floral underground

I saw a girl in the Metro

waiting for the 10 towards Austerlitz

she wore headphones and floral skirt

a bouquet of roses

stuck out of the trash can

she saw the flowers

and moved closer

she picked the petals, one at a time

she tossed them into the air

and they floated to the floor

she dropped them onto the tracks

a curious smile on her face

mice crawled and nibbled

at the velvety edges

the train came

its arrival softened

by the blood red roses

we boarded the train

she picked up a crumpled newspaper

and read the news of the day

but I don't think she cared

summers gone

The CozmikGangsta has been grindin'. Hard. The summer rush has been hot and fast. Time entered some sort of strange dimension where evenings linger, seeming timeless yet end all too soon.

Our hero has been robotic in a sense, at times defying his natural rhythms in pursuit of something greater, perhaps intangible. While filling your head and heart with floaty love poems, he's been on some real ninja shit, running missions, rendezvous and international conversations through the breaking dawn.

Things may be taking shape in a distant land as the battle between the rooted and the rootless rages on. While new alliances have been made, how long can our hero blast through the galaxy? Until his sword dulls, photon blasts run out and hyper-speed won't engage. Though weary at times, our hero's tactics seem to be working

Back with more Word soon.

Check out what the Crew has been up to: Lila - II

Pretty Girl in the Train Station

you wear their blue uniform

but you're not one of them

no, you smile deeply

you giggle innocently

you're happy to see me when I arrive

the way you bat your eyes tells me so

you open doors

point me in the right direction

I like the train station

when you're there

we are on the same team

me and you

us against the world

against bureaucracy

against tyranny

fighting for everything

that's right and beautiful

I see the way you whisper

to your friends

when I turn my back

you can tell me

no secrets

I want to get lost

so you can give me direction

an exploration

I had just left Old Town

to walk up a great forested hill

when the rain came

I ducked into an ancient library

but the deluge lasted 

the length of a cigarette

so I left the stacks of wisdom

and the grey overhead gave way 

to electric blue 

through the canopy 

and beyond the waterfalls

past an ancient warrior ground

I saw a sign that said Magical Cavern

so naturally I followed it

at the top of the hill

was a gathering of folk

but they knew nothing of the cave

they began to talk

and suddenly with my arrival 

were questioning everything

they thought they knew

there was a soft righteous sound 

and A Whiter Shade of Pale 

drifted down the hill

but it was the Michael Bolton version

and the Magic Cave was a gift shop

so I descended

wednesday

outside the Aquarium children are playing

grey haired lesbians from middle America

are eating sandwiches

and drinking beer together

Bernard walks around

taking orders and shaking hands

he's always smiling

but he'll fucking kill you

he told me so

the regulars are here

and the people who will never come again

Stephanie works the bar

pouring drinks

washing glasses

smiling secretly

she's got an edge that I love but

her tattooed boyfriend is here too

he's into some gangsta shit

and I'm not tryin' to mess with that

people travel quickly up and down the quaint street

running errands

running from the law

going to school

on scooters, bicycles

and their own two feet

but life at the Aquarium moves slow

like a blue whale sifting through plankton

or a great white shark, idling, ready to breach

bubble juice

scents in the palace

bringing us together

you wander

and I follow

bathed in light 

and ambiance

you glance over your shoulder

I'm still there

let's get out of here

to the streets

where we can be alone

with each other

I know a place

where they know me

it's not far

if you want to come

gin for me

vodka for you

your legs press against mine

and I know it's gonna be alright

high above the city

you see the world

through my eyes

and want to know more

slow movements

gentle touch

soft lips

now you're gone and I'm still here

Hannah

at first your hip thrusts where hostile

like you were trying to steal our space

but you smiled and moved closer

flicking your pierced tongue

a cobra ready to strike

an invitation

like a moon flower

opening in the twilight

I had already noticed

the curves beneath your dress

and the color in your hair

do you want to hang out, she asked

sure, I said

what are you drinking?

not tonight

why is it

always

late in the evening

when you have

to get up

early

that you meet

two giggling

Polish girls

who are 

smiling

laughing at 

your jokes

and want to 

party

with you?

The Villa

Our hero loves living in the city. The constant energy and availability of options mean you can go anywhere and do anything at any moment. But there are times to leave all that behind and head out into the countryside, where life is slower and the air is fresher.

