a billion people walking to a zillion destinations, that hot dog guy moving his cart and taking up a whole fucking lane of traffic in the process, and…there. Right there. I couldnt tell you who she was next to or what was around her,because nothing else really mattered. I try to remember now, and the image is not unlike a blurry photograph centered around one item of interest-the world around it is irrelevant. Had I been robbed at gunpoint at that exact moment, i would have told him to shoot after she left my line of sight.

Nevermind that people are bumping into me. Nevermind that im late for…for what? Who cares? All that mattered was that apparition of perfection. She was tall; though not so much that i was disinterested, but just enough that her stature distinguishes her from the poor, sad, hopelessly outmatched beings that happened to share in her immediate presence. Short auburn hair, closley cropped, and eyes that would have shamed emeralds. The most intense green i’d ever seen-they commanded my attention from across the street. Legs sleek, body slim, a madonna among lesser beings.

I must have been the picture of a fool, standing there, body trying to move forward, head aimed the complete other direction-but for the life of me, in that one glimpse she shot at me (she must have felt my stare-i was practically generating telekineses) time slowed to the point where it simply stopped moving. and i imagined…

possibilities-crossing the street, simply stating, without pretense or preamble, that she was, quite simply, the most intruiging woman i had ever seen, and i would count it as a shame and a grandiose failure to not obtain a means of later communication with her. She would be skeptical and apprehensive, as most people are when confronted with such situations, but i would gently persist, and if need be, leave only my information, and in a perfect world she would call as i think of her, say she appreciated my boldness and courageousness, and was in fact intruiged by it as well, and would i allow her to buy me a drink? and i would be moved by this earth shattering concept, of a woman that would like to buy me a drink on a first date, and she would be educated, literate, a lover of language and complexities in people, a theorist on everything in life, from why it sucks to have to make it on your own in the world, to films and cinema, to people and their flaws, to the simple beauties of the aesthetics of the world around us, (that hardly anyone seems to appreciate) and even on love, where her unfraid heart and open mind would allow the early desires of young people to flourish and grow as do the giant redwood trees.

..but then four hundred dollars of tuition paid to the American School of Bartending started clamoring for attention, and the dream was disspelled. I was late for class you see, and dreaming about love doesn’t pay bills, or feed empty stomachs. and she continued on her way, possibly capturing more hearts from other thunderstruck fools on her way to wherever she was going, but more than likely, carrying mine with her without even knowing it.
Jorge Meneses 8/16/2011

the mood i was in

The Darkroom
(Inspired by Daniel Orozco’s “Orientation)
Welcome to the darkroom. Please refrain from introducing yourself, names are not allowed because everyone here identifies with despair; there is no need for individuality. We have an unknown number of rooms, this is because people constantly arrive and build their own out of the shambles of their previous lives and furnish them out of their regrets and shame. You will understand once you are shown to your room.
There are multitudes of rooms to choose from, and you may pick any poison you wish. Please keep in mind that the monthly ice collection for the air conditioning takes place the 13th of every month. What’s that? That’s a good question. Every month, all the tenants of the Darkroom chip some of the ice off of their hearts to keep the air conditioning machine running. We don’t allow heat.
The Cafeteria is devoid of chefs, this is because the rooms come stocked with any drug you require, which quells the need for an appetite, and therefore quells the need for a chef. The hospital is devoid of nurses, this is because all the pain in this building is self-inflicted, self-nurtured, and emotional. The cure for your pain will not be found here. The bar is devoid of tenders; this is because no one here serves you poison, you administer it to yourself of your own volition because you are too weak to battle against your inhibitions. The office is devoid of clerks; this is because before you came here your occupation was an excuse and a distraction from your pain, but here you will learn that your pain is you, becomes you, and that you do not exist OUTSIDE of your pain you exist WITHIN your pain and that will never change and that is also why you are here in the Darkroom. The entire building is devoid of hope as it is of heat. Therefore, if there is something you require, rest assured that we do not have it. However, you may substitute any drug or emotional suppressant of your choice for aforementioned requirement.
Lost lovers and scorned lovers tend to stick together on the upper floors, however they rarely communicate. Their tears and hate tend to bind them together, but they maintain their difference in title by the masks they wear, which are physical manifestations of the facades and lies they tell themselves to mask their pain. But if you are not a lost or scorned lover, do not come to this room.
Those lost in regret and self-doubt are difficult to come across in this building, but you may rest assured that they do reside here. You will most likely find them in their rooms, looking at old photographs and trying to determine what their lives may have been like if they had done things differently. They should have, could have, or would have. Getting a straight answer out of these tenants is difficult in the best of times; however, there are no questions you should be asking them anyway, on account that communication with other tenants is strictly forbidden.
This room belongs to the Landlord. You will never see the landlord, you will never hear the landlord, and you will never pay the landlord. Here in the Darkroom, you may leave whenever you please, but the front and back doors are locked from the outside, the fire escape is imaginary, and the basement has its own generator. You may stay as long as you please.
Once a week, you are allowed in to the projection room where our custom built projectors will display the memories that haunt you, the words you never said, the indiscretions you committed against your situation. This is to constantly refresh the hopelessness in the building. We do also display failed dreams, in an attempt to break the routine every now and then. This serves to help remind the tenants of the potential they failed to harness, which in turn helps to remind them of the many demons they have created and fed and nurtured with their excuses and lies.
Sickness is completely imaginary, but if for any reason your mind is too weak to generate any self-esteem, take a healthy dose of marijuana. Remember, there are no nurses. If the memories become too much to deal with, use about a milligram of heroin and insert the tip of the syringe into your vein. Ecstasy can help with incessant sadness, but suicidal tendencies require a mixture of drugs to suppress. Feel free to experiment.
There are others to see to, so you are being left here, on direct orders from the Landlord, to construct your own room. There are no building specifications, so long as the room serves as an indispensable cell for your mind. Here at the Darkroom, we take pride in being the Darkest place on earth. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to let them linger in your mind and drive you insane.

Jorge Meneses 8/12/2011

note not the face; only the words.