...and I'm still staring at the clouds.

Moth-er

2007-09-09T03:45:00.001-07:00

the light burns your eyes
yet you still fly and fly but
you don’t
and it’s almost as if it breaks your heart, my heart
see
what you obviously don’t

white white white light
and it’s all in darkness all
no light

the light soaks
it floats and it soaks, for
in this world
your wings are dusty and
give shade, veil the light

that light you don’t want to discover

clean clean clean your sheets
your wings
only then you shall see the light, the world
will not be smudged
and you shall fly.

So please fly.

End: Summer

2007-09-05T05:41:00.001-07:00

Where did summer go? Three months up and gone, probably the most perfect three months I'll ever get to experience again. Seven best friends spending the most intimate, closest moments together. But I guess now with the end of summer comes the end of many things. An indefinite pause in our lives is inserted here as we depart for studies. This is the start of a new era. And yet, it seems like the sun is shining brighter on this side of time.

A Concerto

2007-08-30T07:00:00.000-07:00

Piano notes pin themselves onto negation,
A swirl of black books breaking and
carving the white carpet with their inky presets.
Mobile phones swim in a bowl of aching water,
There are no goldfish to make it seem sweeter,
And the connection line attached to the answering machine
Screams in avid reality:
“Heil die Liebe!”
Gravity evaporates into stony clouds and
Ticking clocks float like balloons of expectation.
It’s a family funeral of musical strings
Where the only ones having fun are the opposing drums,
And the world melts deeper into the
Infinite abyss of its fading heart.

Status Update

2007-08-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

Status: In a relationship.
Song of the moment: You Can't Stop the Beat - Hairspray Soundtrack.
Prospects for future: High.
Next stop: London, together.
Mood: Content and happy.
Edit:
Mood: Doubtful.

Home

2007-08-20T15:45:00.000-07:00

I was just at the old port with the old group friends. We were singing along in the car, acting out sex scenes, lip-synching, making videos, smoking, pretending to be mad, amongst other things. Then I found myself on the rocks with my dear Ray. Sitting there and smoking has become a habit - almost an impulse after food. It's our little sanctuary, almost rosey. We feel each other there. And the entire world disappears. I've had the most beautiful moments of my life there. And in addition to those, another one tonight:

Me and Fabulous Pete were talking about Finding Nemo and Dori saying: "When I'm with you, I'm home". That was the entire feeling of the night. Home is not defined by a place, by a house, an appartment, a city, a country. It's defined by someone you love, someone with whom you are most comfortable with, and wherever you are, you're home as long as you're with them. That's what I feel for my friends. That thing exactly.

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. Simple, yet extraordinary. Ray moved closer, as I was lying on my back on the rock, lay her head on my chest, and held me as tight as she could.

"I can hear your heart beat," she said, "when I'm with you, I'm home".

And then the tears came.

Teacups

2007-08-20T08:01:00.000-07:00

I feel
tea cups falling, smashing
just like the remainder of my paper airplanes.
Electric currents pump the darkness around me but
there’s no real fire.

I see
the black tears inking up my
already tainted memories.
The tea bites back,
no sugar to make the mirror easier to take.

I sense
the reflection unfurling,
the perception distorting,
the reception unsounding.
And I know now,
gravity is our source of
anguish.

The End

2007-08-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

And so it is. Just like I knew it would be - great, and spectacular.

I am left with a general feeling of awe, admiration, contentment, satisfaction and sadness. Like the feeling you get after you enjoy a quiet, short night together with friends, the feeling of a bright new day dawning upon your window shutters, casting new light and expelling the darkness. It's the start of a new era, a new day, perhaps even a better life.

I have lived every year of my adolescence alongside Harry, Ron and Hermione. They have kept me company when others did not, they gave me hope when all seemed to fall, and they have remained loyal friends - even if imaginary - throughout my ages 12-18. I belong to the Harry Potter generation, and no matter how many people may squint and snicker at the supposed rudimentary writing by Rowling or the childish telling of the story or even the absurdness of it not being real, I stick by Dumbledore's words:

"Of course it's happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

I grew up with the characters, laughed with them, cried with them. They are real people, and I thank, thank, thank Rowling for providing me a basis of morality, education, experience and entertainment to last me throughout the most troubling years of my life. I feel it all, they are like my friends, being my age and all. What they go through, I go through. Everything is subjective when it comes to the symbolism of it all. That's something Dumbledore would have smiled at, I believe.