A colleague informed our hero there was a luxurious villa to the east of Paris in which he would be residing for several days. Invitation extended, our hero made plans to join for some much-desired R and R.

Deep in the belly of Gare de Lyon lies a little bar called Croque Mie. This tiny oasis of drank is standing room only. No seating, you must stand at the bar. This situation is eased by the fact that pints of Kronenberg are only 2.80, the cheapest draught beers in the city.

He waits at this designated rendezvous point until the others join. Another round. A couple cans for the road. Together the troupe boards the RER A train towards Marne-la-Valle. Little by little the buildings and urban structures disappear, giving way to rolling green hills and fields of bright yellow flowers.

Their host left the door cracked and upon arrival the troupe finds him lounging in the setting sun, fresh out of a three-hour bath, sipping Bordeaux. The patio opens to a multilevel swimming pool and a pond, complete with ducks waddling about. Five or six bottles of unopened red sit on the table.

Wine is opened and poured around as people explore the compound excitedly. Immediately it is decided that a feast should be prepared and drinks in hand, they head to the local market. Our hero has a menu in mind and upon sharing it, the others are on board.

Our hero slips into his role of executive chef easily, slicing, dicing, cutting and chopping while his friends sit in the dwindling spring evening telling stories. Piles of minced garlic and chilies are separated then added to the meat for marinating. Bell peppers, potatoes and various spices simmer in olive oil, making love to one another in the frying pan. Thick, fresh tomato slices are garnished with crumbled Roquefort, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and taken to the patio.

Pasta and salmon wait in the wings but no one can fathom the subsequent courses. Perhaps later in the evening.

Lethargic but fulfilled physically and spiritually from the meal, the evening winds on in slothly bliss. Eventually our hero ascends the stairs and makes it to his quarters. He cracks the windows, inviting in cool breeze and the passionate, comforting bellows of mating bullfrogs. These sounds lull his spirit and lost in a sea of contentment he drifts off, to places and possibilities unknown.

The next morning our hero wakes in a cloud, swimming in pillows and soft, silken sheets. He enjoys an absurdly long shower in the spacious, gilded bathroom. It’s early and he’s refreshed; a rare combination considering the wheels off, rogue lifestyle he’s grown accustomed to.

In a sense, that’s why our hero loves life in France: the cup overfloweth. Food and drink abound, as does a sense of sharing in a communal atmosphere. It’s a loving and giving environment where friends and companions go the distance for one another. Burdens are bared, weight is pulled and loads are shifted. What can our hero do for you?

Neighbor

Hello! she screams in a perfectly American accent

I stick my head out the window

she’s Sadie from Iowa and she’s a photographer

she wants a cigarette and I toss her one

it hits the window and falls seven floors down

the next one makes it in

then the matches

she tosses me an internet password and it doesn’t work

we are friends anyway

The Road Ends Here

As of late, the Duke-UNC rivalry has been somewhat one-sided. Droopy Dog Williams has been snagging top recruits, many who end up leaving early, winning a championship or two and maintaining his general douchebagginess all the while masquerading as a great coach and good person.

While our hero did derive some sadistic pleasure from watching UNC’s struggles this season, it certainly did not help boost the argument of the greatest rivalry in sports. The fact that the two schools, separated by a mere 9 mile stretch of road, now have each won a championship in the last two years speaks a great deal about both programs and the competitiveness between them.

Blue Devil supporters have long been aware of what makes the Duke program so special; quality players and individuals, dribble penetration and ball movement, in your face defense and full court pressure- the foundations of good team basketball.

Duke no longer plays second fiddle to anyone in the ACC or the country. After capturing their fourth national title, Blue Devil nation breathed a sigh of relief after years of struggle and underachievement in the Dance. Toss it up to a weak year in conference or the emergence of leadership on the court. It could be due to the fact that the Devils had a deeper bench than they’ve had in years and finally have gone back to recruiting big men. Some even said it was destiny.

Heartbreakers dropped to the Wisconsin Badgers and the ugly loss to Georgetown in front of President Obama had supporters wondering how tough the team really was.

Despite these blemishes on the record, fans felt a tangible excitement all season. Our hero spent the majority of the season watching the games with top notch whisky and top notch company at the split level on Anderson Street.

