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.

short time memory of a dream frame

inside the mesmerizing control of life I found a letter filled with chaotically drawn letters.
while I was staring at this strange lettered sudoku, words started catching shape and form and even creeped their way into complete sentences.
the subject was always somebody else while I was the object.
so I let the letter be and turned to the principle: time is a well shaping artist that provides sense with time.
and it did.
I reopened the letter some years later.
all the letters were there.
only this time they were driving sentences like racing pilots drive their winning cars.
the verbs were missing, but this time I was both subject and object.
I had failed where sense and actions were concerned, but at least I knew it was about me.
I folded the letter carefully so I wouldn't get any paper cuts.
I sat down and confronted my conscience and for the first time it was scared of what i might think.
I didn't have much to say, though:
I'm not judgmental: I like green.

are you righteous?

accustomed proximity makes terrible misconceptions raise from the grounds and turn into shady mists of delusion. the moment you say: go!, it goes on to lengths you had only dreamed of in your worst dreams to date. the mistake of running barefoot on a race track where the partner runner is literally a stud can turn into an unfortunate accident with blistered repercussions. but you can't complain because you yourself have signed up for the race and claimed to be able to keep up pace or at least to try. the advantage of running within a team is reliability. but when the team is a gang and the rules that apply to the street are brought on the field the story turns into a run or let run one. considerable changes have been applied to this model, all of them being gathered experiences from previous races that have been carefully studied and schemed on the board, just to make sure no one would repeat them again. the coach was awfully wrong, though, when you run you need both speed and attention. being fast is unfortunately not enough.

temporary profanity

it dawned on the night that the cold and bloody light of day were close. and so was the inevitable. the smoky smell predicted the end of the centuries and all hearts were trembling accordingly. no one was speaking. all you could hear were breaths: heavy old ones, young excited ones, womanly gasping with amazement ones, even restricted held up breaths, but no words at all. and this was a first for the small bar on Tavelina Street where noise used to rattle on in neverending swirls of prating. this time there was no need for the usual. the day of the prophecy had arrived. he was going to appear. the greatest warrior of all, the one that turned ears into heavy transporters of imagination and hearts into bleeding vessels of passion, was going to be embodied as predicted into the last song on earth

when you draw the line...

...you get to the bottom of things. hence the expression: bottom line. my lines have never been too straight simply because i can't draw. i'm good with colors, but not at drawing. eh. good thing my life doesn't depend on it. actually, my life doesn't depend on anything other than myself and that's refreshing. but most of the times i've been quite hornswoggle. every time i tried to verbalize what went on underneath i failed like a shaking fore finger on a steady trigger. i guess this was because the supposed victim was not craving for my bullets. nor were they supposed to receive them. i ended up shooting blanks. funny enough they ended up hurt. even bleeding. somehow life has a bizarre way of making things even. so there's no point in crying over spilt bullets. as for trust, it seems to be functioning on the exact same principles as the liver: it's vital for any kind of interaction and lucky for us, if damaged, it grows back in the proper environment.

tender transparency

her head was swimming in flummadiddling thoughts. dead? how could i be dead when i'm aware of my own blink? her subjective angle caught glimpse of the running water. my blinks are joining the tap water drips: blink, drip, blink, drip... cute tune. she braced herself internally: no, no. death is way off in an opposite galaxy than i am right now. rumours are rumours and i rise above them as always. she picked herself off the floor and lifted the dropped dead purse, opened it and took out a piece of paper and a pen and started scribbling something. as the words unravelled from her pen, the white paper's reflection shed light on her face that unraveled a slight smile, but a smile nonetheless. i'd rather smile my cries as a method of giving them credit. yeah. i'm a smiling crier. because i seem to suffer from pain asymbolia anyway.
she finished writing the note, took out a pair of cuticle-scissors and nailed (or scissored would be more appropriate) the note to the bathroom door. it was her unsuicide note. it was her ticket out of the confusion. it was her old self self-awaring itself.
what she wrote on that note was actually one word. but she had used only the good letters to write it. care to guess what it was?

corrosive confusion

the girl's palms are sweaty. she's feeling the anxiousness of the inevitable-about-to-happen: she's about to let them down. her eyes are not moist. more like sad. she's desperately looking for a reason to put on the table and make at least a part of what she's feeling about herself, real. but there's nothing around to reach for. she reaches for her purse, but it's so heavy as if it's filled with millions of razorblades that would slash her skin open if she looked inside. she drops it on the floor. her heart is pounding and the purse is falling in the slowest motion possible. it refuses to touch ground. she gasps. the purse is in the air. she hits it with her right foot, but it's like hitting an invisible rubber deck. she looks out the window and back at the purse: it lays dead on the floor. even gravity is making its point. she puts her palms together. they smell like failure and feel like ice. she blows them hot hoping to melt them. the only thing that seems to melt is her reason. she takes out her phone and starts texting: i've been.. (too obvious) - she deletes it. puts the phone on the sink. the tap is running. now there's a purpose, a way and a means - all reaching the same goal: function. hard concept for a dysfunctional girl. she looks in the mirror. this pair of green eyes staring back at her are not hers. the mirror liquefies together with that image. her heart is a prisoner screaming behind rib bars. her pain is dumb, but she can hear it. the rumors are true: she's dead.

tree talk

Two trees lay on the grass. They look at each other without staring. They’ve known each other for some time now and they know each other’s flaws too well. Not to mention the qualities. When you know someone for so long, even good qualities turn into flaws. 1000 years? Seems more of an inside joke that makes neither of them laugh anymore.

You know? 384 summers ago I’ve touched you. It was the only time my right side leaves decided to grow in your direction.

Yeah? Funny. I honestly can’t remember. I do remember when they started falling. It was 284 autumns ago. One of them touched me.

(smiles) I’m always caught by surprise. How do you manage to keep them on for so long? And it seems like yours fall on their own. Without any help. With me it takes wind. It was the same back then. The grace was purely accidental. No pun intended.

But pleasant, nonetheless. Just so you know.

You’re almost making me blush. Did you really like it?

Why do you think autumn is my favorite season?

Mine is summer, but for the exact same reason.

in the cold mocking light of day

On the highest step of the conventional social ladder, the turnarounds in terms of love and passion seem to end at one point and start somewhere between what has happened and what’s left to happen. Trapped between the organic conclusions of past experiences and the obsolete innocence of future expectations, the relationship slash love, evoked by the present tense, looks like a black and white photo of a pure and yet uncertain virgin aching with desire and trembling with indecision - her heart is made up, but her mind is not. The opposite’s been known to happen as well. Duality’s what’s making her/him/us desirable. I said duality and not hypocrisy (I didn’t think you were one then, and I certainly don’t think you are one now – hypocrite that is – just felt the need to mention it and blog-ly apologize). Almost blindly stricken by an enormous emotional shove over the last floor’s balcony of perception, the reason crushes hopelessly on the concrete reality of lust, need, want, crave of one for the other. Seducing tactics, found in thick books of love or summer issues of sex magazines, do tend to fail as if they were these giant cannonballs brought in as a last resort in a war of exclusively high tech weapons – useless. The he/she routine, as it’s been known and successfully used by my parents, fits today’s relationship-al needs like a ruptured umbrella on a pouring-cats-and-dogs day – useless yet again. Seeking advice is the final stage of the socio-cultural disease of sharing the togetherness. Upon making love, we make the mistake of making possession and making promises and we dismiss the act itself that reveals from two beings colliding on the shady life’s orbit. Their reason and reasonable emotions for one another get so stuck on the mazey webs of maybes, whens, ifs, and whys that their initial quest for pleasure soon goes out of their focus. Questions become answers and the answers are even more questionable as words get lost for other words. When inside all of this chaos of rapture-driven-need of sharing and being shared the answer should be self explanatory: that one other person. Whose blink of an eye makes your stomach tremble, whose licking of lips makes you wish you had a taste, whose first breath in the morning is that life saving oxygen breath you'd linger on forever. That person makes the maybes turn into yeses, the whens into nows, the ifs into for sures and the whys into becauses without any preliminary intention. Self explanatory and yet so damn hard to explain: you do!

as long as...

I'm the oldest 25er I know.
I could be a grandma if I were given the chance.
I guess pain, both physical and emotional count towards getting to a certain level of maturity. Howeva', I seem to rush into things and into life itself with the blooming recklessness of a 15teener. I guess I'll be the same when I'll be 60. If I get there.. Something tells me I will, if I haven't already got there by now.
The grandma in me tells me 2 things: there is time for everything, so no rush, but there is no time for regrets, so have none.

As long as the sun rises there will be light (I'm afraid of darkness).

As long as there is light, there's sight.

As long as there's sight, there's perspective.

As long as there's perspective, there's creativity.

As long as there's creativity, there are words.

As long as there'll be words, there'll be music too.

As long as there's music, there's a good enough as long to consider.

As long as there's an as long (whatever that might be), there will be less of a shortage.

NO-HO

NO-HO stands for November Holidays. Yes people, for each day of November there's a named holiday and a very brave lady decided to put all of them together.
It's a collection of posts for each day of the month and all of them are at jlomowriter.blogspot.com.
I had my say on the 9th day.

shrink love, shrink - part 2

...So not the looks, not the loony bit, not her stories that she had been virtually feeding him over the last emailing months. But she had something that made him wonder: did they stand a chance?

