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Nicola Carmine Lee Cavataio

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Handwritten Letter To Myself [
posted on April the 27th
It's been too long. Nearly two weeks since the earthquakes. An unknown woman was there when I awoke, and it wasn’t the woman that I wanted at my bedside. The fair skinned blond Aphrodite was nowhere to be found, and I realized what I knew all along: Felicia will always be with that sonuvabitch who doesn’t deserve her. A part of me wanted a familiar face to be there so that in my confusion, I could retain some sort of consciousness that I could relate to. She was different. The complete opposite. at least physically. Antoinette. A name I learned but couldn’t recall. She was a stranger that I thought was delusional, and tried to pin me as her lost loved one. Imagine my surprise when the docs told me that I was a miracle that God was looking out for me when my skull took the brunt of falling debris saving two children, and that heroes are meant to live long lives. I might as well have come out unscathed, not counting the broken limbs and bruised face. I was breathing. I had my words and my thoughts. Just not my memory, I guess. Italy’s best white coats reassured me that I might be disoriented but what do you say when a stranger tells you that you are a different man that what you know yourself to be. Antoinette. Apparently she was going to be my wife. I would never get married. Nowhere did I plan or intend to settle down and commit to one woman. I don’t even believe in monogamy for it is unnatural. She told me she loved me, and that I loved her. Love her. As I pushed her away, her tears were genuine. I suggested that maybe she loved me but it was one-sided. A misunderstanding that I’ve dealt with before from women who just don’t understand I won’t change, not even for myself. Women have cried over me and my inability to be in a monogamous relationship but I never really felt bad. They knew what they were getting themselves into. I’m a decent enough man (and efficient) where I’ll let them know that all I want is a warm body to spend the night with. Women are good for physical stimulation. Less talk, the better. Yet I find myself wanting to communicate with that woman whether it would be on the phone or chatting device. It’s probably just a result of my desperate loneliness that I seek out her vocal company. Sometimes these women can’t get enough of me despite that I tell them from the beginning that I’m not their prince charming. I don’t want to be. I don’t respect women enough for me to be that guy for them. But something felt different. It felt greater than a mere ego trip. When I saw her break down in front of me, I had more than a sliver of an urge to reach out to her. I wanted to feel the weight of her head against my shoulder, in which I would tell her that everything was going to be all right even when I knew I was the one that caused her to cry. I wanted to hold her as her hand in mine shook uncontrollably, and tell her that I was genuinely sorry. And that fucking scared me. Maybe her claims had some validity. Maybe I did love her. Why did I give a shit about a stranger, albeit attractive, yet so what? I’ve fucked my share of beautiful women – what made her different? I wanted to find out but ignorance is bliss since believing her meant that everything I knew was expired, and that everything I had stood for meant nothing. A new alter ego that I don’t remember ever meeting before would takeover. It meant that I was mentally unstable, and that I couldn’t trust my own instincts, thoughts, beliefs, conscience. Being alone in this world, all I have is me myself and I. I cannot afford to lose what I know… it’s all I got when you’re against the world. You can’t trust anyone else but yourself. She threatened my entire existence in that shard of potential truth.

A week ago, the police delivered to me my belongings that were entrenched in the clothing and gear I wore the quakes happened. There were three pictures in my tattered wallet that emerged intact, and they were of us. Antoinette and I. Funny thing is, my body suffered from bruising, torn ligaments, broken bones, cuts, and arguably irreparable damages but those pictures remained undamaged. Even Antoinette shared with me numerous pictures that reflected my grinning mug staring back at me. Most of the pictures, I wasn’t able to keep my hands off of her, but what really caught my eye was that I looked really happy. Ear-to-ear grins only exist in the childhood when my dear mother was still in the picture. Even then, I rejected her claims. Fears of conspiracy and lies clouded my judgment, and it didn’t help that I was overloaded with pain medications. I hoped I was delusional. I pushed her away until she left back for California… a place she claims was our home. Yeah, I actually shared a living space with a woman. I don’t even like spending the night at a woman’s house let alone, offer to live with her. Felicia came a day later in which I was pleased to her, but in turn, she guilt-tripped me. Yelled at me for treating Antoinette, the supposed fiancé, so badly. She assured me that I would regret my thoughtless actions and haste words once my memory comes back. If my memory comes back. It wasn’t my fault, I argued. I didn’t know if she was telling the truth. That just doesn’t sound like me. Felicia told me that I confided in her that I loved this Antoinette, that she couldn’t believe I didn’t remember. That doesn’t make any sense. I love Felicia. Why would I ever replace her, then tell her about it. Felicia is the woman of my dreams. This Antoinette was so different than Felicia. Literal night and day contrast.

