Woke up feeling invincible. Stretched the arms in a V. Took a deep breath and felt my wings expand. Arms were open for the love of a brand new day but fearlessly the memory of the day before came crashing down. If memory serves me well, the tears from laughing, the permanent smile, the thought of running from crazy all were imbedded in the moment.
A smile spread across with abandon with no reason. We obsessed about bowel movements and a human beings ability to memorize things. It wasn’t until BY 849 MQ came out that tears and laughter overcame me. Forget that this unknown woman from Spain was being called crazy, or pendeja it was that we all in some shape or form agreed. Who are we to define normalcy.
Sometimes I write bits and pieces of life, gathered much like a puddle collects water. At times very much like you, I find myself asking, “Rick what the fuck are you talking about?” Honestly at some point and time there was a purpose. LMFAO
Reading quite a bit as of late, recently, the brilliance of Jobs, the insanity of Van Gogh, Da Vinci’s Ghost, but its Tessel the Stripper that intrigues me most. Trust me, there is literature in all of them. One deals with respect to create while another prolongs our deepest desire to understand crazy. Its amazing that even now we don’t understand the brilliance of Da Vinci. Then of course there is our self absorbed presumptuous attitude to women who make a living on a pole.
My perverted sense of morality allows me to inform you that most strippers are Pre-Med or Pre-Law. What did you expect? Seriously? It’s women that make men go ape shit. Wait! Sorry! Its the crazy women, not all women. Well maybe all. As a man I have tendencies to be both harsh and yet eloquently empathetic to women. Forgive me for I have seen the vile of this world and have been out drank by a girl in 6 inch stilettos at one time or another.
If you were to ever ask a man, “Have you ever been to a Strip Club?” and there answer is no. It is not because they are lying, its because our moral sense of obligation is to keep you women from going crazy. For the record this has become a rant. Have no clue where this is going. It started about my Matias (pronounced M-a - Teyeas) and has now run amuck.
So I find myself in the motherland of wine, trying to define crazy! Vino from the bowels of time yet to be discovered by this wretched soul. One with a blatant disregard for the norm. A simple glass created by a sincere man who is his families fifth generation of greatness. I dare to ask him, “what is your greatest achievement?” The answer elegantly spoken, his daughters walking in his families footsteps.
Swirling his magical glass of wine, I took time to stair into her eyes. Her definition was Pinot Noir, princess, woman, and lover and yet she had with-in her a dubious desire to breath. Temperamental, spicy, salt of the earth, soave, seductive, and painfully beautiful. She was without words or expression. Fear set in, how could such an oxymoron of flavors be encapsulated in one person?
The glass sat idle. I could here her breathing. It was beyond the definition of any soul much less mine. Quietly she was expressing herself. She laughed. She smiled. She was full of wanton desire. Her truth was melting my soul and slowly she met my lips. Did she know where she was from? Did she care? I felt her touch, her warmth, indeed she was making me crazy.
Ironically after all of these years my tendencies are to point out the similarities between a Woman and Pinot Noir. In time they have become one. The fact that women who tend to love Pinot Noir are devastating creatures of thought scares me more than a bottle of Alexana.
My deep dark secret lady of thought continues...only she and I. Maybe one day. Maybe someday. Maybe tomorrow I will share with all of you what crazy is to me but tonight its just you and me and this last glass of Jack (the bar ran out after having me here for 8 days). The Beef Tartar reminds me to breath. Then again it was the “hey not there means hey not there!” that made us all laugh even more. Sante’
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