Together we watched Scheyer become a true ball handler with a staggering assist to turn over ratio. Singler pushed through his midseason slump, exploding through the final four and finally becoming comfortable in his new position. Nolan Smith slashed to the basket and solidified his range while Lance Thomas did everything that doesn’t make the highlight reel.

Perhaps the most intriguing story of the year was the emergence of the Zoub, from goofy, stumbling, bringing his rebounds down, cringe when he gets the ball, space occupying efficiency inverse, lame excuse for a 7’1 center to confident inside player with good vision and the ability to finish. Amazing what a beard can do for a man.

The brothers Plumlee provided some thundering dunks, fouls and muscles on the interior.

Our hero pushed through the evenings, staying up for the 3:30am local time tip-offs. Packed in the highlander for the final, he found himself the enemy as varied European accents and English dialects screamed for the Butler Bulldogs, booing the Blue Devils every chance they got.

A well-played game by both sides, the bar, the world and our hero held their breath as Gordon Hayward tossed up a half court prayer that seemed destined to fall. Alas, it was not to be and the Devils emerged from the flames unscathed. Our hero, misty eyed with pride, exited the bar quietly after shaking some hands and let out his victory cry. He hopped on his metal steed, gliding through the empty, centuries old streets, cool breeze on his face, reminded how good it is to be young, alive and winning championships.

Tiger Skin

I see your vintage stores

Strolling the narrow streets you used to love

Funky bags and sexy shoes

Glitter, lace and leather

 

Soulful sounds from the past

Drift over rooftops

A reminder of when blue smoke swirled overhead

And we lay talking, or not

 

Silence speaks all

Don’t to say too much; that would spoil the magic and mystery

A painful quiet, a mute wanting to scream

Telling the world

 

About when the breeze drifted gently

Through the curtains and street noise

Echoed softly, keeping company

One story in a city of many, but none of the others mattering at all

The Storybook

An early scene in Disney's Beauty and The Beast shows an idyllic, romanticized version of French village life. As Belle strolls to the bookshop, the town awakens, the characters emerge and the portrait of a way of life is painted. The characters are detail oriented (for the most part, until Belle strolls by) and aware how each of them plays part in their community as a whole. This one scene shows the challenges faced by some, the desires of others and the power (or perceived power) relationships between them.

Our hero, like Belle, has a charming village he spends time in and loves, but reminded regularly of his differences from the locals. Several times a week we find our hero on a train, heading 12 miles southwest of Paris to Versailles, which for 107 years was the seat of the French Monarchy. Seeing as it was home to royalty, it is still a very wealthy area and maintains a level of sophistication fit for a king.

The Versailles market is one of the best and oldest in France; an explosive sensory orgasm of sights, sounds and smells. Rotisserie chicken and sausage, pates and serrano ham, potatoes sizzling in duck fat, fresh fruit and vegetables, tapenade, olives from all over the world, pickled garlic and sun-dried tomatoes, feta stuffed red peppers, shrimp salads, pastries cream filled and berry topped, burn your finger fresh baguettes, spices and seasonings, fish still flopping, feathered chickens, goat heads, pigs feet, cow tounge, all sorts of aromatic and stinky cheeses, melt in your mouth croissants, handmade pastas and sauces barely scratch the surface of the offerings available. Color and texture abound in the bustle as vendors sing of their produce in advertisement, competing with one another about who's gooseberries are fresher. After almost 2 years, surely our hero knows the market well, but there are still little secrets and mysteries to unlock, delicacies to try and tiny shops in back alleys to explore.

Perhaps more than the amazing spread and endless possibilities offered in the market, it's the characters in Versailles that he's gotten close to, watched grow and change during his time that will have the most lasting impact. Every time our hero enters the market, he's stepping into his own fantasy world, a personal storybook with unforgettable, larger than life personalities.

Kareem- Usually our hero's first encounter of the day, hardworking and spastic with a goofy fanny-pack apron thing that holds his money and tools. The hopes and dreams of his family rest on a orange juice cart. When he sees our hero pull into the market square he abandons his post, darting in and out of traffic, across the street to make sure our hero has a fresh glass of OJ. His juice, the perfect balance of sweet and tart trickles down your throat like liquid gold. His operation is truly a family affair, as he tells our hero of picking blackberries with his children to make fresh preserves for crepes, longing for the day he can move them into Versailles from Rambouillet and enroll in a better school.