As he kept on walking, Sebastian was curiously staring at his own shoes on his good-intention-stones-paved-road to his small uptown apartment. For a moment there he thought:

Gee, my feet look awesome even when they're shoed up!

But this time his amazing feet were not going to get him out of thinking about her. There was something there (around her) that required more of his attention and if that meant removing it from his gorgeous feet, well that was the price that he would agree to pay.

He even started making up some sort of answer to her latest email. With every pace getting him closer to his doorstep a new potential answer would arise:

no answer at all (let her boil)

a professional answer to keep it strictly professional

making it tough for her and give her a hard wake up call on the status of her/their mind

play around with her and make her think she has a problem (she can handle it)

play around and make her think I have a problem (she can handle that even better)

play around and

He was standing in front of his door, keys in right hand ready to unlock: Play around!

He smiled his usual damn-I'm-better-than-my-personal-last-best smile and headed for the shower.

Downtown, in a crane surrounded office building emails were sent, phones were answered, conferences were held, money were being made and time was being recklessly spent.

But not by her. She was thinking about the good ol' doc and his whereabouts, but mostly about what he was going to answer and if he was going to answer at all.

He did. Plain and simple as his charms (as the best things in life are said to be):

Hi you,

I don't have the answers you are looking for.
Sorry.
But I do have a small couch for 2 and a new sitcom.
Would that do for tonight?

to be seen if and how to be continued..

shrink love, shrink

Hi Doc,

I got more to thinking and I think I’ve figured out my problem. Our problems to be more precise. I can't romance and I can't relate. And at the same time I’m a sucker for boys. How’s that for contradicting terms. Paradox. That’s my sign. At times I think it's just an unconscious statement of coolness and uniqueness I try to make. So that suckers around me remain mouth open and watch me in admiration. Oh. But after the curtains go down. I’m just the same old sad clown.
Yesterday I cried. First time in 5 months. I’ve missed it. Why? I don't know. It sets me free. For no reason. I wasn't even listening to a mooshy song. Just cried out of missing crying. How did that make me feel? Stupid and proud. Felt like I still had a last decent grain of humanity in me. Then I wiped my face clean and popped a gum balloon. Intense, I know.
I miss your conclusions. The ones that you never gave me to be honest. You just listened and summarized. But what about your take on this? What’s your take on me? On us?
I have to go now. But let me ask you this before I go: do we stand a chance? Could we make it? Or at least one of us if not both?
Waiting for you to shrink our head.
Not truly, yet passionately interested.
Same-not-so-old me

Having read that, Sebastian looked out the window. It was high time he went home. Most probably to get high. For a moment he had the intention to press reply and start making up this nice convincing pep talk that all his rich clients paid him for. Although, come to think of it, he had not charged her any money, or them as she would have insisted. He kindly smiled to the small laptop screen as if she might get it from behind the screen she had used to get the message across. Rubbed his hands together and decided to call it a day.

He was the type of pleasing-all-tastes kinda guy. Heads turned for him every time he walked. He was not handsome. Some might have said he was ugly. But the confidence he would breathe made him sexy as hell. Not to mention the fact he could get inside any smart woman’s head (he was not up to the challenge of wasting time with anything less) by a finger snap. He would seem to be toying with all the female companions, as his mother would like to call them. When in fact he was merely advising them. Naturally you would think he was gay as a singing tweak. Nope. He just had his share and had enough of drama. That’s why her email made him smile.

As he was stepping out of the 3 floor building that played host to his “small business” her written words rang visually in his head: I can’t romance and I can’t relate.

In a normal patient-doctor situation he would have replied with the caring-empathetic-professionally-distant-yet-friendly-enough speech to set her/their mind at ease. This was not that normal situation. She had intrigued him, although he hadn’t set eyes on her for 6 years now and he was the visual type of intriguee. What was the most intriguing was the fact that for the first time in his many other times he could not put his finger on what was so enticing about this girl: her split personality? Fuck no. He had dealt with far more split and multiplied acts before and fought his way out of them as quick as one could say: house call.

So not the looks, not the loony bit, not her stories that she had been virtually feeding him over the last emailing months. But she had something that made him wonder: did they stand a chance?

…to be continued

My first lipogram

It's hard as it is to draw a lipogram, but how hard? I should find a way around it.

I submit my first:

It was a glorious morning of May. My six o'clock train was not in sight, although a big station clock was about to show a chunky half past. I was anxious within, but had a calm way of showing it. I simply could not miss work that morning. It was crystal in clarity that this was my final opportunity to nail a good last srping day as my sick mind's vaticinator had said a night ago: Last May day onwards to last month of living for you. Pray for your train not to show up tomorrow as it will signify your last trip against this world.
I'm sick with autophonomania. No doubt about it. My mind was drawing jumps in front of trains with maximum accuracy on impact, jump kind and timing, but today was not a suicidal-fling-by-jumping-in-front-of-a-six-o'clock-morning-train kind of day, that's why my calm act.

Half past six, no train, sunny day, I was still living and was as calm as a still hot pool of blood. My blood was rushing though and so was a furious train approaching. Bosom pounding, train coming, rail skuawking, lids closing. Train stops, sound too.

All aboard!

A short man in uniform asks with strong conviction: Miss, Miss, going or staying? Train's not waiting.

I look at my watch. I look at his talking lips and back at my watch. Both ask for my ruling. I finally talk: Who is? I'm not waiting. Train's not waiting. You look as a foolproof not waiting man. Why wait? I'm staying. Or going. I'm doing both.

OK. Lady. I'm not a funny guy. Not today anyway. Stay and go and do your thing. But not on my train.

It's all I could wish for. I'll stay and go on a following train. Not on yours. Got it.
I kiss his almost bald body top and go. I stop. I turn to him: I'm going and staying on this platform and not on your train. No risks! You wouldn't fancy this anyway!

Lady, did you miss most of your rods?

No. Only a sound. But I'm on my way of catching up with it. On a following post. Cross my... soul.

Even the Mona Lisa's falling apart

We’re living strange times. It’s the era of constant changes. The only constant about our time is actually a variable. How crazy is that?

The famous Mona Lisa line uttered by probably the last of the anti-heroes of the decade is completely true. I look around and see that the main trait of everything surrounding me is perishablity. One can view that as evolution and could nail it. However, the other end of the spectrum is just as valid: it could be a sign of devolution. Unfortunately, both ends go towards extinction so they’re both equally scary.


I was talking to my friend the other night and we sadly concluded that there are no more taboos and there is no more mystery left with regards to anything. Relationships have the same cycle as a product on the shelf. It’s all about marketing and putting oneself on the market. As long as you manage to constantly reinvent yourself, you can hold on to your “customer”. But do you want to? Isn’t the purpose of marketing to expand your “business”? So, in this case, isn’t the acclaimed love marketing actually the reason why so many couples are breaking up?

And where does love fall into all of this? I guess Tina was right after all.

We’ve turned into consumers. We’re not lovers anymore. We’ve invented these tools to help us get and stay in touch more easily, but they only add up to our paranoia and frustration. We get involved in major conspiracy theories about being controlled in everything we do, but we apply the exact same technique on our life partners. We’re control freaks that have completely lost control over everything - traffic, diseases, resources, money, war, our lives. You name it we’re glad to fuck it up.

Is there something essentially wrong with humans? Why can’t we go only upwards? Why are we desperately looking to go down?

We’re the makers and sure as hell are the breakers, too. For every yes we make sure we have a no dying to come out.

I guess we've simply lost our patience. We know that we’re heading towards the end and we can’t wait for it to happen. We’re building, pumping, testing, making, shaking, taking, giving, acting, reacting, faster and faster like we’re doing our best to put an end to all that surrounds us.

Is this the ultimate stage of humankind? Have we reached the last level of evolution and we’re destroying ourselves consciously?

I’m funnily sounding like an environmental-self-aware-sex-and-the-planet-series character.

I need to redeem myself.

To get my usual blogging credit back, I will end this post with an idea that has been haunting me for some time now. I love concerts. There’s no secret in it. I think concerts are the ultimate (as in the last ever) way to gather positive energy from large crowds of people. And I’m pretty sure music and the way we relate to it has something to do with our evolution in the universe. I think it’s crazy and probably not feasible from a scientific point of view, but what if we gave back the planet’s energy through music?