I mourn for the deceased, and I smile at the victories - though they are scarce, they dominate the whole novel - the whole legacy, to be exact. Because, overall, this isn't a story about wizards, this isn't a story about magic, this isn't a story about good and evil. This is a story about love, a story about friendship, a story about all that we hold dear in life and all that we learn. This is a coming-of-age tale of great importance. I only hope others take from it the good examples I have and learn to grow from them.

And so, it is over. With the finality of the Harry Potter series, comes the end of my childhood. This was the final chapter, and now I believe I am ready.

For all.

There's beauty in the breakdown

2007-08-01T18:01:00.000-07:00

A black cloud is forever lifted, and I think I can see new prospects in the distance. What happened, and the unfortunate rain which poured down over my eyes, blurring my vision from contentedness in the past few days, has finally died down; and now that I think about it, it was all really an invigoration of wallowing.

What happened to me liking the rain? I always wished I could dwell in it, drink off its serene beauty and mellowness. Now I end up pitying everything and anything including myself and all that could have been. I stop. The end.

Change of weather. Finding myself in the infinite abyss. It's beautiful from where I'm standing. I look down at a valley of love and friendship - we are a family unit, all of us functioning as one, a different member. The wise, the silly, the mature, the immature, the abstract, the funny, the serious. The one thing which binds us is our love. My friends. Sometimes I wonder whether in a past life we even reached the closure of being related. The valley is filled with moments of genuine tenderness:

...completing each other's sentences.
...raiding each other's fridges.
...crying together at the pending end of our childhood.
...scolding each other for past mistakes.
...laughing at each other's mistakes.
...laughing for no reason at all.
...experiencing art.
...smoking, drinking, feeling.
...opening up, confessing.
...teaching.
...learning.
...embracing.

The valley from where I'm standing is one of contentedness, finally. I love and I am loved in return and I see that. No lover or partner can ever get as close as this, and even though a long awaited division is arising, what we share will endure the corrosion of time. You see, it's these memories that make our mortal futility worthwhile. It's never goodbye with us. Just a mere 'see you later'. Alligator.

"Your hands are cold. Let me warm them up. And let go."

The Perfect Drug?

2007-07-29T07:55:00.000-07:00

Without you, everything falls apart. Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces.

Give me a reason

2007-07-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

My hours turn to days, my days turn to weeks, my weeks turn to months. I lay here restless, no real entity to create beautiful formations of motives in my life. Every step I take seems to take me further away from my initial goal and it gets so distant sometimes, I think it's almost fading - impossible to reach. Life becomes a mortal coil in which my existance is futile. My greater good to the world becomes a vapour of nothingness, dust in the humidity.

I can't even light my cigarettes anymore.

If only I had someone to guide me through it, someone to tell me that everything's going to be OK. Just someone to hold my hand through and through, to kiss me in the rain during dawn, and wake up next to in the morning. Someone to give a raison d'etre to my own quintessence of dust.

Hamlet couldn't have said it better. I congratulate you, great Dane.

And all that could have been (Pt. 2)

2007-07-24T17:15:00.000-07:00

Breeze still carries the sound;
Maybe I'll disappear.
Tracks will fade in the snow.
You won't find me here.

Ice is starting to form.
Ending what had begun.
I am locked in my head,
With what I've done.
I know you tried to rescue me,
Didn't let anyone get in,
Left with a trace of all that was
And all that could have been.

Please.
Take this,
And run far away,
Far away from me.
I am
Tainted.
The two of us
Were never meant to be.
All these
Pieces,
And promises and left behinds.
If only I could see,
In my
Nothing,
You meant everything;
Everything to me.
Gone fading everything,
And all that could have been.

I am
Tainted,
And happiness and peace of mind
Were never meant for me.
All these
Pieces,
And promises and left behinds.
If only I could see
In my
Nothing
You meant everything,
Everything to me.

I will make a music video for this in the near future.

Rabbits

2007-07-23T05:36:00.000-07:00

Part of David Lynch's subconscious.

And all that could have been

2007-07-22T16:57:00.000-07:00

All I ever wanted... all I ever needed...

