Come Fly With Me (Shaking like Mingus)

Fuck!  Lena thought.

He likes human contact, I just want to kick and have a damn smoke.

Human contact, or any kind of it was really the last thing she could handle - seven thousand feet across the Atlantic.

I can barely ask 'Coffee please' without blushing; when did I decide I would fly without chemical sleep?  My ego fucked me again, I should stop putting myself on a paper pedestal just to feel the joy of falling down - she continued in writing, on a page that smelled Los Angeles in every single particle.

You really want to have human contact Mr.?  Please, come a little closer, my hands are shaking and I can't blame it on Parkinson.  Not yet at least.  Do you realize who are you talking to?  I know you like massages and I look like a darkened geisha, but my hands are tied right now, and they crave something (or someone) else.

I don't like it - Lena continued - why do I seem to like it?  I don't get aroused so easily, or do I?

No, I don't really like it - she thought a second time while trying to remember such a simple word as water in German.  

Wasser...Danke schön...she felt proud, not so much for her language skills, but because she killed the thought.  

After drinking her still wasser with no ice, she went back to Mr. humor with a twist next to her.  Her brain couldn't think straight.  His fingers were nothing like her lover's, weren't they?  

No, no man in the world had her lover's touch.  What was happening then?  

Maybe I can go from a fix to another, maybe it will calm the nerves for the next ten hours.  A vodka please, or a kiss?  No lips, they are private property, but you can have my neck if you can work your tongue.

Would you Mr.?  Because I might get a drink instead.

His hand casually touched her left leg, again, exactly where she liked it.  Her muscles were tense and hurt more than in the daily morning lotus.

Oh...I'm sorry - he apologized with a genuine and dirty smile - I like human touch.

I don't - Lena replied.

When the conversation crossed the threshold Lena grabbed her headphones and Miles Davis started playing.

Really? - She thought - Miles Davis?  He is sex.  I'm not that smart.  Stupid ego!

I'm sorry to bother you, I have to use the restrooms.

He got up and let her legs slightly touch his, just to feel her skin and smell how tired she was, through her hair in a disrupted pony tale.

Apparently her irresistible post-junkie vulnerability was a new weapon.  If only she was able to use it.

Fuck!  Human contact?

Charles Mingus always works.  

The real trial would start in 8 hours.

Human contact is not what Lena needed in that moment.  

She took a deep breath and, while still sitting on the toilet, she stopped her own hand from her personal heaven.

Hell must come first.  She knew it well.

When she went back to her seat he looked asleep.

Charles Mingus always works; she kept writing until her eyes were tired.

She fell asleep.  Human touch is not what she needed, and without poison she landed.

It was lovely to meet you - he said before walking to his connecting Gate.

Pleasure was all mine, let's not ruin it by exchanging emails.

She walked away with a smile on her face.  Gate A was just a minute from there, and she had plenty of time to smoke the first cigarette of the day and grab a quick coffee.

From there, it was all another story.

The Last Jazz - But it's just my voice, dancing it slow.

As you may have noticed I had to take a short break from WonderlandMag.
Days have been crazy.  Great news ahead, and I promise I'll be back very soon with a special blog, like the old times - something interesting that will grab you minds again.
As of today, enjoy this video from my last reading at Skylight Books, part of the How Dirty Girls Get Clean book tour.

This is one of my favorite - The Last Jazz - a short story I wrote a while ago, inspired by one of the most precious LA memories I carry with me every day, and every night.

I'll be back real soon.

Enjoy and thank you all for supporting me and keeping this blog tremendously alive!  WonderlandMag changed my life a few months ago; you guys reading it and following me it's the best gift I could ask for!

THE LAST JAZZ  - April 14, 2012

To all of you that came out at Skylight:  THANK YOU!
Photo courtesy of Riccardo Monti.

Going Home (On a Cloud, with Shakespeare and Einstein)

A. H.

December 1920 - March 2012

When I started writing this blog, earlier this morning, my intention was that of talking about Patti Smith and her new work; I had it all planned: when I saw her the first time, why I liked her, bla bla bla...talks, which mostly revolved around one person, as usual: myself.
As you will see from now on - if you are interested enough to get to the end of this page - the topic has drastically changed because, at 6:00 pm, the course of the day also did.
Today was the day to remember, with my LA-family, a precious soul that left us last week.
Today was the day to remember a man that, since the very first time we met, saw some kind of light in me, a light I seem to struggle acknowledging.
I wanted to hear his stories, he wanted to hear mine.
He was born in 1920 - Westminster, Maryland, and I never saw such a lust for life in the eyes of a man.
I met him the first time about a year ago, and our dinners at Canter's or Victor's will always be my favorite Jewish memory.
My parents moved from Russia - he told me once over Matzah Balls soup, sour pickles and Cel-Ray (his favorite drink) - they abandoned the Jewish faith, but not the culture, the food, and the sense of humor.
While he was craving for my writing, I was craving for his World War II stories and for his jokes.
He wanted to learn more Italian from me and I wanted to learn how he got to 91 with a smile on his face that was not a Hollywood lie or a line to play at the grocery store, when they ask you How are you doing today?  And you have to say I'm good thank you, how are you?

Today was a day to remember his passion and inner beauty; an intimate windy afternoon to learn something more about him, to admire his paintings and cuddle my soul with his writing.
As long as we have the power of imagination - he used to say - we are safe.

On Christmas day he asked me if I was religious, and what my after-death plan was, being biologically a Catholic - not by choice, but due to my heritage and Country of birth.  When I asked him what his plan was, he put his wise hand on my shoulder and said:  I'll be with Shakespeare and Einstein on a cloud.  I am not religious, but I think there's something above those clouds up there.  By the way, when am I going to read you novel?

That's how he was.  Singing in the rain, on a cloud of life, with an insatiable hunger for imaginary journeys and the treasures of art, with a side order of pastrami, and a mandatory after-dinner dessert.

Family and friends shared their memories, all warmed up by wool blankets and by his presence somewhere in the freezing wind that started blowing early in the morning.  When the Jewish buffet with all his favorite food came, we weren't sad anymore, but smiling back at him up on his cloud.

Your are home now, my wise friend.  
I am known for having a very low self-esteem, you gave me some.  
My deadly war with food is written down in history, but you took me to Canter's for chopped liver and rye bread. 
I don't drink anymore, but we toasted Ginger Ale like it was Champagne. 
You loved Italian food, and I cooked pasta for you.


Yes, you are on your cloud now, with Shakespeare and Einstein.
This is for you Al, because your culture, your beauty and your inner hunger for learning and enlighenment filled a childhood void in both my brain and my heart.  I will never forget that.



GOING HOME without your sorrow; going home, to where it's better than before. (L. Cohen)

A. H.

December 1920 - March 2012