CYANESIAN
surf, Fait Diver
by Arik Seidenglanz
Ring! Ring! It's 6:54!
Stay inside, bolt the door
Cold water splashes, clears the haze
Another day in this fortress maze
Land grabbers and the legal thieves
We gotta fight, no reprieves
Weather man says clear, lawyer says fight
AM, FM, ready for the night
Keeps you locked, keeps you strong
But can you hold out all day long?
Gimme deeds, Gimme proof
Protect our home, preserve the roof
Paper trails and midnight calls
Living life behind these walls
You lot! What? Don't stop! Give it all you got!
You lot! What? Don't stop! Give it all you got!
Defending ground, holding fast
Taking my love, this fight will last
She's seen the threats, she knows the cost
Fight hard now, or all is lost
Never mind the ticking clock
We’re just names on the block
Hours crawl, minutes freeze
Waiting for the thieves to appease
"When can we show we’re right?"
In a moment, love...just hold tight!
Wave bub-bub-bub-bye
to the foe It’s our home,
they gotta go
But anyway, the noon bell chimes Stay alert, ignore the crimes!
Ice cream, fries!
What’s the hype for fun?
Cops taking bribes, news on the run
Attention! Here’s the latest scoop!
Court ruling or a landlord group
Mob threats at the fancy place
Locked in cars, all out of space
Like heroes on a TV set
You lot! What? Don't stop. Huh?
Back to the grind, sweat some more
Sun sets, we guard the door
Cages can't bind the fighting soul Hold the ground, pay the toll
You're frettin', you're sweatin'
But did you notice you ain't gettin'?
Don't you ever pause to see the start?
Shift the gear, play your part
Don't you ever stop to find your way?
Break the mold, seize the day
Marx and Engels at the gate
Marx is broke, Engels seals the fate
What’s next? Grand design!
King and Gandhi at the field
Murdered by the play concealed
True or false, same prize
Socrates, Nixon, through the lies
Plato or the.latest craze
Who’s remembered
through the days?
News Flash: Home’s Under Siege
Oooohh...bub-bye Magnificence!!
Long, innit? Ring! Ring! It's 6:54! Stay
inside, bolt the door Cold water splashes, clears the haze Another day in this fortress maze Land grabbers and the legal thieves We gotta fight, no reprieves Weather man says clear, lawyer says fight AM, FM, ready for the night Keeps you locked, keeps you strong But can you hold out all day long?Ring! Ring! It's 6:54! Stay inside, bolt the door Cold water splashes, clears the haze Another day in this fortress maze Land grabbers and the legal thieves We gotta fight, no reprieves Weather man says clear, lawyer says fight AM, FM, ready for the night Keeps you locked, keeps you strong But can you hold out all day long?
Gimme deeds, Gimme proof Protect our home, preserve the roof Paper trails and midnight calls Living life behind these walls You lot! What? Don't stop! Give it all you got! You lot! What? Don't stop! Yeah!
Defending ground, holding fast Taking my love, this fight will last She's seen the threats, she knows the cost Fight hard now, or all is lost Never mind the ticking clock We’re just names on the block Hours crawl, minutes freeze Waiting for the thieves to appease "When can we show we’re right?" In a moment, love...just hold tight!
Wave bub-bub-bub-bye to the foe It’s our home, they gotta go But anyway, the noon bell chimes Stay alert, ignore the crimes! Ice cream, fries! What’s the hype for fun? Cops taking bribes, news on the run Attention! Here’s the latest scoop! Court ruling or a landlord group Mob threats at the fancy place Locked in cars, all out of space Like heroes on a TV set You lot! What? Don't stop. Huh?
Back to the grind, sweat some more Sun sets, we guard the door Cages can't bind the fighting soul Hold the ground, pay the toll You're frettin', you're sweatin' But did you notice you ain't gettin'? Don't you ever pause to see the start? Shift the gear, play your part Don't you ever stop to find your way? Break the mold, seize the day
Marx and Engels at the gate Marx is broke, Engels seals the fate What’s next? Grand design! King and Gandhi at the field Murdered by the play concealed True or false, same prize Socrates, Nixon, through the lies Plato or the latest craze Who’s remembered through the days?
News Flash: Home’s Under Siege Oooohh...bub-bye Magnificence!! Long, innit? Ring! Ring! It's 6:54! Stay inside, bolt the door Cold water splashes, clears the haze Another day in this fortress maze Land grabbers and the legal thieves We gotta fight, no reprieves Weather man says clear, lawyer says fight AM, FM, ready for the night Keeps you locked, keeps you strong But can you hold out all day long?
In the heart of the city's relentless roar, Buses rumble, dust clouds soar. Gardener blowers, choreographed greens, Clearing spaces, where the city leans.
Amidst the clamor, where silence mourns, Concrete grip, where chaos adorns. Lost voices echo in shadows steep, City's pulse, its secrets keep.
Heroes emerge, within concrete's hold, Tales whispered, courageous and bold. Eyes pierce through histories told, In streets fought, their courage unfolds.
Under night's shroud, power sprayers hiss, Washing away traces, an ethereal kiss. Bleach and firelight, streets ignite, Fake lines drawn, to twist the sight.
A city's dance, beneath dark's veil, Paths erased, marks leave their tale. Unseen hands reshape the scene, Where shadows dance, and alleys convene.
Through the haze, a silent strife, In between lines of urban life. Their maneuvers unseen, tactics sly, Keeping watchful, wandering eye.
Yet amidst this play, spirits roam, Claiming corners, making home. In the city's rhythm, they endure, Whispers unseen, steadfast and pure.
As dawn breaks, another chapter unfolds, Streets whisper secrets, stories untold. Footsteps echo on worn-out paths, Each alleyway a stage for silent wrath.
Morning light reveals the city's scars, Where struggles unfold beneath the stars. The rhythm of life, relentless and swift, Echoes through streets adrift.
In the heart of the day's bustling flow, Markers of struggle, both high and low. Markers of endurance, etched in stone, In every crevice, their presence is known.
Yet beyond the surface, beyond the facade, Lies a deeper truth, often barred. The city breathes, it pulses, it thrives, Amidst the chaos where life survives.