Warning

2007-07-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

Please somebody come and kill off these mindless, ignorant, pathetic little creatures that blog up my airspace - numbing me down with their brainless Paris Hilton fashions and their pitiless illiteracy. Their concern for intellect reaches the IQ of a chicken, whose only impulse is to run towards the person with the most food.

I turn everywhere and all I see are these miserable and idle creatures. I can't even describe them as human beings. I find no purpose in their lives. Sure, their ignorance serves them well to a happy life, but they live a pointless existance doing so.

So while I'm trying to find someone I can really connect with, they can all fuck off and allow me to breathe. Because I am fucking suffocating in this shithole bound to reach an all-time low of illiteracy and negligence. I feel like I'm being taken down. The few people I'm able to connect with are already being pushed down, hidden further by the disgusting crowds of these cockroaches.

Leave me the fuck alone. I wanna flee. And meet someone worthwhile. So back the fuck off. That's my last warning. I am not wasting any more time having my intelligence insulted.

I wish sadness like water would rain down.

Fuck Buddies

2007-07-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

"I can't do this anymore."

Her breath smells of late bourbon and coke, yellowish tar and smoke. Loads of smoke. The taste remains in my mouth post-orgasm, I feel like vomiting. She hasn't come yet. She looks up and says,
"What?", oblivious to my futile feelings and thoughts of severance.
"This needs to end."
"What's wrong? Is it the protection? I'm clean."
"No, it's not that. I checked myself recently."
"You just don't want to see me again?"
"Yes."
"But you agree to this whenever I call you."
"I don't like it. I told myself: if I have sex, it needs to be straight up, in a relationship, and normal."
"Normal", she echoes.
"Don't you see, this is carnal. We meet like animals, salvaging over flesh, eating and drinking our own bodies, spit and semen. It's fine while you're in the clouds, but once you step down-it's just not how I want to know myself."
"Am I blamed for wanting something that my nature demands?"
"You can have it with someone else."
"You enjoy it."
"Past tense", I pause and look outside. "I feel empty now."
"Let's just be fuck buddies. Please."
"Let's not."

My decisive words give way to her escape into the same night she visited after countless feasts of our flesh in the past. They would in turn draw her into awareness and eventual salvation. But before that, she would feel very insecure. Yes, very insecure indeed.

Kitten

2007-07-08T04:55:00.000-07:00

I ran over a kitten tonight.

Somehow my self-absorbed darkness
blinded me
from its doomed innocence.

It was caught in between a moment,
I guess – concrete impersonality and unfamiliar cracks must have
confused it.

My head still wheels around the possibilities of
some kind of human precaution:
“These things happen all the time.”

Most people don’t go through this monsoon,
hit and run, it’s futile
they say.

My mind breaks for that moment;
a heart somewhere has shattered
and a million pieces are scattered on the ocean floor for me to pick.

“These things happen all the time”.
Concrete is wet with dark liquid –blood
or saliva, the kind you see in vampire movies. Its legs are broken.

I reel around in compact ignorance,
calculating actions and avoiding touches.
Vampires don’t break life, they bite.

Teeny tiny eyes twinkle faintly in the moonlight,
a silent cry as far heard as the depths of Ethiopia,
the baby head twitching desperately for escape.

I can see its legs clearly now, my self-absorption is almost
gone. Not quite. It’s like I am sedated with its blood.
Fragile feet jerk into movement towards the paved survival.

It doesn’t recognise me. Even when I pick it up, it doesn’t.
I can’t hear its voice, yet it deeply gnaws at my insides.
Words and waves abandon me. Break me.

A foolish recollection of putting it on the pavement rushes back in
as it is all over. Other interests are tugging at me to leave it.
Negligence is what characterises the actions of people like me.

From the rear-view mirror I can see its siblings,
crying out to no effect, unable to help a lost cause.
It brings itself to disappear into the bush. Crawling and broken.

I have reduced it to this.
I have deducted its primal joy.
I have subdued it to an unnatural status.

“These things happen all the time”.

I ran over a kitten tonight,
and in return, it ran over me.

Free Hugs

2007-06-29T06:49:00.000-07:00

One of the most moving, beautiful things I've seen in my entire life. Join the movement. Hug someone. Anyone. Just pass it on. Pay it forward. Then the world will be a better place.

