Wednesday, June 3

so what do you know?

do you know what it's like to cross oceans over imaginary bridges
do you know what it's like to swim across a sea of questions
do you know what it's like to make friends with peril and break it
do you know what it's like to make a clay face smile
do you know what it's like to run after having ran after someone
do you know what it's like to turn the pages of a wordless book
do you know what it's like to mirror your thirst in an empty glass
do you know what it's like to feed on crumbs of attention
do you know what it's like to look for purpose and see only reason
do you know what it's like to cook dreams for supper
do you know what it's like to wait for the anxiety train
do you know what it's like to draw chains around your own mind
do you know what it's like to be the knife in search of its fork
do you know what it's like to be the fork that needs no knife
do you know what it's like to name your price and mean it
do you know what it's like to step in and out of this life
do you know what it's like to have your hope bleeding with disgust
do you know what it's like to clean it up and fix it?

Monday, April 13

talk the walk

the old man was holding her tiny hand as gentle as he could. the grip was a dialogue in itself, but words had to fill in the gaps of silence. he used his giant fingers to bit his lower lip and pointed ahead. the little girl was watching his hand and the cartoon words leaving his mouth towards the designated direction.

that's the road. the one laying in front of you. the one you have to walk on. the one you have to take. take on. take back. take out. your feet are walking past the dust and sand and seem to go somewhere, but it's your mind that makes the feet stop. and go. once the mind's made up, the feet make way.

what about the rules? the little girl asked in a fast blink of an eye.

rules are for rulers. they merely set the line for you to walk a straight one. but it's up to you and down to earth whether you obey, replied the old man

i like rulers. they make drawing easy. they should make walking easy too, right?

as log as it's the straight line, they do. but what if you're running in circles? what then?

then it should go smooth. circles make me feel at ease. there's nothing hidden in a circle.

you're right. but once in a while you have to step out of the circle.

i like the way you talk. you make things seem easy even if what you're saying is hard. she smiled her childish sun rayed smile.

he pat her blonde head with kind understanding.

i like the way you walk. you make running seem easy even if where you're going is far.

Friday, February 20

apple round table

The moment he wanted to show me the table I knew something else was required from me. Something different than what I had come there to do and completely different from what I had expected or had been prepared for.

He took me by the hand and led me into the other room. His wife and kids were sitting at the table having lunch in the one he had first welcomed me. He winked at me and said: “Business is to be discussed by men. It should not poison women or children’s ears.”

And then leaned closer to my ear: “they don’t have the capacity to take it all in, you know? They should remain pure; at least until life hits them in the face.”

He then gave me a vicarious pat on the chest as if it were my shoulder and made a sign with his head to follow him.

We went into the other room and everything felt as if we had entered a different world. There was no natural light as it had been covered by this big heavy purple velvet drape.

‘Here’s where I like to think”, he said and took out a box of cigars from his desk’s drawer and opened it.

“Fancy one?”

I shook my head and kept thinking about the reasons that got me out of bed that very morning: nothing came to mind. Nothing except for that dream - the one I had caught by the leg, as the French turned American “aube” spread her legs and let light in, but was not able to hold on to. I was struggling to remember what the dream was about when he started talking again.

“I called you here for the table. I have to use it. You are the only one that can help with this matter. And to be completely honest, the only one who answered my ad. And I must confess you have proved your class. The way you came back to me, the discretion, even though I had not mentioned it in the ad, it was a vital requirement. And you met it.”

I looked at him trying to hide the puzzle pieces of my face that started falling from their place. I remembered having replied to an ad, but a different kind of ad.

“I’m not dismissing the possibility of you replying to another ad, he continued. But it’s the stroke of chance that leads to greatness.” He slipped his forefinger between the curtain and the window and peeked out for a second and then drew back as if the light had blinded him. “Do you like apples?”

The question was so out of the green that I could hear my eyebrows frowning.

“Apples?” I replied.

“Yes. Apples. It’s a simple question that requires a simple answer. But it has to be the right one.”

“In this case, the question is altogether wrong. I have to make a correction. The proper question should be: Do apples like me?”

“Good answer,” he smiled proudly.