For every line erased by the night's dark hand, New stories emerge, where freedom stands. Where spirits wander, resilient and true, Defying the city's relentless hue.
In the heart of the city's relentless roar, Where buses rumble and dust clouds soar, Heroes emerge, amidst concrete's grip, Tales whispered, from lip to lip.
In the heart of the city's relentless roar, Where buses rumble and dust clouds soar, Amidst the chaos and concrete's grip, Resolve flickers, a flame that won't quit.
Heroes may rise, tales whispered and bold, But beneath the surface, stories untold. In the shadows where silence mourns, A futile resolve, where hope is torn.
Night's veil brings power sprayers hiss, Washing away traces with a ghostly kiss. Bleach and firelight paint the streets, Lines drawn to deceive, where deceit meets.
The city dances beneath dark's embrace, Paths erased, leaving traces to trace. Unseen hands mold the urban scene, Where shadows lurk, and echoes keen.
Through the haze of silent strife, In the alleys of urban life. Moves unseen, tactics sly, Watching with a weary eye.
Yet amidst this play, spirits roam, Claiming corners as makeshift home. In the city's rhythm, they endure, Whispers unheard, steadfast and pure.
As dawn breaks, the cycle resets, Footsteps echo where the city frets. Morning light reveals scars anew, Resilience forged where courage grew.
But beneath the facade, beneath the pain, A resolve remains, unbroken, not in vain. For in the heart of this relentless city's call, Lies a spirit defiant, standing tall.
No healing here, no forgiveness sought, Just a thirst for justice, a battle fought. In the quest for revenge, the fire burns bright, In the fight against wrong, in the search for right.
He weaves through traffic, threading the needle with a motorcycle that coughs more smoke than it should. Behind him, a banana peel flutters in the wind—a comic strip moment against the gray wash of the city. The fruit had been a joke, plucked from the dreamy grip of a sleeping mind.Narcolepsy, she called it; the world slipping away as quickly as consciousness on the back of a bike.
They’d almost had it. An apartment at 1938 Grace Ave, their names signed in invisible ink on a lease never realized. Instead, charred eviction notices and unpaid wages from Dov, who strung promises like cheap beads around their necks. Charney’s laugh, a hyena’s cackle, echoed every 30th, the rent due and nowhere to be seen.
Traffic snarls, the motorcycle sputters. They're late, always late, the job interview slipping through their fingers like sand. She wakes with a start, the taste of artificial banana flavoring on her tongue, her body jerking as if to remind him of the ground beneath their wheels.
A man shouts. They've stopped, a red light at the intersection of desperation and fatigue. His voice cuts through the hum of idling engines, sharp as the broken glass in the alley where they once slept. “Thieves!” he accuses, pointing with a trembling finger wrapped in a gold watch too heavy for his thin wrist. A scene unfolds, not quite drama, not quite farce.
A window frame, their old apartment’s eyes, looks down upon him one night. Gravity tugs like a mischievous child, and he falls—not from grace, nor from favor, but simply from a height too great for wings made of wax and newspaper clippings. His landing, a punctuation mark on asphalt that writes no sentences.
In the haze of sativa as painkillers and plaster, memories of Charlie surf in his durban poison dreams. They’d talked once, voices low under the buzz of a bar sign. Charlie’s words, a lifeline thrown across the dark water of his thoughts. “Build something,” he’d said. “Even from wreckage.”
Now, ink stains his fingers, not from the newsprint of job listings, but from the letters he writes and never sends. This letter, a bottle cast into the sea of the city, might reach Charlie, might not. The words twist, turn, coil around the truth like smoke from his last cigarette.
The city watches, a thousand eyes in glass and steel towers. His story, one of many, unwinds along the sidewalks where he once chased the ghost of opportunity. He limps now, a slow rhythm that syncs with the heartbeat of the streets.
Somewhere, a door opens. Maybe it's 1938 Grace Ave, maybe it's somewhere else. He’ll enter, eventually. Until then, he rides, the back of the motorcycle a makeshift bed, the city a lullaby, or a scream, or perhaps both.
The city stretches, an endless canvas of grime and glitter, each street a vein pulsing with the city’s lifeblood. His mind drifts, a ship unmoored, catching currents of past and present, blurring the line between what was lived and what was dreamed.
A screech of brakes, a symphony of honks—every sound a note in the urban cacophony. She stirs again, a reminder of shared burdens, of dreams knotted together like the laces of worn-out shoes. The interview, a missed chance, just another in a string of what-ifs that hang in the air, thick as the exhaust from buses that pass them by.
The city’s skin is graffiti, stories in spray paint, declarations of love and war written on brick and mortar. His fingers ache to paint their tale, to leave a mark more permanent than the fleeting shadows they cast under streetlights. But ink and paint require money, and money is a ghost that haunts more than it helps.
Charlie’s voice surfaces again, a lifeline in the storm of his thoughts. “Capture the flag,” he’d said, a game from childhood repurposed into a mantra for survival. They had played, once, laughing as they dodged between cars and pedestrians, the city a playground for the desperate or the daring.
Now, survival is no game. The rent is due again, a monthly specter that looms larger with each passing day. The jobs that don’t call back, the interviews that end with polite rejections, are bricks in the wall that boxes them in. Yet, amidst this, a spark—she finds humor in a thrown banana, a game of Mario Kart played in her dreams. It’s a small rebellion against the weight of their reality.
At night, the city doesn’t sleep; it simmers. Their motorcycle is a steed in a concrete jungle, winding through alleyways lit by the flickering fluorescence of 24-hour laundromats and all-night diners. Here, the world is reduced to the roar of an engine and the tight grip of her arms around his waist.
An overpass serves as tonight’s shelter. The concrete, cold and hard beneath them, doesn’t soften for tales of misfortune. Above, the rumble of traffic is a lullaby of sorts, a reminder of the world’s movement, of life beyond their small sphere of struggle.
He writes in his head—letters to Charlie, to her, to the city itself. Each word is a carving, etched into the walls of his mind. “This is not the end,” he writes. “Just another beginning, another chance to ride, to fall, to rise again.”