Imagine all the people.

The Mire

2007-06-24T08:30:00.000-07:00

I can see no horizon.
I’m drifting even deeper into this mire and I
can’t get out.
A pathetic thrust comes o’er me.
Humble turtles trot away to their
secret hideouts and I lay
here.
Lend me a hand?
I’m sinking even deeper into this murky water.
Quicksand floods my heartfelt knees and
I bend.
Useless limbs drift among the lack of cerebral emotions here.
sinking sinking sinking sinking
Fleeting fish free themselves from this
indoctrinated bondage, leaving me
here.
A tug is at war as I push and I am pulled by these hard forces.

I think I need to sever my legs.

Bouncing Off Clouds

2007-06-22T05:03:00.000-07:00

I've come to the point where living is a mere day-to-day activity constituted of the same things day after day. I am fortunate, I cannot reject that. But now exams are over, with the pending doom of the compulsory army service, the next two years seem to be a myriad of fleeting choices, actions and thoughts.

I don't know how to feel, really. I am left with no partner, no solid plan, and my only preoccupation for the past few days has been the Bree-like reorganisation of my Music and Photos folders. It's quite scary, really. I feel pointless, I feel useless. And most of all, I feel helpless, bound by a misfortune of birth, with no prospect of escape.

They say it's 99% sure. But what is sure nowadays anyway?

On the other hand, I have my own beliefs: All you need is love. And yet, where the fuck is it? It makes me feel doubtful and hesitant. I desperately want to flee. I want to go to a place where knowledge is a necessity, where I will be able to indulge in reading the novels by Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Lawrence, Woolf, Gaarder, Martel and Hemingway. Where I will be able to grow and learn.

Even though, through it all, I do feel hopeful. Which is strange. I drift into beautiful melodies that heighten my sensations, and I feel like driving everywhere and nowhere for no reason. With absolutely no money, no petrol, no plans, the least I can do is try and stand back to say that there's no day but today.

And I feel good.

Untitled

2007-06-19T02:58:00.000-07:00

Pointless words form in my mouth,
Like pricks urging to lie, to deceive.
How much longer can this illusion last?
It’s the one-way street to the backside of my dreams.

The weasel is always a weasel,
And a giraffe can’t change its spots.
I’m a cockroach:
Feeding off all that’s holy and sane…
…crawling… crawling…
Away from the faint lights of day.

Paragon of animals?

2007-06-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

The youth of our world is slowly deteriorating. Acid rain of bureaucratic notions tears away the rocky and solid exterior of most young boys transitioning to adulthood. Their idealism and revolutionist way of thinking is all replaced with the tactless and impersonal opportunism of seeking out profits and success, rather than making a true difference in the world which, in turn, would better their own lives.

The amount of white shirts and black ties travelling the streets in their expensive cars are more than enough proof that these young men don't seek world peace, but the peace of their own comfort. From a very young age, values and morals are replaced with the constant blabber of amounts and figures and theoretical practises of sheets; a blabber so impersonal, so anonymous, that the boys who become men, become machines: mere cogs in a vast industry of artless inhumanity. They see benefit: figures equate to money, money equates profit, profit equates comfortable opportunities.

As if that wasn't enough, two whole years of their lives are forced to be wasted in a seclusion of brainless activities that reinforce the silly slogan of war: Believe, Fight, Obey.
Contradiction: how does someone who believes in something, obey? It would be a paradox of their own belief to obey someone else's beliefs. Wouldn't it? - I won't even get into the 'fight' aspect of the slogan.

"An eye for an eye leads only to more blindness"

And yes, that's the case when it comes to silly war propaganda armies all around the world distribute to their populations. The army is necessary, courageous, heroic. The army is there to defend. The army is there to dispose of those who do you harm. The army is the to save you. There's the same cycle over and over again. Political opportunism leads to more violence for personal benefit. What's the difference between white collar and green collar? It's righteous to believe and support the harm of others. Support war. There's your army.

The young boys grow up with the thought of necessity, the thought of serving a higher purpose. Little do they know that the higher purpose is the constant activity of mindless and pointless idleness, as well as the knowledge of how to operate a gun. That's right. Why don't we teach everyone how to use guns then? That way we won't have to need to fight other countries, we can fight with each other. The people, especially the men, in countries with obligatory army service are all gun-knowledgeable. To me, this proclaims a general sense of unrest because I know that at any time, I can be easily shot.

