Luca

That's me. This is about me.

[mynameismyown]

David Bowie

I’m listening to a live album of David Bowie as I write this. I like David Bowie. For his poetry, his musicality, his meaning, his love, his life. He was amazing.

I think I’d like to have the same force of expression that he did. The same force of conviction, too.

I don’t think I could ever be religious like him, but I’d like to have a set of convictions like him.

Ziggy played guitar, David was a star, and I’d like to go far. I don’t know where, I don’t know what, but I could fall asleep at night if I got to go far.

Can you tell what album I’m listening to?

David Bowie and this blog serve similar purposes for me: validation of a kind. David Bowie was so amazing and weird, went from character to character, looked at life from so many different angles, but always retained a certain feeling, a certain way about him and his art that was so unmistakably Bowie.

I’d like to be unmistakably Luca.

Maybe this blog will help me discover what that is. What ‘I’ is.

This is the end of the post, I think. As they will all be, this is unedited, unrefined, written in under an hour. In this case, under 30 minutes.

Stay strong and stay safe,

Be well,

   Luca

[mynameismyown]

Welcome, I Suppose.

Welcome, I suppose, to my lair.

Look alive, enter with due care.

Watch your step, watch me,

I won’t be offended if you stare.

Sit down, sit down. Be at home.

Or you may follow me as I roam.

There’s much to do, much to do,

As my lair grows like life from loam.

Please respect the space.

No, it is not made of lace,

But please handle it with care.

It would not do to destroy in haste.

Welcome, I suppose, to my lair.

I hope your stay shows I care.

Watch your step, watch me,

I hope you understand if I stare.

[itismylonelyroad-deactivated201]

The Precipice of the Universe

A distant beam cleaved through the cool night air, not disturbing and yet changing what once was. The atmosphere, once a cool blue, fell back, pushed to an almost yellowish white, stretching space in an attempt to make what was no longer be. Specks of dust floated serenely in the beam, unaware of the change, almost lazy in their stillness.

A distant warble rang through the air, a whistle hovering and careening along currents of air, curling and traveling along a twisted and changing path. It signaled the coming of a change.

The platform was dark, blanketed in a dark blue shadow of night, empty and silent and distantly separated from the nearing noise and the approaching light. A short distance from the tracks the edge of the beam wavered, a stark contrast pushing and prodding its way into the silence of the cool night. Its harsh fingers twirled in the dust motes, stirring up the quiet to form an other, an out of the blue, quite literally in a sense.

Once more the whistle broke the silence of the night and, as the train approached, the beam widened as well, taking over the silence of what once was, the dark of what shall once again be.

It was a queer dichotomy of light and dark, of dancing and of stillness, of me and of you and of life and of death and of what never ever shall be again.

The beam was an angry starkness, forcefully pushing aside the velvet curtain of night to show the anger in his features, the hatred in his eyes and the meaning in his stature.

He stepped onto the edge of the curtain, the precipice of his journey. The whistle approached loudly, the beam brightened his features and then blanched them out as it grew ever closer. He hesitated a moment and felt the power fill him.

The train pulled to a quick stop, rusted brakes screeching, the sounds of journeys coming to an end, of those finally returning home. It held a sour taste to its sweet meaning.

One by one the passengers disembarked, mouths yawning, arms stretching, people murmuring. For a split second silence filled the cooling air, and the scene stilled. Almost immediately after, a scream rent the air, seeping into the spreading redness of the night time scene.

[mynameismyown]

This reminds me how important vivid visuals can be. I like it.

[mynameismyown]

Introduction: My Name Is Luca

My name is Luca. Yes, I do live on the second floor. No, I don’t think you’ve seen me before. No, this story isn’t about domestic abuse. It is about me, though.

I am writing this because I want to write, and I know no subject better than myself. I am not an expert, but here I will try my best.

I am eighteen. I am young. People say I am intelligent, and I won’t argue with them. (Regardless of my beliefs on the subject.) I am young, and I am not wise. So here I write to perhaps gain some wisdom through self-reflection.

I write about myself not because I think I am special in the sense of that old platitude, but in the hope that you will keep reading and believe in that platitude for a moment anyways.

Still here? Thank you. Prepare yourself for what’s to come. My sentences can be short and crisp. Punkt. Or my sentences can be long and flowing from thought to thought, perhaps punctuated for your reading ease or perhaps not. Sometimes my sentences will rhyme, I’m a poet at heart. This is also practice writing prose, for I am not yet in college. I have heard that writing prose is a skill I will sorely need in college, so again, here I am.

Here we are, listening to me ramble, together. You are not the only listener. I, too, listen to myself speak as I write. This is stream of consciousness, unedited. I write my thoughts as they come, uninterrupted. Some of my thoughts are filler, stalling until I can word my next thought properly for the page. Can you tell which ones? The goal is that you cannot.

There. I have stated my purpose. I have written an introduction.

My name is Luca. Your name is yours, and I hope you like it. I like mine.

My name is Luca, and I wish you well.