Make use of all the imaginable musical instruments, instead of making use of all the imaginable weapons to differentiate ourselves? Why can't we quench our killing thirst by engaging in musical wars? Why don't soldiers fight eachother with guitars and piano keys?

faded to pretend

there are mornings and there are m-o-r-n-i-n-g-s. the spelled ones are sad even tho the sun is up, even tho the light shines brighter than it did the day before. reason? none. they just are sad and pointless and most of all useless. as they are fated to end. as i am fated to pretend that something good might be standing just right around the corner. but might it? and what's the point in pretending? the sweater i'm wearing today will be old news tomorrow. the face i'm looking at in the mirror today will be all wrinkly and constantly reminding me of what i failed to do rather than what i've succeeded. the boy i love today will be so old news just like my nowadreams just like i will be for him. life is a big fade in fade out sequence. but what happens in between? where do all the fading outs go? faded loves, faded films, faded books, faded actors, faded parents, faded men, faded women, faded friendships? does anyone give a flying f' about them and recycles them for when there will be no more to fade in to? guess not. so my question is this: if the stuff we stubbornly believe will last a small eternity fades away for good, why can't we have the same fading fate? what if this is it? what if what we get in this lifetime is all we get and that's it? what then? what now? what now and then?

smells like mean spirit

have you ever given credit to your smell? and if so, how much? could you bet your life upon it? i'm a dog in the chinese zodiac and this totally shows on my smell. i can easily differentiate putrid onions from slops. and deffinitely can tell what's in one's garbage provided it has been sitting in the bin for too long for the odors to mix. i'm a hard smeller with a big passion for out of the ordinary obsessive mean smells. the heavy and sometimes disturbing smells i could smell an eternity and not get my nostrils bored. the smells that lay between unpleasant smells and strange enough smells that are continuously intriguing although they always smell the same. i'm talking wired smells that i distiguish from a million other smells. this is my top 10 mean smells list:
10. printed paper hot from the copy machine
9. my dog's paws after having been out in the rain
8. storage room of a shoe store (filled with leather shoes - no fetish i swear)
7. hot asphalt
6. licked stamps (and not the ones that make you go crazy, although...)
5. tyres on hot asphalt
4. the overheated vcr (yes i totally remember that smell!)
3. scotch tape
2. my breath on cold glass
1. dirty snow

the sad yield of the heart’s protuberance

Night led the way to an upcoming morning.
The girl eventually woke up although she expected not to.
Her eyes had been swollen from all that crying. Emptyless cries of grief and salt had wet the bed she had taken for virgin.
Too many chances had been taken on those same sheets and not by her. She was damn sure of it.
She got out of bed and walked her three steps towards that hotel-room mirror:

one

two

three

Mirror, mirror on the wall, you are the cruelest bitch of all. Let me see what they see., just this once. Stop showing me what I always see. I know this picture too well. It’s not a winning one, but a whining soon to be gone.

The mirror stood in silence and showed the same girl that it showed every time, regardless of location, type of glass, cut, shape, or place on the wall.

Fine. Be the bitch I know you are. Anyways. Just wanted to share some news: I woke up today with a protuberance on my heart. Chill. It’s not a disease. I’ve goolged it and wikipedia-ed it for the last couple of hours. Care to hear my theory?

Mirror shows same girl nodding.

I reckon I have a second heart that’s growing out of me. See the reason why I believe this is because my heart has been preganant for some time now. And she just went into labor. And gave birth to a new heart. Will this make me immortal? More like imoral if you ask me. One bitch with two hearts: can you just imagine the lines?

Mirror is as still as water.

You must think I’m crazy. You’ll see my point. I’m merely telling you all this so you can be prepared. For when I will fall into pieces. Cause I won’t. That’s what I wanted to let you know. Because I have a spare heart now. A fresh one. Just for me. Don’t look at me as if I were some silly quidnunc. I’m not boasting with my new heart. Besides, I’m telling you. Who better to understand posession of 2 hearts instead of a regular one than an object having none?

Mirror crashes into million pieces.

boy, oh boy

caution: wet floor. i spilled my guts all over this place. i'd hate for you to slip. i'd love for you to fall. i could have used the big words, but i just put up this sign instead. so you footle me properly cause you have already handled me better than right. there's no future tense in this post cause future is so uncertain. there are no promises either. i can't keep promises so why make them? i can't say: i'll give you, i'll feel for you, i'll tell you, i'll be your... cause i won't. life has proven me wrong every time i tried to prove her right. so why bother? as for the words...i could make use of so many, but what would be the point? odes, poems, lines? they have been used by so many and you are one of a kind. boy, oh boy, even if it's wet, you have my floor to take.

let lips do what words do...

your mouth opens and words come out of it and start dancing around like sky divers that have just dove from a plane. at one point they grab hands and hold each other into a sharp circle that's a phrase.

the landing though, the touch base, the first base now that's a dreamer. when lips meet in fours and two by two: upper with lower, upper with upper, lower with upper the alltogethernow until you don't know which one is which and which of them are actually yours.

now you're finally talking!

a kiss is worth a thousand words, a thousand pounds (of weight), a thousand promises.

that is only if it does not turn into a Glasgow kiss or a Liverpool one for that matter. then it's worth a thousand stitches.

c'mon now, last chance

if i haven't panicked by now, now would be a perfect time to get into a genuine Toronto blessing. time is the only constant that's constantly slapping me in the face. the face responds by getting me some new wrinkles. fine. i cope with that. the dreams i had set for myself don't. they signed their resignation letter today and told me to piss off. i did. i pissed. my bladder was asking for it. that was the only reason why i did it. i'm blamed for other people's unhappiness. i'm blamed for other people's lives. i can only take the blame for mines. the rest of you just look within and you'll find there the strength to get over. i'm running late. it's funny tho. cause i quit running a long time ago. case closed. i packed up all my shit and this case is pretty heavy. i don't have money to pay the excess baggage so i'll just leave it here. this is a nice place for my shitty case to rest. i'm sorry. if it makes any difference. if it doesn't, i'm sorry even more for daring to feel sorry for nothin'. there's no more time left. there never was. c'mon now, last chance. have anything to say to me before i go? no?

old travis m.

White house no fence. Front door wide open. Suitcases in front of door and three steps in front of suitcases. I climb them without even noticing I'm climbing stairs.

This is private property, I hear from behind. You here to steal my suitacases?

I turn around: white hair blue eyes. Man. In his 60s.
I can't say for sure what I’m doing here. I was looking for Sammy.

Sammy doesn't live here anymore. He never did.

It’s a she. Sammy is a girl.

What kinda name is that for a girl? Sammy is a boy's name. And he ain't here. Better go away, boy. You not wanted here. I don't want you here. See the name on the postal box? Travis m. that's me. Travis m.

Nice to meet ya. I'm Sammy.

So you are Sammy.. Here hold my hat.

He puts this old trilby on top of my palm with the most careful move in the world, as if it was made of porcelain.

Don’t touch it. Just hold it. I hate it when my head accidentally touches something that has been touched by someone else. How old are you?

17, I say and then start to wonder if I really am 17 or if I’m lying. If so, am I younger or older?

Not good. You can't trust someone older than 14. I can't. I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot ya. You’re trespassing. This is my property mr Sammy. And Travis m. does not like trespassers. Particularly you.

What do you mean shoot me? I’ll leave.

I’m afraid it's too late, boy. A little late for turning back. You here. You die.

Wait a minute. This is not making any sense.

My point exactly with a girl named Sammy. It does not make any sense. And you're older that 14. It adds up in a twisted way. Do you even know why you're here?

No. I thought I was looking for Sammy. But then I figured that I was Sammy. Was I looking for myself? And just came across me?

You are Sammy. But you were not looking for yourself. Quite the other way around.

Myself was looking for me? That’s funny.

Funny, but true. Wouldn't you like for this expression to replace: sad, but true? It would be much easier smart-emotionally speaking.

I’m afraid that's not entirely possible. You see... it would mean that all the sad would be funny.

That’s happening as we speak. Every sad thing has a funny part, as well as there's a lot of sad in funny. It’s not like we're reinventing the wheel here. We’re just giving it some speed.

I’m afraid you lost me.

You chose to get lost. I’m only keeping my course. If you're not following me it's entirely your fault so don't you cast any blame on me.

You must have been alone for a long time.

You see. That’s funny, but true. You’re back on the wagon.

And wehre are we off to?

That’s beside the point. The point is that where we're going we're not coming back from. That’s the beauty of the ride. Nothing ever stays the same. It can't. I’ll explain. You see...there were two circles shaping a green tree. They met cute by shaking their centers. Same thing happened here. You are not here to look for any Sammy; you're here because Travis m. needed you. I just needed someone to help me carry the suitcases inside and I made you up. Now enough with the small talk and help me get these suitcases inside.

Sammy?

Sammy?