"Angry with someone? Buy one of our new army rifles! Easily dispatch those you are angry with --today!"

These two years brainwash and deteriorate the mind, leaving a gap, a whole, which I don't believe can be filled. Proper education for enlightenment is entirely omitted from any plans, and the two years are wasted on sitting around doing and learning nothing. Those two years could be the basis for knowledge and experience for someone. They can provide a lifetime of love and awareness. Instead, we have blindness. Freedom is undermined. Truth is undermined. Beauty is undermined. Love is undermined.

Ban toy soldiers.
Ban toy guns.
Ban toy war vehicles.

We have come so far from the Utopian world that was promised after the Second World War. It seems that the Third will be created by us, against each other. We are all responsible. Every single silly nostalgic bureaucratic memoir of patriotism. And paper work. That is what ruins us. Two very unlikely forces which are connected to an extent most people would not even think of. Our minds are starving, our pockets are becoming gluttons, and we remain lethargic. We have lost our humanity and have become toy soldiers ourselves.

"It's okay to eat fish, 'cause they don't have any feelings."

And it keeps on getting worse.

A pain that I'm used to

2007-06-09T02:54:00.001-07:00

-"Are you ready?"
-"Yeah."
-"You're OK with this, I presume?"
-"I'm fine."

One. Two. Three: I'm not. Pull out. It hurts. Does it?

I escape into the depths of the night, a sea of twisted thoughts cloud the street lights. Thoughts of broken glasses, faces of water, shuffling hands, hair. A smile? I don't think I can see it. I can only receive expressions of fetishism here. Violent, hard, hungry. Pull out.

"The first orgasm of the morning is cold and hard as hell.
There won't be any second coming as far as I can tell."

Rows and rows of lights pave the way to oblivion, enlightening what appears to be the right path. It's straight, devoid of any complications, any swift turnings, any angry downsides or upsides, any sort of unnatural bends. It hurts. Do I still pull out? It would all come crushing down now. It's too late.

I crave for tree leaves. Yet, I am provided with grovel. Cold and harsh, painless yet unsatisfying. Tree leaves break your heart. It's a fact. They float and float upon your waters, and they will never sink, they never do. It's their nature. You become frustrated with their nonsensical act that defies gravity. And you can't help it. Pull out?

"I am too busy to have friends.
A lover would just complicate my plans.
So I will never look for love again.
I’m taking matters into my own hands."

Now I don't want to pull out. The pain is something that I'm used to. Strange how dark it gets here when the lights are on. I find myself drifting off into formidable dreams of blood. Pleasure does not come close to these waters when you let the tree leaves cover you. And still, the masochistic pain becomes the pleasure.

"I bet I could last at least a week without someone to hold me.
...Won't you hold me? Please?"

It is our tragic nature as human beings to need, and to want, and to obsess over and to fall in love, I guess. Love being the most queer of either provocations. Trees and grovel don't match, do they? It's like that first orgasm of the morning. It's very cold by the window. It's not too late to stop, but the pain is dissolved within the idea of pleasure. It doesn't matter anymore.

-"You're not OK."
-"Just keep on going. It'll feel better in a bit."

Split

2007-06-07T08:28:00.001-07:00

"I am not what I am."

Vicious Cycle

2007-06-03T05:50:00.000-07:00

Typical.

A and B meet. They like each other. A gets clingy. B gets bored. A gets even more clingy. B becomes indifferent. A becomes upset. B fluctuates between stances. A becomes confused. B turns to indifference again. A puts an end to it. B is out of the picture, forever having tainted a mind and a soul and a heart.

A then meets C. They like each other. C gets clingy. A gets tired and detached. C gets even more clingy. A becomes indifferent.

Irony: A tinge of hypocricy becomes the origin of very strange emotions, as what one does to you, you wish not to inflict upon someone else. Then, in such desperate situations, you feel the need to. You can't help it. It just happens.