Tomorrow, perhaps, the sun will paint the sky in hues of hope. Or maybe it will rain, the streets slick with reflections of neon and promise. Either way, they will ride—because in motion, there is the illusion of progress, of escaping the static that threatens to hold them back.
And in this journey, written not on paper but in the living, breathing strokes of life itself, there lies a story. Not of defeat, but of enduring. Not of a final destination, but of the countless starts and stops that map the human heart.
So they continue, as must all who dwell in the city of dreams and dread, where every street corner is a crossroad, and every crossroad beckons with the whisper of what might be, just a ride away.
Under the relentless neon glow, the city pulses, its rhythm a chaotic symphony that resonates within the caverns of his ribcage. As they pass beneath the towering silhouettes of skyscrapers, each window a square of light, he imagines the lives unfolding behind them—each a story, a thread woven into the vast tapestry of urban existence.
The wind carries whispers of lives intermingled with the exhaust of passing cabs and the distant wail of sirens—a backdrop to their own unfolding narrative. Each gust is a breath of possibility, carrying the faint aroma of street vendor food, a mix of grease and promise, that beckons the hungry and the hopeful alike.
She shifts behind him, her presence a constant reminder of shared destinies. Her dreams, once vivid and colorful as the graffiti adorning the subway walls, now tinted with the grey wash of fatigue. Yet, her laughter, rare but radiant, cuts through the monotonous drone of the city, a beacon in their shared dusk.
Stopping at a red light, he catches his reflection in a shop window—his eyes hollowed by nights of restless sleep, by dreams interrupted by the reality of their plight. Beside him, the reflection of a street artist, spray cans clattering in a tattered bag, nods silently, a mutual recognition of their parallel paths.
The light changes, and they surge forward, the bike's engine a growl of defiance against the silence of surrender. Ahead, the road forks, a literal and metaphorical divergence that prompts a decision—left towards the familiar, the safe, or right, into the unknown, the potentially transformative.
He chooses right, always right, because in the script of their lives, he writes each line as a challenge to the mundane, an ode to the potential of the 'what if.' The road unfurls like a ribbon, a path drawn in real-time, each turn a verse in their ongoing epic.
As night deepens, the city's edges blur into shadows, the corners where light fears to tread. Here, in these pockets of darkness, the city reveals its secrets. A couple argues in the halo of a streetlamp, their harsh whispers a sharp contrast to the softness of its light. A cat slinks past, its eyes glowing briefly in the bike’s headlight before disappearing into the anonymity of the night.
He thinks of Charlie, the eternal observer, whose words once painted reality in strokes of blunt honesty. Would he see them, two figures astride a steel horse, as heroes of their own quixotic quest, or merely survivors, scrounging scraps of joy from the stinginess of fate?
The road rises slightly, and for a moment, they are silhouetted against the cityscape, not part of the scene but apart from it—observers and participants in a spectacle that never pauses, never pities, yet always persists.
She leans closer, her voice barely audible over the hum of the city. "Do you ever wonder if we're just characters in someone else’s story?" she asks, a question that lingers in the air like the smoke from the chimneys of the factories they pass.
"Yes," he replies, after a moment, the road unwinding before them like the scroll of a yet unwritten manuscript. "But if we are, let’s not be ordinary characters. Let’s be unforgettable."
And with that, they ride on, carving their narrative into the streets of a city that watches, indifferent, yet somehow invested in the persistence of those daring enough to dictate their own destinies within its vast, unending chapters.
In the dim glow of an old lamp that flickers like the hesitant heartbeat of a city that never quite sleeps, he sits at a scarred wooden table, the surface etched with the memories of a thousand spilled coffees and hastily scrawled notes. His fingers hover over the keyboard, each key a stepping stone across the tumultuous river of his thoughts. Tonight, he writes to Charlie—not just a letter, but a narrative, a confession, a testament to the complexities of friendship forged in the fires of shared adversity.
The screen's glow casts his face in stark relief, shadows dancing across his features as he types, each word a deliberate choice, each sentence a carefully laid brick in the edifice of their shared history. The letter begins not with a simple greeting but with an invocation of the spirit of their camaraderie, a summoning of the shared moments that have composed the melody of their relationship.
"Charlie," the letter starts, and even this simple address is heavy with the weight of unspoken words, "you've known me in ways the world hasn't. You've seen the map of scars on my soul, the hidden alleys of my fears, and the bright squares of my hopes. Yet, here I find myself, penning down a narrative that might seem like a novel to an outsider but is our lived reality."
As he writes, he weaves the story of their last ride through the city—the city that is as much a character in their lives as any human. The narrative slips seamlessly from past to present, a tapestry of memory and moment, reflecting on a misunderstanding that had once cast a shadow over their friendship. "In the echo of our last conversation, I felt a rift, an unspoken accusation hanging between the syllables of our sentences. It seemed as if you believed I had stepped back when, in reality, I was gathering the strength to leap forward."
He pauses, his fingers still, as he considers his next words carefully. "It's like that night last spring, remember? We rode through the Lower East Side, the air sharp with the tang of rain on asphalt. You spoke of the city's indifference, its brutal beauty, and I disagreed, not because I couldn't see it, but because I saw too much. I saw it through your eyes—harsh yet honest, challenging yet charming."
The letter becomes an ode, not just to Charlie but to their enduring respect for each other, even in the face of miscommunication. "This letter, this story, is my way of setting the record straight—not just with you, but with myself. It's an acknowledgment of the chaos and the calmness you bring to my life, a recognition of your influence that shapes my existence in countless unseen ways."
He writes of their disagreements as narrative conflicts that added depth to their story, their reconciliations as plot resolutions that propelled them forward. "Every chapter we've shared has built us, shaped us, and I regret not the pages filled with darkness nor those alight with laughter. Each one is precious, each one is necessary."
As he concludes the letter, he addresses the misunderstanding directly. "Perhaps this is just another scene in our ongoing saga, a twist in our plot, but let it not be a cliffhanger. Let it be a bridge, a passage that leads us back to understanding, back to the respect that has always been the bedrock of our bond."
He signs off not with a goodbye but with an invitation, a call to continue their narrative, to add more chapters to the already thick volume of their shared experiences. "Let’s meet, let’s talk, let’s ride once again through this city that has seen us at our worst and our best. Let’s write the next page together, as co-authors of a story that only we can truly understand."
