Alexander III
06-28-2010, 06:58 AM
I
Is one to young to write a memoir at seventeen ?
I may never life to see that glorious age, eighteen.
I may never life to become a man.
And so I paint myself and my life with this dark ink.
The ink shall flow truer than my blood.
The paper shall heave as my chest.
The pages shall rustle as my breath.
The front cover shall brightly ponder as my cosmic eyes.
In every line you shall see my smile and frown.
Each word shall mirror my wandering soul.
It shall be me.
More of myself will be found in this memoir than ever was in my body.
And so dear reader I present to you myself,
You may call me Lysander.
II
My blood is a chaotic mess, best I begin this tale with my ancestry.
My mother was a young mexican girl, grown and raised in the hope laden streets of Mexico City.
I was told that she was one of the most beautiful girls in all of mexico.
Her visage was sung straight from Apollo's lyre.
Soft lilly lips, silk woven hair, the entire package of beauty.
The only thing which surpassed her beauty, was her price.
She began working the streets at the age of thirteen.
Luckily for her, her beauty allowed her to charge high and live a comfortable life.
Or so I was told.
But I don't know.
I don't know why she was a whore...
For all I know she was forced into it due to the bite of poverty.
Or maybe she realized that this way she could earn her mother's weekly wage in an hour.
Dignity is for the middle-class, it comes with a warm plate of food and health insurance.
I prefer to think of her as a young heroine, victim of circumstance.
I don't like to think of her as a cheap whore.
My father is a different story.
He was a man of four parts.
Soft eyed French.
Dark haired German.
Colonial South African.
Bearded Egyptian.
His conception is an interesting story which should be noted.
His mother was an aristocratic young rebel, living in the wealthy ennui of Nice.
His father, a charming sailor on shore leave, who hadn't seen a woman in months of duty.
They met in a night-club.
He fell in love with her at first sight, she didn't.
He was in love, she was drunk.
And so my father was conceived on a midsummer night, in the woman's bathroom of the night-club.
My grandfather was shipped out the next day and never came to learn that he she was pregnant with his son.
But back to my conception, an equally miserable tale.
My father was on a journey around the world with a group of friends after having graduated from Yale.
Mexico City was one of their first stops, they were there for a weekend.
He and his friends placed a wager to add some bright color to the weekend.
They had to convince a prostitute to sleep with them for free.
Now my father the ingenious man, achieved the task in a slightly different manner.
He quietly stole his friend's room key, and went out on the city searching for a naive pretty looking thing.
He was driving down a dusty street when he saw my mother lazing under a lamp post.
As soon as he saw her he knew he wanted to sleep with such a beautiful creature.
He pulled up in his rented Mercedes, and took her back to his hotel room.
Well not his, his friend's.
He had her in the hotel room for so long that the gleaming sun began to yawn and grow dim.
After the fun was done, he excused him self for a moment and went into the toilet.
The sun set, and the river of night engulfed the hazy city.
Hours latter my fathers friend returned to his room and found my mother waiting and furious.
The bathroom was empty, the window hanging open mouthed.
He payed, and payed some more for each hour she was kept waiting.
And so that was the night I was conceived.
My father, like his father in turn, never came to learn of my existence.
Nine months latter my mother gave birth.
It was a cold night, in a silent park were flowers singing had long been replaced by junkies sighing their relief and misery unto the stars.
And so on an abandoned September dawn of ninety-two, I was born into the forgotten dream of existence.
I would like to say I was born into the dream of life, but that happened much later, when I was fifteen….
I do not know what happened to my mother during the course of the eight months after she met my father, however she ended up in total dejection and poverty.
She went from working the streets to living on them.
What I do know is that I only saw my mother for a brief couple of seconds, the last time I saw her she was running away from me.
Far far away into the eternal night.
Well, thats how I imagine it, my memories of my infancy have never found a firm foothold in my mind.