I believe it really is inevitable that A would succumb to the same behavioural patterns as B, due to a previous bad experience. Perhaps as a need to exhibit the pain, A imposes it upon others who find themselves in the same situation as he was when he met B. Inevitable indeed it is, to feel the need of having others feel what you feel. Perhaps A wanted to feel as powerful/superior as B when they had ended their relationship. Perhaps A wanted more of a challenge than C, after realizing the clingy mistake with B.

Clinginess - Emotion - In love?

Sad, really. What's even more painful than having your heart broken, is really breaking someone else's heart. That's when you scar your conscience. That's when it really stings.

Ray?

2007-05-30T03:37:00.001-07:00

I know you from somewhere...

Contact

2007-05-24T01:49:00.000-07:00

Hot. Sweat. Sweet. Wet. Red. Heat. Wet. Wet. Wet. Red. Heat. Please. Don't Stop. Please. Please Don't Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please. Don't. Please. Please. Beg. Please. Hot-Hot-Hot. Sweat.

Sticky. Licky. Trickle. Tickle. Steamy. Creamy. Stroking. Soaking. Wet. Wet. Wet.

Touch. Taste! Deep! Dark! Kiss! Beg! Slap! Fear! Thick! Red, Red. Red, Red, Red, Red - Please!

Harder. Faster. Wetter. Bastard! Whore! Cannibal! More! Animal! Fluid. No Fluid. No Contact. Yes. No. Contact.

Fire. Fire. Burn-Burn. Yes! No. Latex. Rubber. Rubber. Fire. Bummer. Lover. Leather.

Take me now. -from the original Broadway musical 'RENT'.

Here's looking at you, kid

2007-05-22T08:04:00.000-07:00

It’s been a long time indeed.
Everything is in place, as I see:
The polythene flowers,
The pin-up portrait of your monochrome face.
Even the colour of the granite doesn’t seem to have
Changed.
Not so much of what it preached of remembrance,
The eulogy fades, my attention spans to
Other things.

All the tapes pile up like old
Unread books – tracing the Holy life.
Goblets and china stacked away
In a cupboard or a glass chamber
(it’s always nice when they compliment).
Always waiting patiently for the memoirs
To return, return.
The antique photographs are now moulding,
The new ones of the family –abroad-
Pushed to the front.
The telephone call never arrives.
The only way is waiting.
Patience is sometimes a virtue some do not
Possess.
Even the Almighty’s might flickers, fades.
Words of faith drown in the mist of cynicism.
You wait and you wait and
One day,
You’re in the granite yourself.

The heat waves of flatulence
Are frozen by the cool touch of the tomb.
I stare at the dust from beneath.
Remains of a day,
Remains of a time,
Remains of a man.
My name on the rock is
A rush of blood to the head. And the heart.

Grandfather, now I know
What you meant.
Now I know
Where you live.
The pools of solitude are our inescapable destiny.

There were Roses

2007-05-18T03:04:00.000-07:00

The words echoed in my head, forcing me to believe that it really was the best thing I could have done. The impossible inevitability had been drowning out my thoughts for the past few days as those last delicate moments slipped into a carnage of black roses. Her skin smelled of roses. There was an almost evanescent curve flowing out of it every time I reached out to kiss it. That’s when we were still together. That’s when the roses were red.

Our meeting was like a wave crushing on the rocks: I had heard about her and her scheming catty ways. She was the one everyone looked up to, almost like an idol, and yet the contradiction in this case is that in a Christian society, there’s no place for idololatry. She fed off them; I had seen the way she would smile coyly and mockingly at her admirers, falling further into a trance of lucid dreams made up of stars. Her slow, paw-like movements governed all around her, and she was fully legitimate in the captivity through her beauty – but not of that through her mind. To be frank, my doggy humility was offended by her grande display of grandeur. It seemed to me that she demanded admiration, rather than respected those who granted it to her.

As she was the prestigious daughter of an aristocrat, I didn’t expect her to cast me any glances, or notice my grovelling in her empire’s halls. Her aunt introduced us back in the summer when the tin roofs were still hot and the smiles were not plastic. The first kiss happened near the fountain by the sea, a slow breeze casting away the sun and her lips urging to find affection in mine. Her icy tongue caught me off track and I sunk like the conch deserted by its sea inhabitant. I don’t think affection was what drove her at that time. I was more like her puppy, following her around and doing deeds for her in almost knightly fashion. She swam and ate and drank and danced, and kissed. It was a certain time of red roses and especially when she had cast off her white sheets to me.