“Don’t you mean question?”

“Well that’s a technicality, but it came as a reply to my question. I’ll take it for an answer.”

He put out his half smoked cigar, de-hoarsed his voice and turned up the grown up tone of his voice:

“Enough chit-chat. Let’s get down to business. The table is in my basement. We have to use it properly. And I also have a gun. But I’ve never been a big fan of guns. Just the sight of them makes my tongue taste metal and that’s disgusting.”

I concluded:

“I don’t work with guns, not when children are around.” Having said this I felt like I was reading for a script, but the words matched my intentions perfectly. The reason for my being there was even clearer.

“I like this about you, the fact that you respect my family. Follow me.”

We left his thinking room, but not through the door we had used to get in, we took a back one that led to a flight of descending stairs. It was dark and moist by the smell of it. We kept climbing down those stairs until he switched on a light.

“Here it is”, he said passionately and with a trace of submission in his voice.

He grabbed this piece of cloth covering this big piece of furniture, or so I thought, and uncovered what was laying beneath.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

I could not believe my eyes: it was a table, but not the kind we’re used to: it had 8 legs, 8 women legs, from the knee down, wearing red stiletto shoes; it’s corners were round shaped breasts and its surface had lips and noses coming out of it. It was a human table: you could see the muscles of the legs struggling to support the rest of the table. I had to take a closer look.

“Don’t touch it”, he screamed.

I drew back.

“Don’t touch it, or else you’ll be a part of it too. Don’t you know what this is? This, my dear, is the apple. These women enchant you with their forms and the moment you touch them, they will eat you alive. You’ll be inside the table and gone from this world. I know you’re desperately yarning to touch a leg or maybe a corner, but let me tell you it will be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

“Then what did you have me here for?” I asked almost mechanically still not being able to turn my eyes away from the wonder placed before me.

“I want to find out more about this. And your name is carved on the sole of each shoe,”he leaned down pointing at the sole of one shoe. There was a cross, made out by two letters S and beneath them was written Stuart Smith.

“SS, isn’t that you? Isn’t that how you replied to the ad? Ha, Stuart?”

I was mesmerized:

“It’s a pseudonym I use. It’s what I use on my hits. I’m a hit-man. I thought you got me here to kill someone. At first I thought you wanted me to kill you.” Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing except those perfect body forms enticing my senses.

“You’re not so far from the truth.” He replied and took out a photo from his pocket and handed it to me. In the picture was a black pedestal table.

“This is what it looked like when I first got it. It was a simple table. And at one point it started changing. Tell me, I’m curious, how many people have you killed?”

“8”, I replied in a precise end of fiscal accountant fashion.

“Any connection between the hits?” he was turning into an investigator.

“None that I can think of, other than all of them being men. What’s with the interrogatory, anyway?”

“Well, my dear SS, your every murder caught life on this exquisite pedestal I have inherited from a crazy old grandmother of mine. Each and every body part you see here before you is the representation of each and every one of your hits. It only seemed fair to tell you about this. About this work of art you have created.”

He looked at the table and then back at me and with a crazy spark in his eye spat out a sentence that made no sense to me:

“I want to be the last one.”

“The last what?”

“The last murder, the one that completes the table: the only thing missing is the leg in the middle. I want that to be mine. It has to be my murder. Don’t you see? This is the reason why we met. The murder metaphor chose to come to life in my house. I have to complete it!” he was getting more excited with every new word he was uttering. “So, tell me, how did you think about doing it?”

“I’m not going to kill you! Not after I have seen this! No way. I need to get as far away from this as possible.” I turned around and headed for the stairs. That’s when he grabbed my arm.

“I’m afraid you have no choice! It’s the only way! I have to be a part of this and you are the only one who can make me be a part of it.”

And then it all came back to me as if a flashlight had been switched on inside my head.

“Listen to me! Even if I kill you, you will not be a part of the table, you do not fit the profile. These were all passion murders. They all had to do with love, obsession and possession. They did not want or requested to die. This is way too strange even for me. I am out of here.”