Guillaume- Our hero's wine guy. Short and balding, he gave up selling copy machines years ago to pursue his true passion. Opening a charming wine shop with his mother, Marta, his space has beautiful exposed wooden beams and quiet coziness inside. He hand selects each wine he sells and will gladly bust out a map and talk at length about the various wine regions of France and the individual characteristics of certain grapes. After welcoming a daughter last year has moved further into the real estate market. Sadly, this means he will be spending less time in the shop but ensures our hero that he will inform him when the single malt scotch tastings are.

Sergio- The crazy as a loon butcher who keeps our hero up to date on market gossip. Aside from hooking our hero up with the finest cuts, the occasional bottle of bubbly and his homemade mayonnaise, he invites him to parties, looking forward to the time they finally drop ecstasy and listen to techno.

Kelly- Our hero's Mauritian cheese girl who doesn't even like cheese. Though she makes fun of our hero's food choices at times, she's kind and full of laughter, always offering the finest selection of fresh made apple, pear and cherry juices. Despite her tatted up husband, she wonders aloud when she and our hero will run away together. Although he invites her to the picnic everyday, she reminds him how she's stuck at work, lamenting her day to day domestic responsibilities.

Robert- Dressed in black, he is a slick, gold chain wearing businessman who owns our hero's favorite cafe, Juliet. Each time our hero steps through the door, he's greeted with an enthusiastic "Allo Boy!" Robert maintains a fleet of attractive young girls working the counter who smile gently and bat their doe eyes with seductive mystery. Usually at this juncture we find our hero fumbling around with coins, trying to pay for a coffee while maintaining his cool in their radiant presence. Robert is unfazed though and proudly boasts that the real treasures are his dancer wife and 3 year old daughter.

Bernard and Stephanie- The father/daughter combo who run our hero's favorite bar, where he sometimes spends his breaks. Often playing some funky/techno/hip-hop music, our hero is able to watch the bicycle races and in a few months, the World Cup. Bernard is warm and welcoming while Stephanie's inviting smile and subtle ink make our hero wonder what else she is hiding beneath the surface.

At the end of the scene from Beauty and the Beast, Belle claims she wants much more than this "convention life" she leads in the village. The day to day is slow and too familiar for her. By contrast, our hero sees something in the town atmosphere- a sense of community that he longs for and seems lost in modern times. Though at this point, he is happy to lounge around and nap in the King's garden pretending, if only for a moment, to be part of a great, unraveling adventure tale.

Retour a Paris

In his posthumous memoir about life as an expatriate in 1920s Paris , Ernest Hemingway asserts "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast". He recounts road trips and drinking binges with F. Scott Fitzgerald, encounters with James Joyce, Gertrude Stein and other literary titans. The book reads like a treasure map, naming specific cafes, streets, parts of the city and habits fundamental in his development as a young writer. One cannot help but feel the same magic Hemingway was in tune with; an ancient reservoir of ideas, thought and culture.

We join our hero on the descent of his transatlantic, earthbound in the golden dawn as the Eiffel Tower keeps watch over the stirring slumber. An awakening, familiar and mysterious at the same time, aware of the opportunity that abounds in every back alley and tree lined avenue. Our hero strikes up rapport with the adjacent passenger who offers him a ride into town. Longing for the grit of the RER C train but remembering the luggage in tow, he accepts. Door to door service can't be beat.

The old neighborhood is coming to life. Children skip to school, scooters bob and weave, elderly women cross the street with their early morning market purchases. He cracks a smile at the energy and humanity contained within these few city blocks. The Parisian women move with purpose and elegance, their seemingly thrown together look extremely calculated and intentional. Their grace and confidence renders any imperfection nearly invisible. 

From a secure facility deep underground, our hero retrieves his wheels. The legs seem a bit sluggish at first but it's to be expected. Immediately back into the rhythm, taking turns tight, drafting buses and navigating the urban jungle with jaw dropping efficiency and stylo. His set is still tight and the wit, perhaps, sharper than ever. The coffee is rich and robust with delicate flavors that elude the hot cardboard water of his homeland. American culture continues to take baby steps towards what makes the European lifestyle so attractive and has endured for years; cafe culture, vibrant public spaces, fresh local foods. 