I’ve been talking to Antoinette all this time pretty consistently. Loneliness has reached a new level that I started hallucinating things. I made myself unstable to the point that the nurses were forced to feed me tranquilizers so that I would calm down. I suspected that it was all a scheme conjured up by my adversaries, and somehow had gotten my family involved as well. She endured with me as I confessed to her my doubts, fears, nervous habits, and feelings that resulted from my loneliness. Families who have lost their sons, brothers, fathers, friends, and husbands come into my room thinking that I am them. Regardless that I look nothing like their young losses, I become them. They shed tears for my miracle that I’m still alive. Disillusioned mourners want me to fulfill the role of their lost loved one, and I can’t do anything. Denial is so powerful that I can morph into what they want me to represent. They have shown me more dedication than my own family. I mean, shit. How is it that no one visits me? My family knows where I am, and yet I got nothing. Instead I spend my days in front of bad soaps and incompetent nurses that eye me from head to toe tempted to jump my bones. Associates could care more about their hides than my wellbeing. People I have shelled out money for are nowhere to be found. They could be dead for all I remember. Even the old man succumbed to the grave during this time. I lost five years of my life, and it seems like I haven’t made an impression on people still with the exception of Antoinette. I should have been grateful that she dealt with my verbal abuse, the barrage of accusations where I assaulted her character, and mistreated her. I knew that her feelings were real, and I fucked with that on purpose out of frustration that I couldn’t grasp my own. My overwhelming sympathy for her nowadays is showing me that maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am mentally incapable. I lost my marbles, and only Antoinette knows where they are. I made her refer to me as a third person. The new guy that she fell in love with because he’s not me. He doesn’t even sound like me. I don’t recognize him. I mean, who the hell is this Cola? My new identity? My alter ego? This Cola let her call him that pansy name? She describes him to me, and he comes off a stranger.

All my days now are spent writing, searching, doing whatever I can to figure out who I am because what I know of myself now is no longer. Does that even make sense? I feel like a transcendental philosopher trying to figure out what is beyond my own knowledge of myself. Is time that great of a catalyst that can combine two different egos, and make them into one person? How do I not even know of this new me? Shouldn't I know to a degree of this Cola's existence if he's (me) is somewhere deeply embedded within me?

Did I really change that much over a span of five years? Especially at the beck and call of a woman? She’s attractive and all but that’s not enough. She’s loyal too. Loyal despite that I don’t recognize her. Persistent despite that I sometimes tell her vulgarities to scare her off but she refuses to budge. Stubbornly sticks by me despite that my own family members and associates are absent from my presence. She will talk with me through my plight when I question that I survived to realize all the depressing truths about my life. She’s there for me even if I don’t treat her the way she deserves to be. There were frantic, inconsolable moments where I convinced myself that she was lying. Part of a conspiracy hired by my enemies. She knew so much about me, and then nothing at all. How much did Cola tell her? How much does she really know about me and my upbringing? She said I told her things, but the question comes down to, how much of it were true? If there were any truths, how much did I reveal? If I was able to change because of her, was I able to confide in her? Fully? Doubt any woman would still love me if they knew the extent of my sins. But it was all part of my survival in this world… I’m meant to be a lone ranger. I work alone. I live life alone. Nobody can judge me about that.

posted on December the 28th
Private voicemail to Ant )

Let the chips fall where they may. [
posted on September the 25th
[ mood | contemplative ]
[ music | Elbow - Grounds for Divorce ]

I-am-Jack's-deliberate-impulsiveness. )

Impulsiveness is a beautiful, grand double-edged sword. I depended upon my impulsion to lead the way but that beats the purpose of spontaneity. Synonyms for impulsiveness are: recklessness, rashness, hastiness, and irresponsibility. I agree to a certain degree for I see the way the aftermath of my actions doused with impulsiveness end badly. Forces you to take life by the reins, and hold the fuck on.