The letter sent, he leans back, the tension of uncertainty a tight coil within him. Yet there is also hope, a belief in the power of words to heal, to bridge gaps, to transform misunderstanding into mutual respect. Outside, the city whispers, a constant hum of life that promises new beginnings, always just a sunrise away.
Charlie can’t surf, but he navigates the tumultuous waves of the city with the deftness of a seasoned street surfer, weaving through the human tides and neon currents. The asphalt underfoot buzzes with life, each crack and crevice telling a story of neglect and survival, of fights fought and lost, of shadows that dance away when you try to catch them in your gaze.
He moves, a ghost among spectres in this night-crawling crowd. His steps are a rhythm set to the distant wail of sirens and the syncopated beat of traffic lights. The city’s breath is heavy, exhaled in the fog that wraps the skyscrapers in a lover’s embrace, cold and suffocating, yet oddly comforting.
Arik and Elishba trail behind, their shadows stretching long and twisted in the streetlamp’s glow. They speak in the language of sighs and half-gestures, a conversation fragmented by the city’s cacophony. Her hand brushes his, a touch feather-light yet laden with a thousand unspoken thoughts. They are a contradiction, together yet apart, bound by shared dreams yet divided by the silent secrets they keep.
In the distance, a neon sign flickers erratically, a dying star in the urban night sky. It spells out “Paradise” in lurid blue and pink, each blink a beacon for the lost, the lonely, the seeking. Charlie pauses, his gaze caught in the stuttering promise of nirvana just out of reach. He scoffs, a sharp, barking sound that slices through the ambient murmur. Paradise? Not in this concrete purgatory.
The narrative shifts, a sudden cut to a memory, unbidden yet undeniable. A room dimly lit by the afterglow of a setting sun, the air thick with the scent of oil paint and turpentine. Canvases clutter the space, a chaos of color and form. Arik stands before a half-finished piece, his expression a tangle of frustration and fatigue. Elishba watches from the doorway, her presence tentative. She wants to reach out, to smooth the crease between his brows, but hesitates. Instead, she speaks of trivialities, of mundane nothings that fill the void but bridge no distance.
The scene dissolves, back to the streets, to the here and now. Arik’s phone buzzes, a sharp reminder of the world beyond this moment. He glances at the screen, then at Elishba. A decision flickers in his eyes, resolves into action. He ignores the call, turns his attention back to her, to them, to this imperfect now.
Arik Seidenglanz
2024
Aimlessly wandering, the night deepening around them, the city’s soundscape a symphony of the mundane and the magical. Somewhere, a bottle breaks, the sound sharp and startling. A cat screeches in the alleyway, a brief and furious declaration of existence. Life, in all its messy, glorious complexity, surges forward.
Charlie watches them from afar, his thoughts a jumble of empathy and envy. He turns away, sets off into the night, his back a silent rebuke to the ties that bind. The surf is out of reach, but the road is endless, and his journey is far from over. The city awaits, its stories yet to be told, its secrets yet to be uncovered. And in the labyrinth of echoes and asphalt, every step is a story, every whisper a verse in the urban anthology.
Arik and Elishba fade into the tapestry of the night, two figures receding into the narrative fog, leaving behind a trail of might-have-beens and what-ifs. The camera lingers, then cuts away, the final frame a freeze on the flickering “Paradise,” a promise as elusive as the morning mist.
Charlie can’t surf, but he rides the currents all the same, a voyager adrift in the sea of light and shadow.
As Charlie disappears into the weave of the city’s deeper shadows, the narrative lens shifts, focusing back on Arik and Elishba as they pause beside the glowing embers of a street vendor’s cart. The scent of roasting chestnuts fills the air, a sweet, smoky perfume that battles the ever-present exhaust fumes. Elishba pulls her coat tighter around her, a barrier against the creeping chill of the late evening air. Arik watches the vendor, an old man with hands gnarled like the roots of an ancient tree, deftly stirring the chestnuts with a worn, wooden spoon.
The old man glances up, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. “Warm your souls with something sweet,” he rasps, his voice the gravel of life’s long road. Elishba smiles, a small, hesitant curve of her lips, and nods. Arik pays for a paper cone filled with warm nuts, their shells cracking under the heat, a small explosion of life in the cold.
They continue walking, the chestnuts warming their hands, each bite a burst of earthy flavor that grounds them momentarily in the present. The city’s pulse thrums underfoot, a steady heartbeat that pushes them onward.
Elishba breaks the silence, her voice soft but clear. “Do you ever wonder if we’re just characters in someone else’s story?” she asks, staring at the passing blur of neon signs and shadowed faces.
Arik considers this, turning the chestnut over in his hand. “Sometimes,” he admits, “it feels like we’re walking through a dream, half-awake, half-asleep, where everything is both vivid and vague.”
“And yet, here we are,” Elishba says, gesturing to the bustling city around them, “trying to make sense of the plot, hoping we’re heading towards some kind of resolution, or at least a moment of clarity.”
The streets lead them through districts that throb with the vibrant life of night markets. Stalls burst with goods: colorful fabrics, handmade jewelry, and exotic spices that mingle in the air like a painter’s palette. Music spills from an open doorway, a live band playing a fusion of jazz and something unplaceable, the notes twisting and turning like the alleys of the city.
They stop to listen, the melody seeping into their skin, and it’s here, amid the cacophony of sounds and the kaleidoscope of sights, that Arik feels a moment of profound connection—to the music, to the city, to Elishba. He reaches out, touches her arm gently, grounding them both in the now.
The music ends with a crescendo that lingers in the charged air. Applause erupts around them, and they clap too, caught up in the communal spirit of appreciation. As the crowd begins to disperse, Elishba leans closer to Arik, her voice barely a whisper over the lingering hum of conversation.
“Whatever story we’re in,” she murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” Her words, simple yet sincere, strike a chord in Arik, resonating with something deep and unspoken within him.
They walk back into the night, their path illuminated by the sporadic glow of street lamps and the occasional flash of a passing car’s headlights. The city, with all its imperfections and beauty, feels like a map of endless possibilities, each street a narrative branch, each choice a plot twist.
