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.