Our hero continues to be fascinated by the dichotomy of life in Paris. Very much an outside city, the public space is the social place. Parks and restaurants, street corners and plazas. While everyone exists and lives within close proximity with one another it is very rarely acknowledged. Standing next to someone you don't know on the metro or being squished next to a strangers at dinner is normal; engaging them is not. Social yet completely individual.  Community oriented yet selfish. It's a fascinating duality that could only develop from hundreds of years of fucking and fighting in the streets. As a culture, they've seen it all and nothing surprises them. Our hero could don a court-jester hat, Armani tux and jingle bell curly toe boots and no one would bat an eye. Despite the seeming indifference, he plans on turning some heads.

 

I am the Highway

Few things stir our hero's soul like the open road. For out there are thousands of new beginnings and encounters waiting to happen. Adventures unseen and unexpected lay just around the bend. The launch of a road trip is a rebirth, a reawakening of the spirit, a chance to take control of one's destiny. The frontier myth is at the very foundation of American popular culture. Go west, seek your fortune and while you're at it, feel moved by the splendor and beauty of the homeland.

We join our hero back in the saddle ridin' dirty on 85 southbound, the wide vanilla skies drifting to pink and purple in the early evening. A sense of nostalgia creeps in; he knows these roads well, especially in the Volks. After years of pedal pushing on the Atlantic interstates together, it's time for one last ride. 

Our country's travel infrastructure is made up of endless miles of concrete, regional gift shops, rest areas and fast food joints. The slab network can be ridden to the ends of the earth as we know it. Freedom exists out there, on the slab, just under your tires. Pulling in for a pit-stop our hero spies a familiar scene: a doughy belly spilling over elast-i-waist jeans, pumping petroleum into a fortified tank and slurping the last bit of nacho cheese off a fat finger. In the background, big rigs hiss and sputter like latent, dozing dragons. And he loves it. 2 dogs for 2 dollars? All over it. Extra relish please. 

Re-juiced and feeling the caffeine kick of a cherry coke, our hero rejoins the pack, no momentum lost. Darkness now, but the urban glow of the Peach capital peeks over the horizon. He can't help what but wonder what the original ATLiens, Boi and Dre, are up to on a Sunday night. Flipping the road mix over to the FM dial, our hero tunes into J.D and Luda's hometown anthem bumpin' on 95.5 The Beat. Fitting.

Our hero exits the freeway and drifts through a quiet, green neighborhood to the home of his old college running buddy, Mo'Ladies Binz. He plops down on the couch to ideal results: U.S.A over Canada on the ice, Blue Devils over Hokies in Cameron. A couple Bud heavies and musings about the freak show that was higher education are followed by hazy speculations about their spectacular futures. The mandatory and traditional games of one on one pong follow but it's late and there are things to do tomorrow.

The mission is the 18th floor of a glittering skyscraper in Buckhead, a flacid flag the only indication of what's housed inside. Our hero takes the speedy elevator straight to the top, slips his documents through the glass window and hopes for the best. Suspicious looks. Interrogation. Not even our hero's charm and verbal spar can vault the unforeseen technicality. Invisible borders, made up by people, regulated with rigidity and incredible attention to detail stand tough. They tell him to go west but it's OK: he's got folk in Big Country.

Feeling slightly deflated, as if the wind suddenly died on the high seas, the drive back north is filled with mixed emotion. For nearly six years, our hero and the Volks have been a dynamic duo, rolling America's roadways. He thinks of the great ones and their steeds: The Lone Ranger and Silver, Link and Epona, Gandalf and Shadowfax. The trust, the bond formed through countless trial and tribulation. The shared experience. He turns up the pulsating, eight speaker sound- really makes it thump. He runs his hands over the smooth leather interior and gazes up through the sunroof at the star speckled night sky. Thank you. One more tank. One last cruise through the heart of Americana. 

If he has to go to finalize things in Texas then dagnabbit, he's taking a plane.

The Soundtrack

Music expresses what words cannot say. The sound of a feeling. Language of the soul. It unites across all boundaries, lifting spirits high and drawing individuals together. It allows us to experience the same emotion and live, if only for a moment, in the same heart. A few gentle piano notes can drape one in all the loneliness of the world. A tight beat moves the body uncontrollably, as if compelled by some ethereal unstoppable force.