And as they wander, the story unfolds, a shared journey in a world where the lines between reality and fiction blur, where every moment is a scene, every glance an exchange of dialogues too profound for words. In this cityscape of endless stories, Arik and Elishba find themselves not just participants but creators, their footsteps writing chapters in the asphalt, their breaths a testament to the living narrative of the night.
Charlie can’t surf, but he’s not the only one riding the waves of this sprawling urban sea.
As the narrative continues, Arik and Elishba navigate the city's arteries astride an Aprilia RS50, a 2001 model, which, despite its compact frame, boasts the lineage of a GP125 race bike. This singular machine, the only one of its kind in the entire United States, slices through the urban landscape with a whir of efficiency and a hint of defiance. The bike’s rarity and the thrum of its engine attract admiring glances from enthusiasts and passersby alike, its sleek design a sharp contrast to the bulky city buses and the stuttering taxis.
Riding the Aprilia, they embody the freedom of movement, each turn and acceleration a bold punctuation in the city’s dense narrative. The bike, more than just a vehicle, becomes a symbol of their journey—a physical manifestation of their desire to carve out unique paths in a world that often favors the conventional.
Their passage takes them past graffiti-splashed alleyways where the art is as vibrant and ephemeral as the city's own dreams. Here, the walls speak in colors, each mural a voice in the urban chorus, telling tales of love, resistance, and existence. As they pause to admire a particularly striking piece—a giant, swirling vortex of blues and greens that seems almost alive—Elishba's eyes reflect the wild beauty of the art. "It's like the city is alive, breathing through these paintings," she remarks, her voice a mix of wonder and reverence.
Arik nods, his gaze following the lines of the mural, tracing the edges where vibrant life meets cold concrete. "Art and movement, they're the pulse of this city," he agrees, the Aprilia idling softly between them, its gentle rumble a steady reminder of their temporary pause in motion.
They continue onward, the Aprilia weaving between lanes, its agility a perfect match for the city’s unpredictable rhythm. The bike’s small frame belies its power, and with each mile, they shed the cumbersome weight of daily trivialities, replaced by a sense of clarity and purpose.
As dusk falls, they pull over atop a hill overlooking the city, the skyline a jagged rhythm against the softening sky. Below, the city lights begin to flicker to life, each one a note in the evening's melody. Elishba turns off the bike's engine, and for a moment, there's silence, save for the distant hum of the city and the soft whisper of the wind.
"This," Arik says, gesturing towards the sprawling view, "is why I ride. For moments like this, when the world pauses just enough for us to catch up." His words hang between them, a testament to the small yet significant freedoms they find on the back of the Aprilia.
Elishba smiles, her hand finding Arik’s as they stand together, the city sprawling before them—a tapestry of light, sound, and life, waiting to be explored. The Aprilia, silent now beside them, stands as a faithful companion to their explorations, a bridge to the next chapter of their adventure in the ever-unfolding story of the night.
And in this story, the truth is not just in the facts of their journey, but in the poetry of their experiences, each mile traveled a line in their shared sonnet.
In the hum of the city's twilight, Arik and Elishba are buoyed not just by the thrill of the ride but also by a relentless, pulsing energy. Elishba's narcolepsy dictates a regimen where speed is not just a matter of velocity but also of necessity, a chemical counterbalance to her body's sudden and unpredictable demands for sleep.
Their senses heightened, every detail of the city is amplified—the stark contrast of shadow and neon, the cacophony of distant traffic, the subtle shift of the breeze. The stimulant sharpens their perceptions, carving the world into a series of vivid snapshots that flit through their consciousness with the clarity of broken glass.
As they stand on the hill, overlooking the vast network of life and light below, there is a palpable tension between the serene view and the internal tempest it battles. Elishba's hand tightens around Arik's, her grip firm, grounding. The speed coursing through their veins makes the quiet of the scene almost jarring, the stillness of the paused Aprilia an odd companion to their quickened heartbeats.
"It keeps me here, in the now," Elishba confesses, her voice tinged with a mix of gratitude and resignation. "It's like riding a wave that you know will crash but also lifts you high enough to see the horizon."
Arik nods, understanding her metaphor in the context of their shared experiences, both on the road and in the challenges her condition imposes. "And we ride it together," he adds, his voice steady, a lighthouse in the churn of her stormy seas.
Together, they turn back to the view, their eyes scanning the horizon where the city's pulse meets the sky's calm. In this moment, suspended between the earth and the ether, they find a fleeting peace, a snapshot where their challenges are just another part of the landscape—acknowledged, accepted, and owned.
The Aprilia once again a blur of motion, its engine a purr against the roar of their lives. The night deepens, and the city stretches out before them, not just a backdrop but a canvas, waiting for them to trace their next path across its vast, waiting surface.
In the midst of their frenetic lives, fueled by quick trips to taco stands and long nights in their makeshift studio, Arik and Elishba carve out an existence in an unlikely home. Perched atop a parking lot at the Naud Junction, near the historical echoes of downtown's cabooses and state parks, their quasi-hut offers more than just shelter—it's a sanctuary where creativity and necessity meld into one. The building, with its rolling door and built-in ramp, seems almost alive, breathing in the city's rhythm and exhaling a mix of music and machinery.
Inside, the space is raw, utilitarian yet undeniably vibrant. It's here that Elishba and Arik share their quarters with the only other musician in the building, Longevity—a moniker as symbolic as it is literal. He's the younger brother of will.i.am, but a stark contrast to his sibling's brighter, more mainstream appeal. Longevity is the darker, more introspective version, his music a deep dive into the shadowy depths of sound and soul.
The trio’s coexistence is a tapestry of sound and silence, each artist bringing their unique frequencies to the mix. Longevity’s beats often throb through the walls, a dark, pulsating heart at the core of their creative collective. Elishba’s technical wizardry weaves through Arik’s conceptual artistry, their collaborations a fusion of digital and tangible, ephemeral and enduring.
As the city lights flicker in the distance, their music rises above the hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of trains from the nearby yards. It’s a sound that’s as much about survival as it is about expression, crafted not just for an audience but as a beacon for themselves—a signal that in the chaos of city life and the blur of their days, they have a place where they belong, where they create, and most importantly, where they understand and are understood.
