C.E. Santana's Blog, page 7
February 25, 2015
February 21, 2015
February 20, 2015
"In dreams you don’t need to make any distinctions between things. Not at all. Boundaries don’t..."
- Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)
"Go out for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk in the park… It doesn’t have to be a walk..."
- Albert Camus (via wordsnquotes)
"I never wanted you to be a one time thing or a short term fling. When I looked at you, I wanted you..."
- L. Galant (via wnq-writers)
February 19, 2015
dameht:
None of it is easy. Finding the one, career choices,...
None of it is easy. Finding the one, career choices, the battles between the flesh and the soul. But when one is down to the very last copper kopek and must choose between food or cigarettes?? Well….
DAMEHT In Exile Ep03: The Priorities
A Film By Hammer
February 16, 2015
dameht:
Kicked out New York, right into the Hollywood...
Kicked out New York, right into the Hollywood Babylon…
DAMEHT IN EXILE
Watch the first episode http://youtu.be/cD_VWPWFivw
February 3, 2015
January 1, 2015
New Short Story: Regrets
Regrets
Her skin was cold and smooth. It was the first time Edgar had ever been with a black girl. He squeezed her thighs under the water. He looked up at the ceiling and at the mirror. He felt like Patrick Bateman. He felt like a pornstar. He felt like a pro.
She discreetly put the money away and walked towards the door.
“Happy birthday, cutie,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
Walking to the bar of the suite, Edgar poured himself a Jack and Coke then sat down on the couch and watched basketball on the big screen T.V. The Knicks were losing to Orlando. Edgar leaned over to the coffee table and reached for a ziplock bag filled with weed. He began to work on a blunt. He felt like the fucking man. He had just whispered those words, “I’m the fucking man,” to himself moments earlier before there was a click on the door and in came noise: three of Edgar’s buddies, all wasted off complimentary casino booze.
“Fuck you go?” Asked J.R. He was Edgar’s best friend. A kindred spirit —young and wild, but loud to Edgar’s shy reservations.
“I just felt liking chilling here for a bit. Didn’t want to gamble.”
“Who’s winning, yo?” J.R. asked. “I got money on the Knicks.”
“Magic. Marbury sucks.”
“Fuck that guy,” J.R. responded. He was by the bar and with his bare hands he was piling ice into a tall glass.
“Come on, bro!” Yelled Tomas, a lanky Polish kid from Jersey City. “Use the fucking scooper thing. Dirty ass hands all over the ice. Now you’re going to go get more.”
“Fine, bitch!” J.R. threw an ice cube at Tomas and then ran out the door as Matt walked out of the bathroom.
“Why the fuck is the tub filled? You were bathing, Edgar?”
“Yeah, I may have taken a little dip.”
“You felt like Tony Montana in that bath, huh? You smoked a blunt?”
“Na.”
“Na?”
“Na.”
“Psst, what a waste of a hotel suite bathtub. You gotta smoke a blunt in there. Have a drink. Boss shit.”
“I took full advantage. Trust me,” Edgar smirked.
“Wait a minute,” Tomas said. “You fucked a hooker, didn’t you?”
“Na, nigga, chill. I ain’t fucking no Atlantic City hooker. Fuck I look like?”
“So what if you did. It’s your birthday. I would have gotten you a hooker if that’s what you wanted. Let’s all get hookers. Have a real party.”
An hour earlier, walking through the drastically bright lights of the casino floor of the Trump Taj Mahal, Edgar roamed around not quite sure what to do. Gambling intimidated him. Old men and women sitting around a table, years of gambling wisdom amassed, ups and downs, wins and losses. Edgar, at 21, was a rabbit in a snake’s cage. He also didn’t like to lose money. So he walked around with a Jack and Coke, getting ID’ed in every new section, looking up at the ceiling filled with cameras like bats hanging upside down in a cave, until he found his brother and his brother’s friends standing around a roulette table. It was pure luck, but as soon as he passed by and greeted them, one of his brother’s friends, an Asian kid named Jimmy, hit black and won three hundred bucks.
“Cheers, Edgar. Happy birthday.”
Edgar looked down at the chips in his hand. Two $100 chips.
“Really?”
“Yeah, man, enjoy. Get a hooker or something.”
Edgar looked at his older brother, Jonathan, who shrugged, “Fuck it.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it,” Edgar said, then walked away, letting his brother’s friends get back to their choir of Ooo and Aaas, Fuck Yeahs! and Fucking Bitch Cunts! with every stop of the wheel.
Cashed out, money in hand, Edgar felt someone was following him ever since he walked away from the cage. He turned around and saw a young, well dressed black girl walking a few steps behind him.
“You’re cute,” she approached, smiling.
Edgar nodded. It was his birthday, he had money in his pockets, whiskey and weed in his system —he was confident and sure of himself.
“You want to have some fun?”
“Let’s go,” Edgar said and led the way.
He almost killed them twice. One time, it was driving to a strip club in Sayerville. His brother and his friends were in town for the Army/Navy game, and Edgar had just received his license. They let him drive and as soon as Edgar hit the highway for the first time in his driving career he drove right into a car that had stopped in the middle of the lane, no hazard lights. He had no where to go. He braked but it was too late. The airbags exploded and after some confusion, Jonathan snapped Edgar out of shock. Everyone was alright.