Planning gives us a pseudo purpose in life. Religion is an organized entity created to lead masses of people to follow ONE designated plan. In Christianity for example, that plan of going to heaven afterwards. A heaven we don’t know exists, all for a God we don’t know exists ultimately to strive towards a moral perfection that we certainly know as humans does not exist. We want to grow up to save the world, make a difference, follow our dreams. Be our generation’s Allen Ginsberg or the next John Lennon. Where are the Andy Warhol’s and Janis Joplin’s of today? Did video really kill the radio star, and everything else in between? We miss even Che Guevara’s destructive passion, and Malcolm X’s gung-ho hostility. Bette Davis and Orson Wells writhe in their graves to see their hard work be replaced by generic mediocrity. Dorothy Arzner questions where are all the women that she set the platform up for against movie giants. Marilyn Monroe scoffs that her supposed replacement couldn’t even retain one role in a notable movie that didn’t go straight to DVD. Hitchcock and Kubrick throw a fit at the horror of the sludge that Hollywood passes off as slasher films. Plenty of rebels without causes who pretend to have one. While living in our bubbles, we are estranged from real troubles. Intentionally detached, and yet we’ll find some petty reason to feel like our lives are shit. Blame the world, the conspiracies, and yet never ourselves. We latch onto materialistic gods that enables the monopolies. The rate we’re going we’ll make a difference with one iPod, Starbucks, Paris Hilton, and Prius at a time. Take some responsibility. We are whores to our learned habits of organization. We then realize in our free country how controlled we actually are by our plastics, brainwashed ideals, and aesthetically appealing figureheads. We are taught to be fearful of change, and to be grounded within routine. Without a plan, there would be chaos, but who said that it had to be a bad thing?

Only in my moments of spontaneity, I drop my defenses, and reveal my mug to the flying fists of consequences. I would see a fist coming my way and refuse to duck. It all happens so quickly that putting up my guards and going against gravity are not worth the effort. My goal in life is to live it. Undergo all the nitty-gritty feelings that derive from our senses, even if they are of the extreme. Fulfill the entire sensory journey. Not to end up like a drone working only to achieve next month’s trends. GQ, Crate and Barrel, Maxim, The Economist all tell me how to conduct my life inadvertently. Pages of advertisement of pretty people, pretty décor, pretty technology to suck me into the cycle of planning. In order to attain that, I’d have to work at this job, to earn this much money, to buy that product, only to start the sequence all over again, like a broken record. Deal with the aftermath when it happens. Play it by ear. People waste too much time planning and not living. What would happen to those plans when you stare down a barrel of a gun? The engine on your plane dies. A giant rig sideswipes your tiny Civic. Run into a loose bullet. Snorted one too many lines. Get diagnosed with a terminal disease. You get the point. Plans become obsolete. They say every birthday is one step closer to death. In a funeral, we celebrate their life, but birthday parties, we must be celebrating for making it alive this far. We’re inadvertently welcoming the aspect that we’re approaching death. Pseudo funeral wakes where all your loved ones gather. Drink, eat, and reminisce. Same pattern. Have I really wasted 27 years trying so hard not to conform, and in a sense that in and of itself was conformity?

Freud would have had a field day with my predicated existence. My life was defined by textbook theories. Imagination was stunted by shallow clichés. Ability to love imprisoned by jaded obligations. The only reason I woke up the next morning in order to prove to people that I didn’t need them. That I could survive on my own. Surrounded myself in a chaos of people that knew my first name, fell in love with my front, and never bother to lift that mask. The drink gave me solace. The drugs never discriminated on whom to effect. And spontaneity gave me the attention I desperately desired.

Impulsiveness is a beautiful thing. It has gotten me in trouble, medicated, arrested, institutionalized, beaten to a pulp, fired, banned, chased, respected, promoted, laid, admired, and most recently, in love. I know that makes me sound like a blubbering pansy but I realized I truly don’t give two fucks on what others might perceive. Make your jokes, spare me your cynicism, give it your best shot. I led the way. I ignited the riots. I've heard them all. Whipped. Converted. Conventionalized. Lost. Puzzled. Emasculated. And yet for the first time, I feel like I’ve taken my first breath of air. And it was brand new, foreign, and frightening but I knew instinctively that I needed to take it, and would be suffocating without it. Didn't know what I was waiting for, what I was so afraid of, for the truth was just so obvious. For the first time, I'm actually living, and I'm happy. Not even my streak of spontaneity has given me LIFE.