In the pulsing heart of the city, Arik and Elishba’s lives whirl with the constant motion of acquiring the necessities that fuel both their creative fires and Elishba's medical needs. Between scoops of ice cream to stave off the heat and relentless scavenging for computer parts, their days blur into a relentless quest for enhancement and sustenance.
Their frequent stops at thrift stores are expeditions for treasure—hunting for rare finds that could be repurposed into their ongoing project: constructing a supercomputer. This isn't just any machine; it's a patchwork beast born from the remnants of Goodwill electronics and the now-shuttered Fry’s, each component a salvaged piece of Silicon Valley’s excess. Amid racks of discarded nostalgia, they gather what they need, each piece sparking ideas for both Arik's art and the computational needs of their ambitious bot.
Back in their studio, the supercomputer takes shape on a sturdy frame of reclaimed wood—each plank and circuit a testament to their resourcefulness and vision. This machine is more than the sum of its parts; it's a symbol of their life together, a blend of art and technology that defines the very space they inhabit. Here, amid the hum of cooling fans and the scent of old wood, they craft not just music or art, but a future pieced together from the past's leftovers.
In the shadowy corners of their urban enclave, Arik and Elishba are surrounded by a curious assembly of neighbors, each with a past as patched and repurposed as the electronics that litter their studio. The area, a patchwork of windowless music studios and makeshift homes, harbors those whose lives have veered off the main road—ex-gangsters seeking anonymity, artists cloaked in obscurity.
These studios, dimly lit and pulsing with the deep beats of unrecorded tracks, offer sanctuary not just for the misunderstood artists but for those fading from a harsher spotlight. The heavy air is thick with the bass of hip-hop and the scent of resilience, painting a gritty picture of survival and adaptation.
Here, in this junction of lost dreams and newfound hopes, Arik and Elishba find their place among the echoes of past misdeeds and the rhythmic promise of redemption. Their interactions are sparse, nods of acknowledgment more common than conversations, as each respects the sanctuary of shadows they've come to share.
RodgerRabbit a gangster from a carzier life in echo parks CyZ Los locos , actually the CYZ Loxo crazie named Rodger Rabbit but when i tell you i am aobut to your gona wana make that cleaver , beucase cartoon gave me job arik i didn tknow hat it would be exceot he said it was math and i was a professor in hhis mind so i wwas goging ffor the 80 bucks a day well it was somewhere in the valley that they were renting an apartment and I was growing weed in this apartment for them essentially very high and weed but very strict rules about not going outside of her to basically make anyone aware of it and not opening a window and I couldn't smoke cigarettes I can touch anything if I did have a cigarette in my hands cause a credits for the paranoia between the weed on the tobacco that was unexplainable I had to do everything in the dark on the light schedule so because I can't see in the dark because I actually have a low light vision problem that keeps me from driving even but it was the drive to the house in the valley where curtain pulled over on the side of the road and told me about how his wife died would potentially let hurt him to jail it seemed as though they got to an argument not exact spot him he might've pushed her in the traffic he still had a daughter and he was remorseful now and he was raising her and he was out of jail obviously and he was actually the man a plan a funerals for the gange and. He was an actually rather smart computer person and became our friend and was a dad and evolving but that moment right there was a difficult one and then he didn't want to pay me for the first week approximately in a good Spanish time and I want to go home and see my wife because we were mean I didn't get to see her enough that point she was always working so I flipped out and kick the shit out of the car door and I probably should have my ass kicked because it was a big old fucking misunderstanding between us but our relationships ad our introduction to each others universeanyway because he broke into our room on the first night we were there demanding whatever the fuck was missing from the hallway that we didn't have anything to do with him he had the key to our room which was fucking surprising and it was a fucking nightmare that was the first night Depict Studios.
In the underbelly of Echo Park's gang landscape, Rodger Rabbit, known in the darker circles as El Canho The Rabbit from the CYZLoxo—Crazie Locos—offered Arik a job that seemed innocuous at first. "It's just math," Roger Rabbit had said, and to him, Arik was a professor. The job paid eighty bucks a day, a simple task at first glance. It involved tending to a high-quality cannabis grow in an apartment somewhere in the valley, under stringent conditions: no going outside, no opening windows, no smoking cigarettes near the plants. The paranoia about contamination was intense, matched only by the strict light schedule that forced Arik to work in near darkness—a challenge due to his low-light vision impairment.
One night, driving through the valley, Roger Rabbit pulled over to share a haunting personal story. He spoke of a tragic argument with his wife that might have led to her death, an accident or push that landed her in traffic. Now, out of jail, he was a changed man, raising their daughter alone and organizing funerals for gang members—a surprisingly adept computer guy who had inadvertently become their friend.
But the relationship started on rocky terms. Rodger Rabbit withheld Arik's pay in what he called "a good Spanish time," leading to a heated confrontation when Arik, desperate to see his overworked wife, kicked the shit out of Rodger's car door. That aggression could have easily backfired, but it was just the beginning of their tumultuous connection.
Their initial interaction had been even more fraught. On their first night at the apartment, RodgerRabbit broke into their room, furiously demanding something missing from the hallway—something Arik and his wife knew nothing about. The fact that Rodger had the key was both shocking and terrifying, marking a nightmarish start to their stay at Depict Studios.
In the shadowy corners of Echo Park, RodgerRabbit—a moniker as enigmatic as the man himself—offered Arik a seemingly simple job. Described merely as "math," it turned out to be a high-stakes operation, tending to a sophisticated cannabis grow in a secluded valley apartment. The job's rules were as strict as they were bizarre: remain indoors, keep the windows sealed, and avoid any smoke near the plants. Such paranoia about contamination was intense, dictated by a rigorous schedule that forced Arik to work in near darkness, a particular challenge given his low-light vision issues.
One evening, while navigating the valley's secluded roads, RodgerRabbit shared a haunting confession about a tragic altercation that may have led to a dire accident involving his wife. Now a reformed man, he was raising their daughter alone, channeling his acumen into organizing community events—a far cry from his past life entangled with a notorious gang known as the Echo Shadows.