Our hero has always been fascinated by power of structured sound; how it can build and sway, progress and break down. It's given him energy and while at the same time reduced him to a dripping mess of tears and snot. His first memories of music involve his mother's old Beatles LPs. The creative imagery of the album sleeves, the textured ridges on the vinyl, the whir of the turntable, the anticipatory crackle and pop as the diamond tip of the needle touched down upon the record. He remembers feeling confused by the emotions stirred up, curious and mesmerized amidst the floating melodies. Listening was not enough. By flipping over specially purchased trash cans and nailing pie tins to the top of toilet plungers, he was able to keep rhythm with the legends- greats like Buddy Rich, Mickey Hart and Animal the Muppet.

Music defies the laws of time and space, carrying us back to certain people and situations; associations strong enough to provoke emotional responses at the mere sound of a song. Adrenaline pumps, hormones rage, booties shake, toes tap and hands clap.  It focuses the mind, evokes creativity, sets the mood for making babies. Music reaches out to us in times of desperation, offering guidance and comfort. The voice of God comes though music and caresses the soul.

Beyond its intangible metaphysical properties, music can be explained through science. Sound is vibration that can be measured. Time signatures result in certain patterns of movement and rhythmic arrangements are what draw in and keep the listener. The tightness and width of sting dictate notes and key while the contour of lips shape sounds. The poetic construction of spoken word lends a human element to music, the voice serving as a unique instrument unto itself. Lyricism can tell a story, create an image or describe a feeling. Verses build, taking audiences to new exciting places they've never been before.

As you listen you see new possibilities in life. New angles and approaches. Music gives you style, a groove to bounce to. Lock yourself in an attic and compose the most soaring sonata the world has ever heard. Get some sticks and kick the most viscous, in-the-pocket beat that the crowd can't ignore. Pick up a guitar and shred the most gnarly, face melting solo ever played. Grab the mic and flip the illest rhyme-stricken verse that Dr. Suess never wrote. Sing loud and come together under the sound. So go on, push play. What spins as the soundtrack to your life?

  

The Way

In the rising action of Pulp Fiction (Tarantino, 1994) Jules tells Vincent that he quitting his job as a hitman and plans to "walk the earth" like Caine from Kung Fu. Later in the scene when Jules is collecting his wallet he tells Pumpkin it's the on that says Bad Mother Fucker. No one in their right mind would want to cross a wandering, jeri-curled Jules Winnfield on the open road but your hero guarantees, he is not the baddest wandering mofo that ever did live.

No, for that title one must place themselves in Feudal Japan during the seventeenth century. Known as the Edo period, this is when the cultural center and governmental seat of Japan was shifting from the historic capital of Kyoto to modern-day Tokyo. During this time the country operated under a feudal system; regional warlords called daimyo battled one another for control of populations and resources.  

In 1600 a great battle was fought at Sekigahara (also known as the Realm Divide) with the victor, Tokugawa Ieyasu becoming Shogun. He redistributed the land, awarding those instrumental in assisting his defeat of the Western Armies. The Tokugawa Shogunate would unify  the country in peace for more than 200 years and is considered the final shogunate of the feudal regime. The defeat of so many warlords left many warriors with no master. These masterless samurai, known as ronin, would often become mercenaries for hire, their blades at the service of the highest bidder. Equally often, they turned into thieves and bandits roaming the countryside. 

Enter Miyamoto Musashi. After defeating his first opponent (a much older man) at the age of 13, he set off on his own, following the way of the sword. He challenged the masters of every school of swordsmanship, never losing a battle. His most renowned victories include both brothers, Seijuro and Denshichiro, from the Yoshioka school and the lance wielding monks of the Hozoin in Nara. Musashi was the first to develop and utilize a two sword technique, said to be inspired by the two handed motions of temple drummers.

His most famous dual was with his long time nemesis Sasaki Kojiro.  The dual was set on a remote island at dawn. Musashi arrived by boat, carving a wooden sword or bokken on the way that he would use in the contest. Timing his arrival with the tide so that the sun behind him would blind his opponent, he struck down his enemy, retreating in the boat before Kojiro's supporters could seek revenge.