I can't believe it! The bastard dropped my trilby..

here's your life, live it

my very best friend told me what she really thought about a choice i have made 7 years after i made it.

why didn't you say anything before? i asked her.


who am i to say anything about you or to judge you?


you are my friend, i replied.


even so, it does not give me any rights to tell you what i think about your choices. they are your choices. what if my point of view is entirely unsuitable for you?


and she was right. and i loved her even more for that.

i remember when i was 16 or 17 and even some time after that giving my own opinion about people's choices in terms of jobs, lovers, and sometimes even lives. sign that my life was not good enough for me or that i had so much time on my hands that i could waste it on other people's lives. i was petty, sad and stupid and defined the saying: get a life!

stupidity has its price and i am glad to say i have paid for mine. luckily it was on sale.

i like to think that i got smarter with time and with the shit i fed on.

smart enough: to know a good man when i see one, to return the favor of making me laugh, to not care about the he said, she said, to see myself in the eyes that look at me and feel good about what i see.

i guess it's all about perspective, angle and heart. but they have to come from the inside and sure as hell have to be looking in. it's hard, but as long as i'll be able to be looking out the window inside myself nothing bad can happen.

there will always be the he said she said bullshit because people are empty and need fillers. just like the one time summer hits to shake the asses on.

the saddest thing about this whole fucked up life is that the more i grow the more i despise human nature. myself included.

that's why i think children rule. their true to form and core, they never give a shit about grown ups and the best thing about them, they have the chi by default.

rock's not white, but white with red and blue

long time, no writing, yet a lot of roaming around and drifting. it would only seem fair to draw a few lines on this page with regards to a certain uplifting experience that i completely recommend to anyone who is just a fraction or even a subfraction interested in music. live music to be precise. live music festivals to make it most accurate.

white and red and blue could be either the stripes and stars or the jack that proudly denounces the union. doesn't matter which is which, as both of them were equally represented. no difference is made as log as all guitars' sound is sharp as ice, the drum kits are polished and push the beat up to your stomach and the bass, the good ol lovin' bass bumps and booms and makes love to your dancing feet. as for the vocals... words can't describe them as notes and hums already have.

sublime to put it bluntly.

add to this layer cake a nice topping of enthusiastic public, flags that salute a singalong battle, tits, beer, buddying and bonding in the name of music, for every stretch of lung on the stage tens of thousands of lung stretches in the public and you get a uk style music festival.

i've just had my first one. and am damn grateful.

I like songs about drifters, posts about the same

I didn’t wake up today. I wanted to, but my eyes’ muscles refused to work. So did all of the other muscles in the world. They were on strike. I felt that I was in a sad relationship where my body was separated from myself, even if we were both sharing the same bed. I can’t stay mad at my body for requesting a break.
I won’t. My mind won’t, if there is any to begin with. I was drifting away from my body, but oddly enough I was enjoying all the bodily pleasures imagined: sun in the eye, raindrops on the skin, laughter at the life.

Tell me what’s in your salad and I’ll tell you what’s in mine.

Fine, I’ll go first. Mine has 2 girls. One that looks like me and feels like me, but is not me compared to the other one who is the epiphenomenon of the first, resembles to me and feels like me with a twist. There’s no dressing, only dresses. One of them dresses casual the other one dresses up as me. I sit the two of them together, but they refuse to look at each other or to acknowledge one another. I’m fine, I can relate to that and to them except I obtusely refuse to relate to myself. Three would be a crowd I guess.

I like to drift and am a sucker for fugacious things: intercourse, ice cream, cigarettes, milk, me. (Do not read that as: milk me. If you do, the pun is all on you and not myself inflicted as the comma lady was visibly there).

An old man was sitting outside his house waiting for Hope. He was waiting for her to die. He had heard that she’d be the last to die and had wagered his friends that he would survive her. He didn’t. The two of them died together as a couple.

I like dogs who look both ways before crossing the street.

I like dogs period.

the pure breed mare in nightmare

I’m riding bus number 9. It’s the first time in a long time that I’m doing this. I take the first chair behind the driver, on the left – the side we drive around here. I’m looking out the window and at the same time looking at it to see my reflection. Can’t really say which eye sees what. This city is sad. More like lonely-sad to be laying in its own stink, decrepit state and hypocrisy. It smells bad. Just like the guy sitting behind me. Then again, who am I to judge? He might have a condition. Maybe he does not have a place to stay and is taking a ride on the bus to forget about that. It’s not my bus so why should I care or form an opinion? I don’t, even though it hurts my smell. The hour is late and the sun has set. What a paradox: the darkness brings out even more ugliness. I look up for hope. I think I see birds that fly away, only they are fucking bats. Their wings flap with contempt and this is merely a reflection of the people walking below. I’m holding a small watch battery that I have found on some stairs I was climbing before I got to the bus station. I’m playing with it and can almost feel it vibrate. It’s in my head tho, the battery is fuckin’ dead. Why else would it be laying on the ground for people to step on it? Finally a ray of light in this dump shit hole: teenage lovers, so untainted and so pure. They hold hands and don’t see any of the sadness that miraculously reveals itself to me every day. The grey in black and brown is being washed away only by billboards. Thank God and advertising for that. However this is only during daylight, because at night there is no light to see their colors, other than the moon’s and poor her, she’s covered in clouds of foggy car smoke so you can imagine the sight. We’ve turned into bats ourselves, our eyes have adjusted to the poor conditions of light. I guess we’ve adjusted to the ugliness and don’t seem to mind it anymore. The drugs come in handy too. Just like the billboards, shed a little color and a dip of confusion and maybe just a drop of paranoia. The perfect mix to the not entirely perfect life we hang on to. This girl sitting beside me has the most beautiful chestnut hair. She can’t be more than 15. I used to be 15 and had chestnut hair. Then I dyed it. It lost its color just like I have lost my virginity – two of the teen girl’s mile stones. More like mild stones for me compared to the rocks that were thrown my way the years to come. Here comes my stop. I have to get off. The thing I can’t possibly understand is why the hell are people in such a hurry to get off the bus? Yeah! Push like cattle in the barn, you cavemen. Geez. God forbid you were left in the bus and had to get off at the next stop. Who would like a bit of unexpected in their life? Nobody. Only the crazy and the irresponsible and the dreamers. The dreamers of bad dreams of course. The nightmare riders.

the seriousness behind being serious

if you want to be brave and be worth it you must perform. it's all about performance nowadays. take sports for instance: work hard, play ball and make sure you don't drop it. if you've dropped the ball, you'd better pray you have dropped it on yourself cause once the ball starts rolling there won't be anyone to put a stop to it. anyone other that yourself. i mean it. i'm as serious as a heart attack.and that is serious to say the least. i'm a sucker for notions' duality, but nothing compares to the duality of serious. i mean, how serious can one get? dead serious, pretty serious with capital P, as serious as a death sentence or maybe as serious as rain, as serious as sex if sex can be serious, bad joke serious or as serious as me when i'm being serious? serious can be good when expected, but don't get too serious orelse it can be fairly misinterpreted. and you don't want to be taken for a joke when in fact you were serious as well as a joke would suffer its most terrible ordeal if taken seriously and not enjoyed for what it is. just a joke. so where lays the border between dead and alive serious? it's borderline that's where it is. the dead serious i guess is linked to the highest amount of serious there could be. to my personal experience and rememberings i've been dead serious on 3 or 4 occasions all together and they were pretty close to death, so i won't go there anymore unless they make me. i like serious when it comes to life, i like alive serious. when the reasons are serious enough. you can't be serious! you, the all mocking, all ridiculing, all constantly fun making cunt wanna be taken seriously? not always. although i have tons of serious notes on my chords. i try to play them, but they must refuse to come out the way i intended them to. and i'm not to be taken serious, i suppose...all that's left for me to do is to get down. to business. to boogie and play it unsafely fun. ball dropping & rolling & all. 'cause after all, as the artist has put it: why so serious?

wheel running at sea

I’ve been at sea for too many years to remember and I must admit I’m starting to feel a bit of a loner. My hands look like some other person’s hands and every time I take a piss I wonder if it’s me holding my chap or some guy with nice hands that could pass on as mine.

I’ve even stopped thinking about women since then. Come to think of it, I’ve never thought about women except for when they were around. They used to look at me with their flowery faces and dance and sing to me. And I would go to sleep. Not anymore. They went blind and I went deaf. The singing still goes on, though.

Sometimes I stop thinking alltogether. The only moments I use to think I just fantasize about taking my own life.

I started with drowning. Quite pathetic, I know. Way to handy. Let’s face it. I have the sea at hand. I could die in a storm if I hit my head on the deck but I could never drown. Do suicidal firemen choose to die in a fire? Don’t think so.

The second choice was slitting my throat. Tried to do it while shaving. I like my neck too much though and instead I broke the mirror in my room. I did take it off the wall and placed it on the poop deck. I like watching myself literally blown to smithereens before I go to sleep. Reminds me I’m not alone.

Third on my list came sharks. I took 'em off the list as soon as they came to mind. I’m not that heroic. And the idea of serving as food to fish I’ve been hunting all my life would be a little bit too fair in setting the universal balance even for me.

There was no forth. The coward in me said stop and started to drink until I fainted. I woke up the next day the sun beating down my neck, saliva beating up my throat.

And then she finally came.

This gentle gust that seemed to say you’ll be fine. At least that was the message that got to me. Nature has its way of settling things as well as disturbing them. As long as it’s not human, I’ll go along with her and ask no questions. I know she has no ulterior motives. And if she does, she’s been around for so long that she knows her way.