The second time, driving up to West Point, the future leaders of the Free World were by then more comfortable with Edgar’s driving. He wasn’t found at fault for his first accident —the other driver admitted his car had stalled on him. Edgar was flying up 9W in the dead of winter. Edgar felt the car slip and go slightly off the ground for a split second. No one else noticed, but it was enough for Edgar to foresee an alternate future: a destroyed Ford Taurus and four horrifically mangled dead people. He slowed down.
He wasn’t trying to think of such terrible thoughts but like all thoughts it had just popped in his head unannounced.
“I’m fucking stoned,” he said out loud. Or did he? He was stoned.
He was still in his robe. The Knicks officially lost and J.R. was biting his nails over $25.
“Fucking sorry ass Knicks, yo.”
Tomas, ignoring J.R., asked Edgar what he wanted to do. “It’s your birthday, bro.”
“Don’t you hate the attention on birthdays?” Edgar responded, brooding. “I want to smoke weed here, and then if something comes up, we’ll do something. We don’t have to do something just to do something ‘cause it’s my birthday.”
Matt started on another blunt as Edgar went back to his day dreams.
The sun was rising and flickered through the curtains of the suite. Edgar looked around the couch at all the drooling faces. They had smoked themselves silly. Blunt after blunt after blunt —21 total. Edgar felt peace all around. He put on his clothes and headed downstairs. He walked around for a bit and then decided to sit at a blackjack table. He knew the rules and there were only two other people at the table, a youngish, handsome man, and his date, a pretty brunette. Edgar sat down and nodded at the couple and then handed a $50 bill to the dealer.
“Let me see your I.D. first.”
Edgar handed it over to him and then looked at the couple. They had obviously not slept. Their eyes told the story of a battle between exhaustion and cocaine lines.
“Happy birthday,” said the dealer.
“Thanks.”
“Shit, it’s your birthday, man?” The guy at the table said. “How old?”
“Twenty-one.”
“I remember my twenty-first,” said the girl. “I was fucked up. Well, now that I think about it, I don’t remember much and it was only two years ago.” She giggled.
“Cheers, kid.” The guy raised his glass. “Where’s your drink?” He signaled for a bartender who took down Edgar’s order.
“How are you feeling?” The guy asked between hands.
“I’m alright.”
“You here with friends?”
“Yeah. A few high school friends and my brother and some of his military buddies.”
“That’s rad, man.”
“Where are you guys from?”
“From New York. You?”
“Jersey City. But I’m always in New York.”
“Yeah? You should come hang at my studio if you’re around sometime.”
“You make music?”
“No, I’m an artist.”
“What kind of art?”
“Contemporary shit.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-one.”
Edgar nodded and then focused his attention on his hand. Twenty-one hit.
“Nice!” The girl cheered.
Edgar smiled and collected his winnings. The guy looked at Edgar admiringly.
“Can I give you some unwarranted advice?”
Edgar shrugged, “I guess.”
“You’re here in a casino, living it up, you’re a handsome kid, you dress well, probably fuck a lot, do drugs and all that shit, right?”
Edgar chuckled, “Yeah, I guess.”
“Keep doing that shit, man. Keep doing you. Do wild ass shit. Do all the drugs in the world. Fuck every hot girl. You can fuck this one if she’s down.”
The girl giggled. Edgar looked at her quickly then looked at the dealer who was sticking to his professionalism and who had heard it all dealing cards in Atlantic City.
“What I’m saying is that you may get into trouble at some point. It happens. There’s highs and there’s lows in life. You just have to learn to live with regrets. It’s like that Jay Z line. You just have to keep moving forward. And the way to do that is by hitting the lows sometimes, you feel me? You gotta hit the lows sometimes. So you can experience the highs better. It sounds contradictory but lows are a part of life. You can’t be on a high all the time. Hit those low notes, man. I don’t mean purposely doing stupid shit that will get you in serious trouble. I’m talking about just living life, you know? And being acceptive of whatever happens. Being open to experiences no matter how bizarre they sound. And sometimes that means you’ll do something that is harmful to yourself or you may be selfish and harm someone else. Do I hate myself in the mornings? Sometimes, yes. But then I make some art or go to the gym or visit my grandmother or fall madly in love like I did last night with this girl right here and then the real highs kick in. And you get better at living everyday. You know what I’m saying?”
Edgar nodded slowly. “I think so.”
“Not everyone gets it.”
After a few more hands, Edgar relieved himself from losing any more money and stood up.
“It was nice meeting you,” Edgar said, shaking the guy’s hand.
“You too, bro. My studio is in Soho. On the corner of Prince and Mercer. Above the bar. Feel free to stop by next time you’re in the area.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Edgar walked outside to the boardwalk and relished in the natural light. His high was crashing like the water on the rocks below, continously without end until the moonrise. Edgar lifted his body over the railing. He puked. He felt like shit and was ready to leave Atlantic City.