He would end up living out his final years in a cave called Reigando in the Kyushu mountains. There he wrote his manifesto and the definitive guide to strategy, Go-Rin-No-Sho (The Book of Five Rings) completing it just days before his death. The book is still studied today and taught in the top business schools around the globe. For like a swordsman, good business comes from hard work, dedication and focus. The strategy contained therein rendered it required reading among top executives.

Our Hero at Reigando

What sets Musashi apart is the way he lived and studied. Musashi was a painter, sculptor and writer. His paintings, considered some of the best to come out of Japan's history, are characterized by minimal brush strokes- the same way a swordsman would think. For Musashi, strategy was all about integration, using the right tool for the job and practical ways of thinking about everyday life. A true strategist has made master of many art forms. When you attain the Way of strategy there will not be not one thing you cannot understand. You will see the Way in everything.

 

The Nets

In his masterpiece novel, Ender's Game (1985), Orson Scott Card details a universe where global influence is perpetuated by issues discussed in online, virtual forums called "the nets". Ender's genius siblings, Valentine aged 10 and Peter age 12, post under the names Demosthenes and Locke, respectively, and through their writings the are able to gain huge followings, controlling world opinions and international events. Card's eerily prophetic vision of the World Wide Web continues to manifest today, as the speed and availability of the internet increases. Every citizen is equal on the nets; all you have is your ideas and command of the written word.

Today, there are millions of virtual communities with their own languages, rules and codes of conduct. The most bizzare and compelling individuals become heros, trendsetters and legends (when and if they fade away). Some leave and come back stronger than ever. Ownership of these online worlds changes hands regularly; factors such as momentum, shock value and the ability to deconstruct challengers all play a part in the development of ones online aura. It seems that rarely does anyone stay on top for long; the seat is too hot and the barrage to fierce. The highest level boarders are titans battling into eternity, words and imagery their armament.

Users spend years building reputations, gaining allies and "exposing" enemies. The growing library of multimedia on the web has also given users a new weapon in their arsenal- HTML- which enables hacking and use (and possibly abuse) of pictures and video. With the most serious online posters, as our hero has seen, the dismantling of a forum foe spills over into the physical realm, having real world consequences. Broken engagements, jail-time, lawsuits, violent confrontations and pregnancies are just some examples of the fallout from these virtual wars. Grown men have crumbled like the walls of Babylon.

For this reason many message boarders go to great lengths to keep their true identities secret, using aliases and gimmicks to mislead, confuse or spread further influence. While many of these online communities began and still exist underground, the model has become more conventional. Mainstream news sites that allow the anyone to comment on stories have given the public as much power as the journalist. The validity of factual information can be called into question and arguments can be disputed by anyone. If you have ever posted a You Tube comment, registered for E-Harmony or answered an ad on Craigslist, you are participating. Christian Bale won the role of Batman because of his popularity with online super hero geeks.

Its not just talent and style that take posters to the upper echelon but frequency and level of contribution. Generally thousands of posts and a strong resume of forum victories are essential to being accepted by the elite membership. As our hero has seen, users go to unbelievable lengths to prove themselves. Serious, civil debate has spiraled out of control into terrible freak-shows where heinous monsters rear their heads as madness descends. Silly jesters giggle and dance in the background while the King, not sure wether to scream for order or laugh maniacally, looses his grip.

But in the end, it's all about the LOLs. Board Hard.

"On the nets I can name myself anything I want, and so can you." - Peter Wiggin

Bull City

Enough about love lets talk about some gritty shit, the streets that made our hero who he is today. Having moved through many circles and phases in his own life it's hard to pigeonhole our hero's scene; for like a ninja chameleon he slides into any situation, blending in or standing out as need be. At any given moment he could be found in the company of bounty hunters, hustlers, academics, rap moguls and rock gods, pushermen, improvisational masters, con-artists, sages, pirate cooks, reclusive painters and even the occasional corporate stooge. It's this diversity that Durham owes its status as an up and coming cultural center to.  

From his portal into the world at Durham Regional, down the oak lined avenues of Trinity Park to a one story white house on Monmouth, this area and surrounding neighborhoods would become central to an emerging voice and ideology still taking shape. In his travels, rarely has our hero seen the type of hometown pride people from the Durty feel. A common, inherent awareness of being in a special place at a special time.  Part of something big.