I’m equally terrified by her raging strength and dumbfounded by her stealing beauty and I surrender.

single hot-looking psychosis seeks reassurance companionship

i am the last one standing on the face of your earth. the last one in terms of looks, wits, words, facts, plans.

i came in last:
the turn of my pages have already been in the summary of a kiddy book you read when you were little. only you must have skipped it.
what can you bring to the table? they've asked me when my turn came.
nothing new, i replied. but hey, if you take the words separately you could get the impression of getting 2 things. although, we'll declare nothing null and you'll be stuck with just new.
i must warn you, though: don't be fooled. the novelty rests in your remembering of something you have forgotten. so it's debatable.

i'm treachery:
ceci n'est pas une fille. this is the image of a girl. the girl itself is a fucked-up girl, a non girl, a sad girl, a girl in reverse.
depends on how you look at her.
pray she's not a gyr orelse you'll be her prey.
the multiple layers cover her bones. but inside the carcass lays her rotten essence. she's essentially good. the gs in good girl could be hers. since there are 2 of them.

make sure you keep your eyes open at all stages. you have to see all the actors in order to get the author's intent.
when you do, play along. you'll fit in like a glove.
one that has a hand inside. you know i'm scared of handless gloves.

i'm the high that killed the low:
i'm murder result. forensics had to dig up through shit and putrid rats to find my heart. it had my teeth around it and they were the only reliable source to say who i was.
so who was i?
the remains of a nightmare that i had last night.
i was the no in nonsense.
i was the hand that pulled me out of the fire.
i was the fire.
i was the victim.
i was the killer.
i was the rapist.
i was the rape.
i was the bad struggling to be the badder.

what it all boils down to in the end is what i am, not who i was.

i am a bird. you are a bloke. we're different from the start you and me.
good thing our common denominator is that we're both mocking.

rape the sun set the goal

this street is narrower than it was yesterday. i used to walk the road just fine. now i'm hitting the walls and getting these sour scratches that bleed underneath the skin. i guess there comes a time when the path narrows and so do your perspectives. you get only one out of two. not you, stupid. i do. i get one out of two. if i struggle hard enough i could get both. but do i want to? yeah, i think i do.

this street is darker than it was yesterday. i used to see the road just fine. now i'm blinded by the darkness and my eyes hurt even harder than if they would have been blinded by light. i guess there comes a time when the light darkens and so do your options. you get none. not you, stupid. i do. i get none. if i struggle hard enough i could get one. but do i want to? yeah, i think i do.

this street smells heavier than it did yesterday. i used to inhale the odor just fine. now my nostrils stop to repute every scent until they sting with despisement. i guess there comes a time when trouble smells like shit and so do your plans. you get some. not you, stupid. i do. i get some. if i struggle hard enough i could get some more. but do i want to? yeah, i think i do.

this street is mine-er than it was yesterday. i used to let it be walked down on just fine. now i just let it be walked up on. i guess there comes a time when sun gets up and stays there and so do you. you stay up. not you stupid, i do. i'm up. if i struggle hard enough i could get upper. but do you want me to?

Past Lives PART 8

As time advances skin shrivels and memories faint. Our past becomes this pair of binoculars that see shattered images of our life, which sometimes look like dreams. Might seem like other people’s dreams. People as familiar to us as ourselves. Perhaps ourselves in other lives. Our life in Past Lives. This is one of the past life stories of David, a 35 years old Australian who tries to understand himself through Past Life Regression (PLR).

David’s Past Lives is a collection of stories that stretches over different historical time lines, continents and blogs. This will be the 8^th. For life number 1 please go to PART 1 - Lillys Life, Australia

" I can't move my arms. I'm trapped. Water is rising to my neck. Mama…all I can think of is mama…and Lilly……."

Dr. Marlowe: Where are you, David?

My ears are subdued by this voice that speaks from beyond my reasoning: w-h-e-r-e-a-r-e-y-o-u? I hear it, and almost distinguish the letters and their sense, but when it finally reaches me, I lose it.

I open my eyes and everything around me is blurry.

It must be this wine. Although the bottle seems rather trustworthy by the looks of its label: 1956 Romanian wine - 16 years old. I’m only 3 years older than this wine, is this supposed to make me better?

Now I remember.

I’ve been out drinking all night. Oh sweet Bucharest October. You always sweep me off my feet…13th October 1972. But whatever happened to the 12th?

Of course, it’s all coming back to me: I was at that precious winery on Victoriei sipping from grapes nipples all night long. Morning Dawn… what an explicit name. I took this bottle on my way out. And there was this girl too…We even kissed... I love my life!

Only I’ve had too much to drink this time. Oh my head hurts like crazy. I need to pull myself together.

What time is it? My watch has stopped. Oh Dear God, have you been drinking, too? I don’t remember dipping my watch hand into the big wine barrels. And even if I did remember, I would deny it with the grace of the great artist that I am.

Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.

No time for yawning. I have to get back to work.

What was I thinking? Drinking recklessly. My character depends on me. And so do the poor ignorant people that are depending on my writing.

Open the door! You hear me? Open the door you little rat. If you ever want to be writing that piece of crap you so call People’s Column you’d better move your fingers towards the knob and open this door at once.

I’m Coming! What is the matter?

Are you Matei Limpezeanu?

Yes. The one and only. The artist.

Well I’m afraid your artist days have just finished. Put a shirt on and follow me.

Hey. Is this some kind of joke? Are you the police? The militia?

I am a respectable citizen. I have just got back from Paris where I have studied violin and I recently landed a spot on the national philharmonic. I’m on my way to being first soloist.

Yeah, yeah. I’m impressed. Not. I know you’re just this up and coming young journalist dreaming to be playwright. Besides, you should have thought of your career when you were feeling my boss’s daughter last night. Remember? Morning Dawn? Not only have you made a complete arse of yourself, but you also left there with Clara. My boss’s 16 years old daughter. Where is she?

16? So she’s the same age as the wine. Now that’s more than a mere coincidence. Where is she by the way?

Dead. She was found dead on an alley close to Victoriei about 5 hours ago. That’s pretty close from here. Guess what? In less than an hour you’ll be dead too.

Wait a minute. Let’s not get hasty here. I don’t remember anything from last night. I mean, I remember leaving MD with a girl and a bottle of wine. The wine is still here as you can see. But I can’t remember bringing the girl here. I guess she got lost on the way.

This is not the time to be funny Mr. Journalist. Although I’ve heard you’re struggling with your new material. Your play that’s supposed to bring down The Boss? Aren’t you a little young to be playing with the big boys? This is not the high school theatre, you know?

OK. Now I get it. It’s that boss. Hey listen let’s be reasonable here. You don’t need to hurt me. I don’t know anything about no girl. Clara is a nice name. I might use it in my play. If only I could finish it. This character is killing me. Instead of me giving birth to him, I guess he will end up ending me. The never-ending-hard-filling blank page is like a lustless virgin woman. Like Clara come to think of it.

You could turn out a good writer. But who am I to say when I bring in bad news: you won’t finish the play cause I’m about to finish you. There is no Clara. She’s just a pretext. Move! Get dressed and let’s go.

Ooo. There’s no need for a gun. I’m moving. I’ve heard about people disappearing, I even had an act on the subject prepared for my play. My character, a journalist as well was going to disappear and big fists were shoved in his mouth. That’s a metaphor believe it or not.

Very close to reality. Only you’ll have a gun shoved in your mouth. It’s the way it has to be. Scum like you, pretending to reveal the truth disgust me. Too bad you’re only 19. you could have made a nice party member. Maybe could have written some nice hymns for the boss. For children to sing each year on the 23^rd of August!

I’d rather end up like my character. And like Clara.

Take him boys.

I could not have put it better in my play. I guess I am the character after all.

You’re going to kill me on the back alley? Aaaaa!! What was that noise?

Hey, you’re hurting me. Oh. My head! I’m dizzy. I can’t hear a sound and funny enough I can still hear myself think. It’s so hot. This water running down the back of my head seems boiled. It’s going to burn me. If only I could remove it with my hand. It’s thick burning water. Oh no! It’s blood and there’s Clara..

To read PART 9 of David's journey you will be travelling to LouCeel, Illinois. David's next PLR Session is in the next couple of days so check back to find out where his past life journey takes him.

If you would like to contribute to the story and join in David's journey, please email lillyslife@gmail.com or go to The Red Chair Gallery.

the sooner they come the harder they bum

Charlie was sitting in front of the coffeehouse. very sad and wasted after the other night's party. it had been her 27th birthday, the longest and saddest party of all.

there had been all her friends best and worst, declared and alleged enemies. all the people she had met during her stay in that life had come to celebrate her 2.7 version release.

the night had passed and she was all alone on an alley in front of the used-to-be-her-b-day-party-location. she was holding a plastic coffee cup yet oddly enough it was not filled with coffee, but with whiskey.

she took one sip, grunted as hell and felt the harsh burning sensation down her throat. she tried to spit it all out. and then she remembered: it had been him who had given her the cup. right before he had left. he muttered some: happy wishing to you my love, and gave her the cup as if it had been some sort of very expensive gift that she should have treasured forever.

that ugly tiny sip made it all profusely come back to her: the 2.7 release, the friends to whom she had shown only part of herself and had no clue of who she really was, the good time she had wasted and the bad time that had detained her from wasting more good one, the people hating her for what she had never been, the ones loving her for exactly the same cause, the boyfriend she loved for all the wrong reasons (he wasn't the right guy after all, but that was even more no excuse for her oblivion).

she kneeled down to forensicaly examine the pavement in search of a revelation, an epiphany...it failed to appear like everything else she had expected. the sun was rising up over the buildings and over her head as well. and so did the awaited sign: her phone beeped.

boyfriend calling:

Hi babe, I have misplaced my plastic cup. have you seen it?

I'm holding it and was about to throw it away. need it?

Badly.