Their relationship, however, started on rocky ground. RodgerRabbit delayed Arik's payment, causing tensions to flare when Arik, desperate to return to his overworked wife, damaged RodgerRabbit's car in frustration. This could have escalated disastrously but marked just the beginning of their complex association.
The first night was the most turbulent. RodgerRabbit burst into their room, furiously demanding something he believed missing from the hallway—an item Arik and his wife knew nothing about. Shockingly, RodgerRabbit had the key to their room, setting the stage for a nightmarish introduction to their new environment at Depict Studios.
As they drove along the secluded stretches of the freeway, RodgerRabbit suddenly pulled over, his demeanor crumbling under a weighty confession. Between sobs that shook his broad shoulders, he revealed a haunting secret from his past—a tragic moment when, in the heat of an argument, he had pushed his wife, leading to her fatal accident in the traffic. This burden of guilt shaped his present, a man transformed by remorse, now solely devoted to raising their daughter and quietly atoning for his past.
or
As they drove along the freeway, RodgerRabbit suddenly pulled over, visibly shaken. He began to share a story from his past, his words broken by sobs. However, the details blurred under the weight of his emotions—it wasn’t clear if he confessed to causing an accident or was simply overwhelmed by a tragic event involving his wife. This uncertainty added a layer of complexity to his character, a man marked by past sorrows, now devoted to his daughter and navigating the murky waters of redemption and guilt.
Charlie Can ‘t Surf.Chapter: The Hawk's Nest
This place is the perfect perch if you're into bird-watching. Not just any birds, but hummingbirds, parrots, and especially hawks. Red-tailed hawks, goshawks, hawks giving birth to more hawks. Hawks that screech like seagulls and never shut up. I love hawks. Their cries pierce the air like a kid wailing for his mom. They sound loudest when they're teaching their young to fly, hunt, and survive – a six-month crash course in living, right outside your window. It's a sound you must appreciate. It's majestic. The beauty of nature in your backyard, after all, is worth the racket, the owl. babies now there they are noisy but the hawks are like excclamation point in the sky of elysian park no where elce in LA could you hear Jeb Brighouse in the Afterlife reminding you why your there...except with every hawk screach so evengelian to our plot.
Then there's the monkey. An escapee, no doubt, swinging by at 4 a.m. Is it an orangutan? Probably not. My wife claims it's a chimpanzee, dressed in a diaper, scampering through the trees like a phantom in the night. She’s seen it twice, I’ve only caught its silhouette. A shadow munching on stolen bananas. But let's talk birds again. Hummingbirds. We’ve turned this place into a haven for them. Twenty-two varieties of their favorite plants, all just for them. The house serves only the finest nectar, a German import approved by every zoo in the States. We love hummingbirds because we've raised them here. A delivery mix-up turned our home into an accidental sanctuary. Now, it's a real one. We get calls all the time, offering to buy this bird utopia with all its quirks and furniture, treating it as an art piece, a conservation masterpiece.
Living here is like being part of an art installation. One with covenants and preservation easements, ensuring the house remains as it is. Changes are limited to encasing aspects in glass to keep its naturalistic and sculptural elements intact. It’s an Artist’s home, reimagined as a living, breathing art piece. Think Frank Gehry’s reappropriated materials, but in a domestic setting. The house comes with real Roy Lichtensteins, a genuine Matisse, and a collection of 1980s French stunt kites. There’s handmade wallpaper too, created by obsessively rolling ink-covered wheels through 65 feet of newsprint in a mad dance. The overflow sheets became accidental art.
This house is also an audio recording studio. The walls are paper-thin shoji, the floors are tatami mats, and the panels are a mix of raw redwood and white cedar. The house itself is redwood, hand-sanded to perfection. By purchasing this house, you become the guardian of a treasure trove of 1980s stunt kites, lava lamps, and original artworks by legends. You'll feel the need to carry a gun at night, not just for the art but to protect against the nocturnal monkey and his banana raids.
There’s a beehive in one wall. We befriended them – no pun intended. They’ve been here as long as we have. Showering feels like jumping jacks on a treadmill. It’s chaotic, but it's our life. We’ve adapted, even embraced it.
The house has a history. On July 9th, at 6:45 a.m., two tractors uprooted a protected Mexican elderberry tree. They hacked off parts of an old growth tree that shaded our hill, demolished the handicap ramp, sidewalk, and stairs, and created a 30-degree dirt hill where our garage used to be. This spot was meant to be a produce stand for neighborhood garden extras. Instead, it became Jud’s dirt mound, his truck parked triumphantly atop it.
We watched in horror from behind our redwood fence. We told the Caravaggio slave employee to stop, but he kept trespassing and causing havoc. My wife wept as they destroyed tree after tree, shouting slurs in Spanish. It was like being attacked by pirates. We called the police, but they took hours to arrive, and when they did, they were useless, more interested in accusing us than keeping peace.
This wasn’t a one-time event. It was a sustained assault, with chainsaws and tractors ripping through our garden. They destroyed our tangerine tree, pomegranate, black walnut, jacaranda, and the poppies we’d planted. They buried our dreams under a mound of dirt and concrete. The sound was a constant jackhammering, turning our days into a war zone.
They attacked us with drones, used for spying and harassment. False complaints to the police led to guns being drawn on us while we were watching TV. It felt like we were living in a dystopian nightmare. Despite everything, we restored the house, piece by piece, turning chaos into art.
Redwood and cedar replaced the old, termite-ridden wood. We hand-planed the floors, installed modern amenities, and turned our entry room into a Japanese genkan with a cloud-painted ceiling. We fought back against the darkness, transforming our home into a sanctuary of resilience.
The Siege of Avon Street
The first thing they did in July, not March, on the 9th at around 6:45 a.m., was uproot that Mexican elderberry tree. It wasn't just any tree; it was protected under California law. They hacked off two massive limbs from an old growth tree that cast its cooling shadow over the hill. Then they demolished the handicap ramp, the sidewalk, and the stairs. What used to be a simple garage parking spot transformed into a 30-degree hill of dirt, intended to become a neighborhood produce stand. But instead, Jud turned it into his personal hillbilly throne, parking his truck on top like he’d conquered Everest.