Private to Her )

Laugh and the world laughs with you. Weep and you weep alone. [
posted on September the 3rd
[ music | Vivaldi "Four Seasons: Winter 1st Movement ]

The Old Boy. )

What are you running from?

The acidic revelations burned at the tip of his tongue as he wanted to tell someone, anyone. To alleviate his pain by taking away some, but no one dares to even offer. Out of desperation, the old boy is even eager to tell the paid listener who watches the clock tick, and cares more about what they'll have for lunch than what the boy with a wild imagination has to say. The priest in his confidential booth would remain mum to the boy's confessions as he pours his heart out, and then silence will make its debut. The boy would hope that the Father would understood, feel sympathy, and maybe reach out to him. Yet only to be thrown out by the robed leader of religion who thought he did a good deed by ridding the confused child who had nothing better to do than to try and pull a fast one over the church. The God that the child was told that loved him unconditionally did not forget about him, but worse, for the all-powerful being made certain a curse be placed on the forsaken child's life. That his life would always stick out like a festering corpse amongst those that breathed, slept, ate their cushioned lives. He could always see the strings and the puppeteer up above that would control the motions of his life, and the boy could do nothing but oblige knowingly. Ignorance is bliss for what is knowledge that cannot be applied? If members of his family ever found out his oath to secrecy had been ever broken that they would have no more reason to keep him alive. Being his father's son would never be enough. A family he would sacrifice his life in protecting so they would in turn, preserve him to continue serving. Wretched cycle that churns through generation after generation. Its rough edges greased by the blood that they sought, the blood that they revered, and the blood that they deemed pure. His was not. Therefore it wasn't sought, let alone revered. He was as much of his father's son as any of the three pure legitimate sons before him. All in the same predicament to be ill-fated for a life that guaranteed chaos and mayhem. Yet named after his father fittingly, Nicola C. Cavataio was a carbon copy of his father's youth. How in all angles, all shadows, and all lightings, the two were identical during that ripe age. An irony that would only play out its humor at the end of the game. Oh how he hoped that Like Father, Like Son only proved true in cookie cutter films. Echoing his mother's looks, the boy still took after much of his father. That a DNA test would be redundant. Their first encounter that he would narrate countless of times for his assigned audience trying to figure out what it all meant.

"Without contraries there is no progression." - William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

The room had been stiflingly sweltering yet everything about it was so cold and remote, not even the grim reaper would find comfort here. Heart beat sprinted, and I saw a reflection of myself in 50 years. The difference was I still had hope for life – a naïve eagerness to still yearn to know what life had to offer. For my counterpart, life had ended a long time ago, and the incentive to survive only derived from a desire to kill any hope for life. A jaded person would say, our desires complemented one another. It was as meant to be as how the bastard child would most likely carry out the old man's prideful legacy. With one paralyzed, the other rotting in jail, and the third too immersed in drugs to not be able to differentiate between reality and a coma, the bastard baby that Carmine wanted to have taken care of right at conception would one day take care of him.

"Even though I'm no more than a monster - don't I, too, have the right to live?"

Grueling hours of training that would be controversial even amongst the family; mind games were considered a treat compared to what Carmine Cavataio put his sons through. But the bastard got the brunt of it for the inherently self-mutilating masochist that Carmine was, he mistook his young son as himself as he saw himself thriving within the child. An identity that he had gotten rid of long before the business had corrupted him. With the mindset of overthrowing the older brother Carmine once loved and respected, his old man knew out of anyone that family was the enemy, and the business was his only friend. That this insatiable emptiness that the boy would realize as loneliness pangs were what Carmine used to his advantage. That enduring loneliness would build strength, and cause him to lose the basic human emotions that distinguished him from being a man and not an animal. That giving into that would be deemed a weakness, and a flaw to getting to the top. Loneliness was like no one knew. No one could share the boy's pain except for the one that had imposed that monster in the first place. The monster that lives, breathes silently within waiting to be beaten. SHE might change that. SHE might rescue him from himself. But because SHE is too good to be true, the boy realizes he can't afford to lose her. His only connection to a chance at obliterating that loneliness even if it is for a quick minute. Ignorance is bliss, and...

That is why you can't tell her. She wouldn't understand. Who would?

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