Oops, I've dropped it. sorry. you should get another one. besides, it was plastic anyway. i thought you didn't like cheap.

not when it comes to people, but objects i can handle. speaking of cheap, you looked lovely last night. i bet you still do, even now hangovered as hell. you were quite the drinker.

only celebrating. you know me, i need to reinstate myself every year.

as a drunk?

as myself. i think this year i'm finally over you.

i bet this was your birthday wish. and i don't want to rain on your birthday parade, but it won't happen. you know you're hooked.

perhaps. but not by you. or with you. you just happened to represent what i thought i was looking for.

what a lovely theory. came up with that all by yourself? i'm sorry to say it, but you're not tough outside the words that make up this theory and you'll end up crying yourself to sleep over me. and it's a shame to do that. especially after having drunk so much last night. you'll give yourself a very bad headache.

what the fuck do you want, by the way? why did you call. you gave me the fuckin cup last night and told me it was my birthday present. thanks! it's nice. i'll take it home wit me. anything else?

yeah. i was thinking to fuck you up even more and sing some Van McCoy to you.

baby i'm yours? could you possibly be more of a sleazy jerk?

you know i have no limits when it comes to you. baby. in other words, until I die.

don't make me wish for that.

Charles, you have to get used to it: i'm here to hurt you, you're here to take it, i'm here to like it, you're here to fake it, but at the end of the day it's just me being here and you being nowhere without me.

(she clears her throat): so..will ya sing it? with the backing and all? until eternity?

i could. i can. are you sure you want me to?

until 2 and 2 is 3.

here it goes:

stop. don't. please. you'll just ruin it. can't you see that the beauty of it all is captured in that song only. you simply can't just go around and fuck people up with other people's songs.

i'll do a cover of it. just for you.

you can cover up your tracks and get out of my life. backwards. i'll let you wave me good bye. i'll even smile. and who knows? i even might play baby i'm yours as the soundtrack. just to make it a little emotional. and you know what? i'll even give you the cup back. cause there's nothing i want to from you. nothing else i mean. i got my birthday present, babe. i got myself back to me. so bye. in other words, until eternity

she lets the phone slip inside her back pocket and herself slip out of the alley.

the cup is watching her from behind as she walks away.

what if as if?

coco nuts have coco babies

lines should always be final

mice could not possibly be mean

big mouths cry for big words

green eyes ejaculate charms

snakes travel in skins

love is not blind for moles

daffodils never argue

zebras are allowed to make fun of dalmatians

hazel can't go nuts

lizards don't wear slippers

hedgehogs should not go missionary

a fine is never fine

my other self is otherwiser

erratum

thanks to my editors' sharp wording eye corrections are in order.

therefore, please read the previous angelic post by making use of the following grammar exercise:

the vowel switch - replacing o with a only where "bold" is concerned.

i yield bold in favor of bald.

when angel wings go bold

the common impression about angels as far as my childhood rememberings go is that they have wings. this is their distinct trait, the first notion that wraps around the mind's eye to grow into the concept: nice big long wings with feathers that must taste like foreverlasting cotton candy.

or so i thought. the girl in me had always imagined: if i ever meet an angel i'll ask them for a feather to suck on till the end of time. as far as the taste went, i was pretty sure it was heaven - if there was/is one and if it was/is not tasteless.

in the mean time i grew up from being a child (saddest story) and came to realize that cotton candy melts instantly in your mouth, heaven is in fact on earth, but it has time limits and it's not that heavenly after all, and i wouldn’t even be surprised to find out that angels wings go bold.

their wings - the acme of their angelic figure - can fall and not grow back.

from time to time there would even be isolated cases of angels spotted around these fancy physical angel flaws mending clinics checking out cotton candy implants. that would be sad. just like growing up. like getting old. like getting tired. like falling out of love. or falling out of bed.

falling feathers. falling angel feathers. fallen angel feathers. featherless wings. bold wings. bold angel wings. That could be one scenario out of six.

another one would be that angels going bold get human and become human angels. the essence of what used to be good, soft and tasty, but humanly packshotted. they spread the light translated into good vibe and warmth translated into good times.

they're far from perfect, still being humans, but not so far from being angelike.

they even smell like cotton candy and maybe, if you try hard enough you can taste some slim reminiscence of that sugar yarning to get caramel only through a soft kiss.

if you can't feel their taste, try feeling their back. if it's arched with sharp shoulder blades, they can pass for bold winged angels. when and if spotted, stick around them. the vibe will follow. the good one. and even if it's bad at times, it's still good. just like their essence.

course of life's curse

fair curly haired mark is hooked up with big tits leslie who dated flat ass tim (but did not fuck) who went to high school with freckled sam who fucked red head tina who used to go out with leslie's brother dean who had a crush on lame jane who will blow mark on the way to a distant island in the bathroom of a boat driven by ultimate jock james who grabbed leslie's ass at a party while she was still with mark who broke up with her to hook up with not so virgin mary who had been married to peeping tom who realized that he might have a crush on fancy andy who was tim's best friend and had a crush on leslie when she still treasured her virginity and dated tim who had lost his to pita gipsy singer in a karaoke bar owned by gay spanish looking italian pedro that came on to tom only to make him turn to andy whose cousin mary angela dated tina's long term pen(msn) pal ricco from rio who had come for the holiday and stayed for one year because he had lost his passport on bus no 10 only to be found by kim this japanese manga character from the best selling asian comic series: 悪態人生航路

selfconfession

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Or should I say bless me?

Forgive me will do. Blessings died with Kurt.

Forgive me than.

What have you done?

I’ve broken my promise to you and to the one I said I loved.

That’s why I count on prayers from the heart. Moving lips are mostly talk back, unless they’re used for kissing or breathing life.

You’re funny.

You reckon? I’m the funniest. Go ahead with your confession. Cut the bullshit. I’ll redeem you without you having to kiss my ass. As long as you man up to your deeds.

I made a promise and broke it. I’m shit. I know.

I made the promise never to interfere, but free will can be a tricky concept. I haven’t interfered; I’ve only multiplied the options.

You know what’s funny? I didn’t even change my mind. It simply hadn’t been made up in the first place. I got caught up in this verve of doing things beacuse they were supposed to be done. And in a rushing manner like I was dying for it to be over before it had even started. I had believed in it for so long, that I was mesmerized by the fact it was finally happening, that I haven’t even stopped myself to wonder if I still needed it or not.

Text book case of error in judgment. And by that I don’t mean the B book.

Surely not. That much I can figure out.

Are you sorry?

For living in a blur? Yes. For believing? No. For causing pain? Yes. For the hard work to make it work? No. For the broken promise? Yes. For its outcome? No.

That’s an even double 3.

Or triple 2. (soft smile) What’s your take on this saying: if you sin and it involves someone else, confess it to God and ask the someone to forgive you for your mistake. If your sin only involves you, confess it to God and ask Him to forgive you - then keep it to yourself and forgive yourself, because God already has.

Perfect example of human bullshit. I’m guessing this is behind this step of yours, ha?

Not entirely. I owed you one. Yet another one to be exact. You almost had me believe it could work. And I did. And it did for a while. Or I thought it did. Or I simply wanted so desperately to think it did that I did. But it didn’t. Even though I did. And I’m not trying to make it sound funny. Cause it’s not.

You just sounded like a five year old. Which, if you had been… We would not be having this discussion. We would debate more important things like the genuine essence of playing or how to laugh from the heart and mean it. Nobody forces the mouse to go for the cheese. But mice rarely make it out of the trap. When they do, and if they do, they should be happy and mean it. It’s always been this soft balance between right and wrong. Tilt it only a little in favor of the right, and you’re riding the plus wave. Early broken heart heals faster than a very old and too-long-time broken one.

You know that childhood sickness of pustules that itch like crazy, that you can hardly keep away from scratching, and once you do scratch, you feel guilty for doing so, but at the same time feel free and gleeful and relieved…I feel like I'm coming down with that.

Again? Back to childhood, eh?

Ironically, yes. We'll have to catch up on the five year old topics. As for the boils, I’ll be permanently scarred. That will be my mark. It will always be a part of me. But oh boy, that scratching...

B's kissable demeanor

I want to be famous! says B. gently swooshing her tongue over her thickish lips.

What's stopping you? I replied - I only now realize that I wished there was something that did.

You're never giving me credit. You know? I mean.. What am I to you? Supposedly you had to describe me as if your life depended on the speech. What would you say? How would you start?

Dearest B. I don't want my life to depend on the accuracy of my description of you. I'd rather it didn't.

I guess this is stopping me then.
Her eyes dimmed in light and sparkle. I almost felt guilty for that, but carried on:

My refuse to play a childish game of extolling you?

Precisely!

Well why don't you tell me? What would you have me say?

I have considered it to be honest.

Why doesn't it surprise me? (It didn't. Not in the slightest bit. She's so much out of the ordinary that it would be against her well set order not to have imagined it at least a gazillion times)

I'm not going to tell you, though. You might take credit for it.

It wasn't her words, nor the moment, not even her presence that squeezed out of me this malefic urge to kiss her. I can't explain it. I didn't, though. I might have frightened her. Or, come to think of it, I was frightened that she might respond. How do you take it from there? Just weigh in: Hey, sorry. I simply felt the need to act upon this small kiss. I've done it, now I don't want to take it further it was more of a tongue and cheek moment.