It has become all the more obvious in recent years. The downtown revitalization has given the area an upscale cosmopolitan edge without loosing the blue collar, southern worker town feel that the city built around. The reconciliation of the traditional and the modern with regards to the architecture is remarkable; old warehouses and high ceilinged curing houses turned into spacious loft apartments, open air offices and elegant dining spaces. Music venues, art galleries and independent theaters just scratch the surface of the cultural offerings available.  Not to mention the illest summertime ballpark anywhere. 

Perhaps the newest addition is the skate park smack in the middle of downtown, featuring a steady stream of boarders, bladers, bikers and whatever-the-fuck- those wiggly things that kids are riding these days are.  Stroll through adjacent Durham Central Park, past the bronze turtle sculptures made in the local foundry just feet away and cross the street to the Durham Farmer's Market (where the kids would board before construction of the skate park).  At the farmer's market you find locally grown organic everything and on Saturday Mornings, the Only Burger.

One of the biggest draws to the area IS the booming culinary scene.  In many of the top restaurants, the seasonal menus are directly inspired by what's being grown in the regional farms. This model of utilizing local produce and livestock keeps food fresh and works in favor of the local economy. But you can find top of the line independently owned and operated restaurants of any kind, many of which have been around for years and established loyal, cult-like followings. Whatever your globals tastes might crave, the dining scene has you covered.   

The presence of one of the country's top research university ensures an intellectual community coupled with the youthful vibe a college town should have. Shit's poppin' off foreal, and at a rate that must be seen to be believed. Our hero's time home has been a calming reminder that things are moving in the right direction. However at this juncture, it's his global alliances that need forging.  

    

The Spark

Ever since Chaucer's Parlement of Foules, Valentine's Day has served as a celebration of intimate relationships and "love". Quotations used only because on this day love has become synonymous with exclusive restaurant reservations, roses and mass produced greeting cards. 

It's no secret that February 14th is dreaded by many. The lovers revel in their intoxicating chemistry while the loners have never felt so alone. Wether the timing was wrong, the person was wrong or dealings with Cupid went awry, these individuals need Valentines day more than ever.  The polarization and feeling sorry for oneself will not stand! Find something you love and express how you feel openly and honestly.  

Our hero has never felt February to be a particularly romantic month.  In fact his most memorable Valentine's Days happened long ago. Schoolyard courtships, waiting to see who gave the most creative, hand crafted Valentine. Who would go to the greatest length or take the biggest risk to make their affections felt? For during these formative years actions were from the heart, spiced with integrity. Let that young, carefree side of you take control this Valentine's Day.  Beyond the price tags and chocolate boxes, find the spark that started the inferno and bathe in that magic.   

Inception

From the outer reaches of space and the depths of consciousness comes your hero like you've never seen him before. Forget the mythology, the lore, the rumors floating on warm summer breezes-  CozmikGangsta, from the tip of his quill, uncut and unfiltered.

One would be hard pressed to find a better work environment than Intergalactic Headquarters in Durham.  Ample desk space enclosed by four glass walls, windows opening to the rustling foliage and afternoon play of woodland creatures.  

But time is indifferent, continuing to flow forth, bringing seasons, chapters and change.  

Rewind to late November 2009, Berlin.  Surrounded by the heartbeat of a revolution, our hero says goodbye to friends and colleagues.  While magic was made in the beautiful space of an amazing place, it could not last forever. What can?

North Carolina opens her arms in a warm, familiar embrace. Younglings have grown older, but their love has not faded. It is stronger and now they move through life with greater confidence and skill. The Main Street bars buzz with holiday cheer, spirits and nostalgia serving a powerful concoction for letting the mind wander to what could have beens as well as new possibilities. Old acquaintances promise each other the world.  A New Year. Then stillness.

In a few weeks our hero will set his course for Paris, again. Each time he returns it's different. New challenges and a chance to dig deeper, for his relationship with the city of light is ever evolving. Bittersweet the reunion will be. Every street corner, every bench, every avenue is filled with memories, moments shared and sweat spilt. The friends and feelings now etched into his very being.  But these souls, like the city, are timeless. Their faces linger on in memory and their laughter echos though the stone alleyways, forever.