Its the beginning of a story I plan to write, what do you guys think ?
Is one to young to write a memoir at seventeen ?
I may never life to see that glorious age, eighteen.
I may never life to become a man.
And so I paint myself and my life with this dark ink.
The ink shall flow truer than my blood.
The paper shall heave as my chest.
The pages shall rustle as my breath.
The front cover shall brightly ponder as my cosmic eyes.
In every line you shall see my smile and frown.
Each word shall mirror my wandering soul.
It shall be me.
More of myself will be found in this memoir than ever was in my body.
And so dear reader I present to you myself,
You may call me Lysander.
II
My blood is a chaotic mess, best I begin this tale with my ancestry.
My mother was a young mexican girl, grown and raised in the hope laden streets of Mexico City.
I was told that she was one of the most beautiful girls in all of mexico.
Her visage was sung straight from Apollo's lyre.
Soft lilly lips, silk woven hair, the entire package of beauty.
The only thing which surpassed her beauty, was her price.
She began working the streets at the age of thirteen.
Luckily for her, her beauty allowed her to charge high and live a comfortable life.
Or so I was told.
But I don't know.
I don't know why she was a whore...
For all I know she was forced into it due to the bite of poverty.
Or maybe she realized that this way she could earn her mother's weekly wage in an hour.
Dignity is for the middle-class, it comes with a warm plate of food and health insurance.
I prefer to think of her as a young heroine, victim of circumstance.
I don't like to think of her as a cheap whore.
My father is a different story.
He was a man of four parts.
Soft eyed French.
Dark haired German.
Colonial South African.
Bearded Egyptian.
His conception is an interesting story which should be noted.
His mother was an aristocratic young rebel, living in the wealthy ennui of Nice.
His father, a charming sailor on shore leave, who hadn't seen a woman in months of duty.
They met in a night-club.
He fell in love with her at first sight, she didn't.
He was in love, she was drunk.
And so my father was conceived on a midsummer night, in the woman's bathroom of the night-club.
My grandfather was shipped out the next day and never came to learn that he she was pregnant with his son.
But back to my conception, an equally miserable tale.
My father was on a journey around the world with a group of friends after having graduated from Yale.
Mexico City was one of their first stops, they were there for a weekend.
He and his friends placed a wager to add some bright color to the weekend.
They had to convince a prostitute to sleep with them for free.
Now my father the ingenious man, achieved the task in a slightly different manner.
He quietly stole his friend's room key, and went out on the city searching for a naive pretty looking thing.
He was driving down a dusty street when he saw my mother lazing under a lamp post.
As soon as he saw her he knew he wanted to sleep with such a beautiful creature.
He pulled up in his rented Mercedes, and took her back to his hotel room.
Well not his, his friend's.
He had her in the hotel room for so long that the gleaming sun began to yawn and grow dim.
After the fun was done, he excused him self for a moment and went into the toilet.
The sun set, and the river of night engulfed the hazy city.
Hours latter my fathers friend returned to his room and found my mother waiting and furious.
The bathroom was empty, the window hanging open mouthed.
He payed, and payed some more for each hour she was kept waiting.
And so that was the night I was conceived.
My father, like his father in turn, never came to learn of my existence.
Nine months latter my mother gave birth.
It was a cold night, in a silent park were flowers singing had long been replaced by junkies sighing their relief and misery unto the stars.
And so on an abandoned September dawn of ninety-two, I was born into the forgotten dream of existence.
I would like to say I was born into the dream of life, but that happened much later, when I was fifteen….
I do not know what happened to my mother during the course of the eight months after she met my father, however she ended up in total dejection and poverty.
She went from working the streets to living on them.
What I do know is that I only saw my mother for a brief couple of seconds, the last time I saw her she was running away from me.
Far far away into the eternal night.
Well, thats how I imagine it, my memories of my infancy have never found a firm foothold in my mind.
Its the beginning of a story I plan to write, what do you guys think ?