She's not the kind to do that to. It's not in halves and quarters with B. It's all or nothing at all.

the seriousness behind getting serious

if you want to be brave and be worth it you must perform. it's all about performance nowadays.

take sports for instance: work hard, play ball and make sure you don't drop it. if you've dropped the ball, you'd better pray you have dropped it on yourself cause once the ball starts rolling there won't be anyone to put a stop to it. anyone other that yourself. i mean it. i'm as serious as a heart attack.and that is serious to say the least.

i'm a sucker for notions' duality, but nothing compares to the duality of serious.

i mean, how serious can one get? dead serious, pretty serious with capital P, as serious as a death sentence or maybe as serious as rain, as serious as sex if sex can be serious, bad joke serious or as serious as me when i'm being serious?

serious can be good when expected, but don't get too serious orelse it can be fairly misinterpreted. and you don't want to be taken for a joke when in fact you were serious as well as a joke will suffer its most terrible ordeal if taken seriously and not enjoyed for what it is. just a joke.

so where lays the border between dead and alive serious? it's borderline that's where it is.

the dead serious i guess is linked to the highest amount of serious there could be. to my personal experience and rememberings i've been dead serious on 3 or 4 occasions all together an they were pretty close to death, so i won't go there anymore unless they make me.

but i like serious when it comes to life, i like alive serious. when the reasons are serious enough.

you can't be serious! you, the all mocking, all ridiculing, all constantly fun making cunt wanna be taken seriously?

not quite. but i have tons of serious notes on my chords. i try to play them, but they just refuse to come out the way i intended them to.

all that's left for me is to get down. to business. to boogie and play it unsafely fun. ball dropping & rolling & all.

'cause in the end... why so serious?

love is for movies and books

there's no such thing as love. i don't want to burn any myths or destroy any virgin heart that dreams at night of lovers enchantments and love songs uttered by rosy lips under the not so pale moon light.

but love does not exist. honestly. it's a notion. a word. it's a nonentity. a chimera. a nice dream. a poem. a line. a 30 second frame with nicole kidman and tom cruise.

people have feelings for one another, but they do not love each other. they can't. not in the sense of the word. not in the dictionary sense..

the deep, the tender, the attraction, the recognition, the kinship, the emotion, the affection, they exist. but what sums all of them together, doesn't.

the L to the O to the V to the E is just smoke blown up our heartshaped asses.

pessimistic bitch! i can hear the cantankerous say. what do you know about love?
a thing or 2, i would reply. seen some movies, read some books, dipped my brain into some poetry and had some shivers down my spine. other that that.. nothin.

because love does not exist for real. when you take it out of the beautiful laid illustrated pages of some wordsworth tome, or out of the over-polished-smoothly-filtered-cached-fx-propped-cinema film you're stuck with life. real life. and it's not the same.

so when you see the l-o-v-e revealing its perfectness like the most angelic fairy skinny dipping in the moonlight, you honestly can't expect to match that in real life.

unless... it belongs to a writer

excerpt 1

i'm almost burning inside. it's chemic. she looks at him with her big dark eyes and melting smile.

fuck chemistry. you've gotta get cerebral. switch to brain mode. it's easy.

don't find myself at ease with the process anymore. she sighs.
it got stuck. the mode i mean. it works only when in connection with machines. it's infallible. but when it comes to people and rationalizing myself in relation with them, it's damaged.

overly over reaction. it's so you. listen honey. you've been living in this 3d reality of dreams, drugs and dicks. you're not a chemical substance to react by the book. even though, i have to admit you've oxidate yourself a little lately. he laughs as an accomplice to the discovery.

she finds that cute, but feels obliged to fight back:
that's mean. you're mean.

i'm not. merely stating the obvious. if you can't handle it, get the fuck out and don't come back. i'm not babysitting you. and what the fuck do you want me to say? pet you on the head and agree with your misleading self? i can't and you know i'm not granting favors. you get what i have. i can't go overboard with you. or anyone else for that matter.

you're right. but it hurts, you know?

anything out of your surreal reality will hurt you, babe. get used to living in the real world. among flesh and bruises.

she scowls. not because of his words, but because he's right. not because she's wrong, but because she's been missing the points. she's been missing his points. and they didn't come cheap or easy.

queenish soliloquy

short term lashes close rapidly upon my green eyes. they seem to laugh, they have an expression of their own as if separated from the rest of my face.

they speak the lashes. like arched lips batting together in an almost forsaken embrace. they seem impatient to separate and yet so hungry to reunite only to be devised again. their touch is merely brushy. a seasonal gust.

the cycle goes unnoticed. it's just a reflex.

but then, at one point, i simply catch glimpse of them. separate entities with an own law. sometimes they're noisy. i can hear their whiff. as if tired of the continuous process they are subjected to.

embraced and rejected. two teams of lovers shaking hands and waving goodbye. meeting and separating. making acquaintance and dismissing one another.

if they spoke the human words tales of unfulfilled romances would be squandered.

if they played the human music mesmerizing spine tap riffs would be liberated.

if they danced the human moves unseen sways would be unearthed.

Last night I was in a Mike Nichols film

Or just a similar situation that would have fitted in one. I was a strong woman character. Don’t know exactly if you would have been proud of me, but I am positive you would have at least raised an intrigued brow. I had some good lines. Came up with them on my own. Even surprised myself on the process.

But this post is not about Mike Nichols, or myself, or any other film. It’s about music. And how I love that spark of excitement I get from time to time from American bands in this overwhelming sea of British power. And just to name a few in hope that you will give them a chance if you haven’t already done so, I applaud until my hands hurt, the order is completely not important: The National, We are scientists, MGMT, Interpol, the almighty Strokes and I'm sure the list goes on in every separate head. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to turn this into a US vs. Brit debate. I love both equally in measure, but completely different as type of love and what they make of me. The British band genius is over expected and most of the times beyond human in its ease, that's why, when an American band is genius it's even more overwhelming.
I’m supported by: Fake empire, Ghouls, Kids, Pioneer to the falls, and Ize of the world. These are strictly my personal choices and no one could tell me different.

1st hypothetical situation of an imaginary conversation

Hello, luv [as in the gentle over-the-phone-head-petting of a Scottish receptionist in her late 50s]. Huge apologies are in order. I so can’t believe I’m such an amateur (won’t blame you if you won’t have to do with me after this). But I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. And I remember your saying yes to second chances so I’ll take mine now if you will be so kind. We’ll re-shoot an important scene. I hope this won’t be a major set back. Back to the explanation.
You see, I am the child of 2. Number 2. Well, 2 people as well, I guess. I was born on the 2nd. Of February. And so was my grandma. My 2nd up in line. I was 2nd in my class (only where grades were concerned). I’ve always picked the 2nd card, always been governed by this number, and rigidly lovin’ it every 2nd. I always take the 2nd thought that pops in my mind as the best and always chose the second road when I’m driving. Hell, I even like taking a shit better than number 1. So, I guess I come in 2s.
Cut to:
Having gone for the cure on the band debate. SUPER CUT! What a wrong answer! That’s minus a lot of points for me. I mean, yeah, it would have been nice to have this fucked up girl with a twist, saying that you’re her cure. But it’s ridiculous, way too cheesy. I got too carried away and completely forgot I’m in the 1st league now (even though I would have gone for 2nd for the obvious reasons).
I was the biggest dick to type the first thing that popped into my mind. (btw, this reminds me of that Seinfeld episode where George came with a good punch line after the subject was already dead and buried.. amateur, I know). Get to the point. Here it goes: if in this imaginary conversation I could get even an inch close to the vicinity of muse (which, btw, kinda swept me up and it had better been from the heart, or else you’ve been crueler than before (even though I realize I deserved that non-creative freak show to be displayed at for not coming up with this when I was supposed to)) you are definitely editors. And that’s a wrap!

walked my dog in Central Park

this gloriously beautiful morning seemed the perfect opportunity to do so. we strolled out of the subway and headed for the light. it was just me and my perfect Irish setter. 2 stains of red on that green blanket.
we felt like stars him and me. even if he's too old to tell, he still got that slim look. undoubtedly the most handsome dog. heads turned. for him. for me. who's to say?
i was wearing this white dreamy skirt. not exactly see through, but enough to get the mind working. and a gray top (that i had slept in) who gave up the fight with my breasts and just let them hang at their own will (such a nice chap - one of my favorites).
this guy passed by from the opposite direction. he was riding his bike. smiles hooked up in the air. but nothing else.
i was so craving for a latte. vanilla if possible.
Sasha was all over the place. like being a pup again.
we sat on the grass when i saw these candy colored toe nails. like skittles, begging to be licked. i though they were mine, but i was wearing running shoes. thank god for that. just imagine getting into some carnivorous lust for my own toe nails. they were this chick's. she got up. she wasn't more than 16 and smelled divine: newyorkish sweat mixed with some Chanel Chance leftovers.

what a great way to start your day. my creative zen was screaming from my bag:

She said I'm going use my teeth and my breasts
I'm gonna make it happen
She said Run run run run run run
And you cannot run or ever, ever escape
You cannot run or ever hide it away
Something glorious is about to happen

And it did. The whole moment was glorious. little 16 took some pictures of us, smiled the whitest happiest after party smile and took off.
Sasha sat next to me. tongue out, but still having the wisest air. looked as if saying: we sort of made it, sister, haven't we?
I concurred with a smile and turned the volume up:

She don't think straight..
No, no, no, She don't think straight

Then I woke up.

pop up

action.
sometimes noun.
most of the times in your face.
produces surprise, a bit of excitement and a dash of adrenaline.
could be the crazy corn peas hooked up on microwaves & grease rush. they smack their heads on paper walls and end up all dilated. what a party that is!
or it could be the virtual windows that computers open incessantly. the noise is somewhat similar to that of the party geezers from upstairs.
before you know it, you get whirled up in this never ending popping machine. pop this, pop that, everywhere pop, pop. it turns into this cheesy music from a german 90's commercial (still used proudly to this day where i come from).
it has gotten to the point where it's so natural and part of you as your gagging reflex. each time you swallow, something somewhere pops.
best to enjoy it. with the beat from the keyboard's clickety clack, it's the music that surrounds you on a daily basis.
call me old fashioned, but i'll disable the sound option. and play mint car. much more exciting, lovable, even with a touch of pop. the other kind of pop.

