From Slow-Motion to Dead Stop

Memory: tiniest thing can spark it.
Like the sangria I'm drinking on the balcony of a second story apartment in a building somewhere in West Hollywood, from which the lives being lived within 14 different apartments are visible at times - separate, yet connected. It makes me recall the fever I once had from drinking too much boxed sangria. For three days straight I drank nothing but the stuff - too sweet, and strong even. I was traveling at the time, sweating profusely from the build up of sangria in my system as I stood in line at the train station. I was out of sorts as I came to the ticket window, asking the man, with difficulty, politely as I could, "Do you speak Spanish?" I had meant to ask if he spoke English. The fact that he spoke Spanish was self-evident. He was a portly little Spanish man with a mustache. I was in Spain.

A few moments later - having stammered through the rest of the conversation with the man at the ticket window in order to learn that my train wouldn't be leaving from Barcelona for another three hours - I sat waiting for my train, embarrassed, the sweat now soaking through both of my shirts, and a pigeon took a giant shit on my bag. I nearly cried as I cleaned it off at the bathroom sink.

And before that, alone in my hotel room(basement, no windows), while the sangria still flowed box after box. I sat on the bed, allowing the sangria to wash down only saltine crackers. I could hear a couple in one of the adjoining rooms fucking, gasping incoherently to each other in Spanish. I closed my eyes and said a thousand Hail Marys.

That phrase, those words(in Latin though - the words that are now inked into my chest) - "Ave Maria." The same words I muttered to myself years ago in wintertime Lincoln, Ne., sitting up late night by candle light(in the 21st century!) in the frost covered window, staring across the train yard at the blinking red light I perceived to be the devil's beacon and believing myself to live out(through visions) the horrors of the boy I knew at thirteen who killed himself. I wrote it all down then. Eventually published it too in the post script to my first book, The Good Life of A Holy Idiot - it was entitled, "Requiem For Christopher."

Then there is the subject of these books of mine themselves, the publishing of which has led to many disintegrated relationships, romantic or otherwise, permanent or temporary. And how some folks have scoffed at the most recent book at the sound of the title alone - "I Am No One - an imaginary memoir." The word "memoir" inciting them to say, "Does the experience of a twenty-four year old in America really lend itself to create an engaging and insightful memoir?"

I think about every single person I have encountered while in their latter years. I think about the stories they tell of their youth, with more air in their lungs than they know what to do with and big smiles on their faces. I think about how the only difference in the telling of their stories and mine is that mine are told on the fly, while they're still happening, rather than years later when details have become more cohesive due to the invention that time will allow the brain to make. It is impertinent, though, for hindsight to play a vital role in a true story; in fact, it is better that they be told without it, when foreshadowing doesn't come of an oafish, conscientious hand, but of the subtle, intricate order of nature.

It should be mentioned that the result of this - this writing about youth while still presently living it - is an odd combination of somberness and elation; it creates a strange feeling of nostalgia for the current situation, one that breaks the heart while inflating it. It also allows for sappy, dramatic sentiments(as seen previously).

Back to the balcony then. Drinking sangria.
I look back with amazement at the time that has passed. Things have happened of their own accord, and I have adapted. I became tired, or caught up. Things came to a standstill, ostensibly. I was busy: held up in Nebraska over the summer due to circumstances out of my control, a trip back to the west coast, a few readings, some books written, a movie in production, etc. My face appeared here and there, but otherwise I disappeared. But I am rested now. The plumbing has been repaired in The Poor House and all the holes in the walls have been patched up too. The refrigerator has been restocked - meats, cheeses, eggs, booze. We've got everything now. If not everything, then at least enough.

The sangria is gone. A man on his own balcony on the third floor, smoking a cigarette and thinking about god-knows-what. But the main thing is that the ball is rolling again - things are moving.


Enjoy everyone,
K. Benjamin Font


IN FULL BLOOM, having sold out of the 100 hard copies, is now available for download.

I AM NO ONE - AN IMAGINARY MEMOIR, published in Nov. 2010, is available in limited handmade editions.

The American Haiku - a beautiful thing. Daily six word stories.