We peeked over our redwood fence, for the third time, and confronted Caravaggio’s henchmen. We told them they were trespassing, breaking laws, and making our lives hell. They didn’t care. They were like kids with a magnifying glass, and we were the ants. Each tree they cut down made my wife cry harder, each taunt in Spanish made my blood boil. They laughed at our pain, took joy in our distress. They were pirates, no, worse—Sumatran pirates, the kind you see on CNN that the Navy has to deal with. Pandemonium was their game.
We called the police, reporting the assault. Meanwhile, Caravaggio himself climbed the fence, throwing rocks and charging at us. The shorter crew leader wielded a chainsaw, tearing through our trees with glee. They destroyed a tangerine tree, a pomegranate, a black walnut, a jacaranda, and all our poppies. The Japanese short grass we planted to prevent erosion? Gone. We had just cleared the decaying concrete from the property to build a Chinese-style greenhouse for a community garden. But now, that dream was buried under a mountain of debris.
By 3 p.m., the police finally showed up, long after we’d called at 9 a.m. They did nothing to keep the peace. They sided with the aggressors, ignored the assault our neighbor witnessed, and dismissed the illegal construction. They accused me of fighting back, ignoring the streaming video and numerous calls to LADBS about the excessive noise and illegal activities.
This wasn’t a one-time thing. It was a daily onslaught. Jud and his crew ran two tractors on the public right of way for eight or more hours a day, every day. They buried materials from other illegal builds on Avon, Landa Street, Granada, Lemoyne, and more. They did this with impunity, their actions blatant and brazen.
Simon Story of Anonymous Architects, living with the Shapiros, was part of this scheme. They claimed to protect old-growth trees while removing others they didn’t report in their plans. They excavated 14 feet of dirt from my retaining wall, crushed a 100-year-old redwood septic tank, and broke the sewage pipes. They poured cement into my pipes, hoping to drive me out with a backed-up sewer problem. But I outsmarted them with my knowledge from ATP Plumbing, switching to a composting toilet system. And running the shower tell they were floating in our backed up waste.
They built an illegal laundry room, stealing our water line, and breaking in daily through a back window. Despite a 41.24 arrest order and numerous police reports, they continued their trespass. Jud ripped down every legal notice we posted, including LADBS stop orders. He made false police reports, staging attacks, and calling the cops on us.
One day, Caravaggio attacked us with a turpentine can, splashing it on our electric meter, threatening to set it alight. My wife screamed, and I grabbed the hose, dousing him and his phone. He had a lighter, and his intent was clear. When my wife called 911, Jud finally told Caravaggio to stop. They retreated, but not for long.
The siege on our home felt endless. They ripped down no trespassing signs, cut our locks, and added their own padlocks. They met in the back, planning their next move like generals in a war room. Every day was a new battle, every night a new nightmare.
But we held on. We fought back with every ounce of strength we had. The house stood, not just as a home, but as a symbol of resilience, a testament to our unyielding spirit. Despite the chaos, we found peace in small victories—every repair made, every tree replanted, every bit of our life reclaimed from the wreckage.
In the end, the house was more than just wood and nails. It was our fortress, our sanctuary. Amidst the ruins, we built a life, defying those who sought to tear it down. And as we stood on that redwood porch, looking out at the world, we knew one thing for certain: we were unbreakable.
The Battle for Dignity
October 20th, 2020, dawned like any other day, but it carried the weight of destiny. The City of LA quietly removed some homes from the REAP program, a move shrouded in secrecy. Little did they know, this was the day they’d be caught.
1968 Avon Street was listed in REAP three or more times, under fourteen-plus violation numbers, with several forgotten court cases. When I moved in five years ago, REAP notices became our unwelcome guests.
My wife never even turned the lights on for two years, living in peaceful simplicity.
We modernized the house with smart lights, air conditioning, new appliances, and a state-of-the-art security system. We became obsessed with traditional Japanese homes, spending two years transforming our yard into a serene garden, only to see it damaged by Jud and his crew.
Richard Judson Williams and his gang did everything to harm us. They threw glass in our yard, drove by incessantly, and bought the house two doors over to flip with fraudulent money. They ruined the yard, turning it toxic with human waste. Gravel and fake grass hid the damage, but we knew the truth.
Our battle with REAP included 25 major violations, possibly 99 more. We reported everything, but COVID-19 fears kept city officials away. Bribery was rampant. On October 8th, a notice claimed our building was cleared of REAP, a cruel joke on my birthday.
Determined, I delved into a lawsuit against Jud. Dirty lawyers, bribed officials—every step revealed more corruption. But then, a breakthrough: the CPRA act turned up a friend inside HCIDLA. Emails from Carlos and Tony Peleaz, Jerard Jones, and Ann Sewill exposed the conspiracy.
On October 20th, a hearing exposed the fraud. Watching live, the audience saw through the charade. The final proof lay in the notices' design—wrong fonts, mislabeled stickers, clear signs of forgery. The conspiracy, led by Richard Judson Williams, Cheney Shapiro, Ken Shapiro, Joshua Marcuson, and lawyer Jacqueline Grace Peleaz, was unraveling.
This meeting, this crime—it would not go unpunished. We sued LA to bring awareness to the city's corrupt dance between LAPD, HCIDLA, and LADBS. They aimed to steal homes from the poor and middle class, creating a kleptocracy.
Everything that happened to us at our home by this contractor, broker, and lender was part of a grand scheme. They stole land, committed mortgage fraud, assaulted us, harassed us, and made false reports. They used gang tactics, shut off utilities, and illegally hooked up to sewers. IRS fraud, tax evasion, PPP loan fraud—their crimes were endless.
We need help, badly. But amidst the turmoil, we found strength. We stood against the tide, our spirits unbroken. Our story is one of resilience, a testament to the power of truth and the indomitable human spirit. And as we fight for our dignity, we knew that no matter the outcome, we would never be defeated. Yet not a day goes by where I don’t wish Nile Red from Youtube to come to my aid like a science lab rat , and if by rat you mean Master Splinter with military grade Stick Bomb, to end all realestate cicra 1850’s.