I started climbing those stairs as if everything was crumbling behind me. I ran through the rest of the house and finally got out on the street. The sun was setting red. I light a cigarette with one hand and with the other wiped my face hoping I could wipe the bad thoughts as well. I sat down on the sidewalk and eagerly fed my lungs with smoky death. My palms were not sweating anymore, but my eyes were still picturing the table. All of a sudden I heard a voice calling me: “Stuart, Stuart, you forgot your..”

Tyres squeaked followed by an awful noise. I turned around and there he was, under the wheels of a big jeep, having got his way.
Rolling towards me, just out of his dead hand, was a green apple that stopped on the brim of my shoe.

Monday, February 2

hey, sister, how's it hanging?

short, shriveled and always to the left.
short as in the road to getting what you want is as short as you want it to be. shriveled as in, i am one year older and i know i should not complain, but i really have seen a new wrinkle on my face.
and to the left because i'm left handed, and quite proud of it to be honest (i think it makes me special so don't spoil it for me: all you other lefties pretend you're right handed just 4 today)
birthdays used to be a reason for getting a little upset or somewhat depressed because of the nos that blinded my yeses.
it was a close call this year as well. and i was knocking on the sadness door hours early!
i had some time to think about it, and i realized that there's no point in doing it all over again. my main reason was the half full side i started noticing, with a little help from my.. friend.
in the new light of the older events, i would have to say i'm hanging in there, with an open mind and soul, ready for what's next.
a big thank you is in order to my loved ones (you know who you are, and yes, i mean the virtual ones i got to know along the way, too)

Thursday, January 22

new year's and the word police

to read this post you will travel to one of the nicest and truest to life colors blogger i know, my friend jlo.

just click on the title to engage :0)


Wednesday, January 21

letter from a distant friend

Dear RSW,

Hope my letter simply finds you.
I burden you with troubling news that I have recently been leading man of. Here it goes:
This enveloped corpse lands in my letter-box the other day. I pick it up, open it and was surprised to find a paper cut dead body inside: origami suicide was my first thought.
But then...What could I make of it? Why did I get it? Was the paper corpse a mock up of my own body? Of my feelings? Or just a mocking innuendo? Why did it come in now and not sooner?
Paranoid scenarios kept rising in my head like grass straws from the ground on a fast forward tape of a biocumentary taken on a sunny spring.
I finally made the courage to put my reading glasses on and see what it was all about.
It was from the doctor's office. Hope you're stomach will handle this better than mine:
They say I have recently been diagnosed with pain asymbolia.
Not to worry, my dearest friend, because I feel it's a textbook case of wrong diagnosis.
I distinctly remember falling down the elevator pitch today and when my ideas smashed bloodily on the floor, they hurt and they were mine so I guess I hurt along. And I've been hurting along ever since.
So what they told me, that i can't feel pain, actually turned into phantom pain.
Enough about me, though.
How did my letter find you?

Friday, January 9

Crashing angels’ meet cute

Int. Liquor store. 5 AM in the morning. Behind the desk a hot young 23 years old girl: brown curly medium long hair, apple-ish breasts, loose green sweater. She’s drinking Dr. Pepper and watching the commercial channel.

Door bell rings. Boy bursts into the store. Hooded covered head, but fierce piercing look.

Girl: Hope you didn’t plan to hold me up. They’re running commercials by movie directors. Lynch is up next.

Boy: I had in mind to bring a plastic gun, but I’m not planning a hold up. I plan to smash my brains or my ex-girlfriend’s face.

Girl: Can’t assist with the latter, but over 40% alcohols are in the back, third row on your left. I recommend the absinthe. Knocks you up instantly, but beware of delusions.

Boy: No thanks! Have deluded myself plenty lately. Will stick to vodka.

Girl: Yeah. Goes hand in hand with pills. Or should I say rant in rant?

Boy: I’m not trying to kill myself. Just to get drunk. I’m a has been alcoholic about to fall off the wagon.

Girl: Over some girl? Say hello to mister P! Pathetic in case you fell behind on my humor.

Boy: Not over some girl. I just have drinking craving and want to quench my thirst. What are you, AA counselor or something?

Girl: Nope. I’m an undercover nun running a liquor store, trying to get people on the wagon. The less I sale the more I gain. Spiritually wise.