20k leagues below my league

Anger. Disappointment. Misbelief. Exhaustion. Or I guess I’m simply tired of thinking that everything is going to be OK, when in fact it’s hardly ever going to. It’s not OK at all, but I have just learned to settle (not necessarily for less, but for what I can get) and to say that the OK that I get is the OK that I have been expecting or the OK that I’ve been dreaming about.
I guess I’m a settler, which can be really cool in this looking-only-for-wins-type-of-life, but the more I come to think about it, the more I realize that I’m so far from the league I would picture myself in.
This is only because the picturing myself part has no boundaries, at least not for me, and the childhood princess in me will always struggle to come out and be crowned as queen. And I couldn't possibly say no to her.

too busy fuckin' Bs

you wake up (sometimes in the shower, other times when you get to work), have a coffe and get your lazy ass in the car. drive for 1 hour to the office and spend 9 more chained to your desk. Sometimes you have lunch, other times fun, but most of the times you don't have the nerve to say fuck off, i don't need this.
and so you get trapped in some sort of mind altering machine that displays your possible well being as an end to your stupid-job-means.
you believe, you hope, you work and in the end you're nothing but this fucked up slave.
no mind of your own. you’re told when and where to pee, when to wake up, when to get to work, when to eat, when to fuck. and you do it proudly. just as you’re taught/told. because you're dying to attain the end. sometimes it's that forever end, other times it's not that radical, but not even close to what you have expected.
whatever happened to running barefoot in the mountainish rain, to snogging in the morning for hours, to fucking the job and going for a picnic in the woods, to lay in the sun and have your lover stroke your bony back with a straw of grass, to just laughing for no reason?
could I get more rhetorical than this?
it’s a good thing we have movies, videos and commercials to put that stuff into, while we keep this working-spending cycle alive and never get to that promised end which is as fake as the money we make and the stuff we think it buys us.

Featuring September

No rush. The sun is up and coming.
Your face pressed to the windshield.
Windy smell salutes your nose.
I'm happy. Happy to be able. Happy to fall off
The heat and the overrated summer,
The pressure of concrete roads.
I drive. I'm going far and hoping
The rain will flush my hair
And soak the heart out of my skin.
Reluctantly I grip on my shivering shoulders.
I like it. It just makes me smile.
It seems so plain and simple from the outside.
Instead of laughing I could cry.

Daze and confuse

My name is restrain: i act on constraints
reveal blushy facts
Uphold what is old
Your next move is my well
I'm green and do spell just two letter words

like: so, no, at, me

Repress what i hear, confess what I see..

Don't cover me all

to show your mistakes

It's all foggy inside, just can't find the brakes.

What are friends for - answer

I got the answer 5 minutes later after having posted the previous, well post.
A friend is for the time when you I are sad (and have posted annoyingly depressed posts).

Funny enough, I have come to realize that friends are people who you don't see that often, but come up exactly when they are needed.

I my particular case, to answer my self-posed question, a friend - that I haven't seen or spoken to for a long time - messed (Yahoo IM :)) me after I’ve type-uttered my question.

After having told him that it wasn't such a "good evening", he started telling me about this cute kitten he just got, sent me some photos and small talked my problems away!

I guess...That's exactly what friends are for!
Hey! Thanks a lot! And give Jinx a pet from me!

What are friends for?

Yep! That's actually a real question and not a rethorical one.

So what are they for? Love, trust, help, need, what are they for? Unless they exist only for the sake of this particular phrase: Hey, relax, what are friends for?

That's exactly what I want to know. Just as I have stated before: ''Such a distinct and solid notion this friendship… actually, like the name says, it is definitely bound to sink. No ship lasts a lifetime. You have to invest money and time in it, or else…its value will decrease and you won’t make up for what you put in it in the first place.''. To my complete amazement and disappointment, I see that the notion of ''friend'' shares the same finality: it has "end" comprised. Is this to say that no friend lasts forever? All friENDships are bound to finish? Perhaps this is the reason why they start in the first place.

I could easily be contradicted by speakers of other languages who would say that my course is merely a formality, and I'm not looking for the depths of the notion rather than the actual form. Is it? Am I? I sure hope so!

Talking to B

The same night I met B. or better said she met me, she approached me with her long arm, gentle as a willow, but bound to the presence of a man. She was desperately looking for me and she found me at last.

- Hello, my name is B.
- Well, hello, B., nice to meet you.
- You too!
- And what is it that you do, B.?
- Oh, I’m sick. I’m a sick person over at Unconscious and Depressed. Have you heard of them? They have put together a very successful business: a lot of satisfied employees and many other people to follow their politics.

- I am sure…I definitely have to look into what they are doing.
- You do that. They have done a pretty job for me, I’m almost one step to being completely enlightened. I mean, I will be promoted next month. I’ll be dead.

- Really? I am so happy for you. You are truly an inspiration. How did you manage to go such a long way in such a short period of time?

- Well, to tell you the truth: it hasn’t been a bit easy. I can ensure you of that.

- I am convinced, but what is the secret, if there is one?

- There are a lot of them. In fact secrets are what take you to this level. The more you have, the quicker you promote. It’s like degrees.
- I see. Unfortunately I don’t have any secrets. Not even childhood ones. I never liked them. I always tried to run away from them. See the thing is: I am an only child and have been raised to be selfish. It’s not my fault, nor my parents’. It’s life’s fault. And every time that I had something to eat, I just could not share it with anyone. Therefore, keeping secrets made me think that I would have to feed them too so they could keep on living safely with me. But I couldn’t do that, so I ended up letting them out, go to someone, so that I could have my dinner in peace, all by myself.

- That’s too bad. Maybe you’ll get one. One for free, so that you won’t have to feed it. You see, as long as you don’t pay for something, therefore not invest, therefore not having had to work for it, it no longer requires your attention, care, trust, love. It exists on its own. The same thing happens with love relationships. They are ships that last and don’t need repair and care. They have to last, since they were given away for free. The sad part is that we insist on taking care of them, and involving and we end up by smashing them on some cliffs, or leading them in a shipwreck. I personally think that they should sell us friendships and relationships. Yeah, make us pay a lot of money, like mortgage and interest for as long as we live. So that we will take care of them with deep conviction and ensuring them in any possible way we can so that nothing bad could happen. Just imagine the commercials and the discussions on the street: how much was your relationship…that expensive? Wow! You have a lot of guarantees for it. I‘m sure it will work on the clock!

Introducing..B (introduction)

One sad and lonely night, like almost all the nights I have with myself.

Such a distinct and solid notion this friendship… actually, like the name says, it is definitely bound to sink. No ship lasts a lifetime. You have to invest money and time in it, or else…its value will decrease and you won’t make up for what you put in it in the first place.

I always envisioned my lover as my best and most trustworthy friend. And I thought I had finally found him. I still do. Only at times, I find myself lying next to a complete stranger. O.K. there are two ways of seeing this: one is that it could be my overestimating imagination, or two, that he didn’t come close to my idea of friend in the first place, what, to be honest, has to do with my imagination as well. This means there is only one guilty party and that is my imagination, me, myself, I.

ASH

First post must always be the hardest. Or so they say... My first time - on the posting business - turned out to be blank: rooky mistake:)).
I'll consider the second my first time and advise you to do the same - blogwise of course. If the title caught your attention, you'll be expecting something in the vicinity of ASH (annoying social habits).
I'll just make some comments on annoying habits. Social habits. Annoying...
At least for me. Find any of this familiar? Feel free to post your own annoying social habit.
The most annoying social habit (as far as I'm concerned) is : useless and lame greeting conversation for the sake of passing time or avoiding uncomfortable silence. Most of them are mainly stating the obvious: You cut your hair? You've changed your look? Yes, i have. You look nice.
Time wasters. In my opinion. I mean, we could save so much time just by saying: i like/don't like what you've done to your hair/face/so on. Why waste time on politically correct social conversation during cigarette or coffee break, when we're clearly not interested?