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?