Boy: Quite the predicament we’re in: I’m an undercover archangel having to drink all the liquor from liquor stores so people don’t fall off the wagon. The more I drink, the more I gain. Spiritually wise wise.

Girl: How bout you drink some cinnamon medicine from Dr. Pepper?

Boy: Keep your holy poison to yourself, sister. I’ll grab the vodka.

He reaches for the top shelf, picks up a bottle of Absolut Disco and heads for the counter.

Girl: Planning a party, eh?

Boy: Glitter stops my flitter.

His words barely parted with his lips that he tripped over a misplaced cart and fell smashing the bottle on the floor and cutting his left wrist along the way.

Boy: Mother………..

Girl: Woa, no cursing. Please.

She leaves the counter and heads toward the isle where he was laying.

Girl: Holy shit you cut your wrist!

Boy: Unintendedly. Believe me. But this vodka mixing with my blood makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s your perfume. Wait, no. It’s your eyes. Man you have outstanding eyes!

Girl: Standing out of all the booze around you?

Boy: No. Standing out of the angel world. Hold me. I’m cold.

Girl: That’s cause you’re standing on cold cement. The heat is off.

Boy: Nothing I say is ever good enough for you.

Girl: You say nothing good whatsoever. And you made me miss the show with all your drama.

Boy: It’s a rerun by the way. Lynch sucks. You’ll like Jonze better.

Girl: I like you better.

Boy: Why?

Girl: Why not?

Boy: Can’t think of any reason. Other than having messed up your mission and your floor along the way.

Girl: You had to: to make me take better notice.

Boy: Yeah, but you missed Lynch.

Girl: Something tells me I’ll like Jonze better. Come on, get up.

Boy: Will you marry me?

Girl: Only on Sunday.

Boy: Are nuns allowed to marry?

Girl: Only to angels. Give me your hand.

Boy: It’s vodka broken.

Girl: We’ll fix it by Sunday.

Thursday, January 8

..all they wanted was to hug

boy and girl hold hands on top of the world, their faces pressed to the sky
he tries to kiss her, but this big cloud is in between
she smiles and looks away wondering why he's hesitating
she did not see the cloud
he blushes
she holds his hand tighter to build up confidence
his grip responds
she's safe
then he lets go to pick a raindrop for her
she lets out a tear thinking he let go for good
she turns over to him to hold him
but the sun has just risen between them
it dries her tear and his raindrop
he turns to her empty handed and hides his hand in his pocket
she turns away
he turns away
boy and girl stand on top of the world, their backs facing eachother

Monday, January 5

a man of words

he said: you gotta do them things yourself. cause no one will do 'em for ya.
I nodded. and kept sobbing. thinking my drama was so big that I wanted the Earth to stay still for me and not just movie wise.

he said: you're pretty.
I similed. and kept questioning. my face reflected in his eyes was prettier that any mirror could have shown, but was to eerie to be true.

he said: you're the procrastinator.
I agreed. and put the moment of making myself into what I wanted to be on the back burner. his words were a thousand telephones ringing with complaints.

he said: cross that bridge when you get there
I crossed it mentally and fell in the water. his hand grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me out of the drowning deep-ression.

he said.

i laughed.

we kissed.

Friday, December 19

sorry seems to be...

Before excitement turns to boredom there’s the unique and sometimes indescribable first time.
What about daily first times?
I’ve been ignoring them for the last couple of days.
I’ve missed the points that mattered and pillowed my disturbed head on fluffy misconceptions.
I’ve been swimming waters of delusion and feared drowning in sorrow while standing on the shore.
My mid days have struggled to turn into midnights just as I struggled to turn off the light before going bed – darkness makes me shiver with fear.
I’ve been floating on the bottom of my deepest fears counting my slow motion breaths.
I’ve been laying on the downside of the down side facing an ice cold floor that my breath heated with exhalations.
I’ve been wrong to trade daily first-time-green-smiles for no-reason-pathetically-sad hours.
I’ve been wrong not to reply to kindness with kisses and hugs of infinite strength.
I’ve been wrong to have been wrong when you were right all along.