I served her a drink at that party on that night. For a second, I thought she didn’t recognise me – my long heritage of fishermen fathers implied that I had to travel a lot. But I returned, for her. When she passed me by, I felt almost like the tuna she always relinquished in eating. But this time I was not torn to shreds by her claws, and she turned and gazed at me with those wide yellow-green eyes, scrutinizing in a most mystifying and graceful fashion. For the second time in my life, she has made the first move. The grey walls suddenly lit up again in a splendour of festive ornaments and we began to reminisce about the fountain, and the swimming and the roses. Her icy stare had switched. It wasn’t made out of glass anymore, it wasn’t plastic. It reminded me of the sea and I was right in thinking that she had now become as unlimited.

I couldn’t comprehend her sudden change of character at first. It was as unreal as the event which gave an end to our affair. But I guess that’s how our relationship was defined – it wasn’t bipolar at all, there was always that extra spark and thrust in the wind, pushing her to kiss me at the fountain, and take my ship away from shore, and make her speak to me again. Unfortunately, the spark had other, more explosive plans for her, forming themselves in a revelation about her engagement which had taken place long before I prodigally returned. I didn’t mind, though, and I followed with doggy devotion after her as she repeatedly renounced her love for the other man to me.

The roses had always been red, in my dreams, in my mind and thoughts, in my heart. I know that she truly saw the roses too. She knew that it was the rose petals that she saw swimming in the fountain, and it was rose-stems she saw playing in the wind. We decided to elope. The impossible inevitability of this relationship had dawned upon us and we knew we had to take action. It was on a day when all the trees turned cold and all the flowers were poisoned, for the spark in the wind had thrust a long lorry with a broken wheel crashing in our direction and there was nothing more I could do but impulsively push her out of our tragic vehicle. The lorry crashed and she flew, guided almost by the rose petals in the wind, to safety at the side of the road. My mortal animal existence turned to black.

Now I no longer see the roses, only sometimes in my sleep. But they are black. I heard that she married and had children. The catty aristocrat abuser of grandeur had grown up. I was sure it was for the better. I would like to believe that my flowers helped her. But there are no roses anymore.

Earthly Sonnet

2007-05-06T06:25:00.000-07:00

Touching your rays
Is like counting the lyrically infinite ways
In which the unending wind is able to slowly seep,
And allow me to sink into deep
Thoughts of your effervescent eloquence;
Warming my insecure ambivalence
And bringing ambient light to my fears,
You are what can reduce me to tears.

My delicate, personal sun.
Take my fleeting hand, come undone.
I will wrap you up in my soft-spoken wave,
And together we shall create a secret cave:
Carefully sheltering the dreamy streams of life.
So touch my waters, and let us make music.

United 66

2007-05-02T13:34:00.001-07:00

Blue skies... nothing but blue skies.

Chapter: Passing on Balloons

2007-04-30T03:38:00.000-07:00

Tears on the sleeve of a man; "don't want to be a boy today".

Cash in your laces, your bonnets, your shorts, your dolls and your idols. This is the time when the unending trail of memory eloquently fuses with the line which divides myth and history. This is the time when everything comes to the test - the conventions of compulsory early-day friendships and social mannerisms. This is the time which defines a time, a place, a mentality, a feeling.

You're taking leave. A new journey right through the doors of society's newly formed opportunism and lack of childhood safety. Do break free. It makes you feel better, doesn't it? Walking in your own shoes, speaking with your own tongue, thinking with your own mind. A swirl of excitement surrounds the possibilities of the new horizon, and all you can do is leave it all behind and follow the light. Everything you have ever known stares at you - a tinge of nostalgia in the eyes of minutes, weeks, seconds defined by school bells, laughter, scolding, hugging and crying.

A sudden rush of pressure and it's all out. A rain of colour covers the sky's tranquil and oblivious blue, as it falls all around you, showering your head, shoulders and filling up your hands and the ground you walk on with indigo, turquoise, purple, crimson and emerald. All around you are watery smiles, embracing hands and touched clapping onlookers. Cheer and tears unleash the balloons - a last stand of eighteen years drifting towards the sky. Each colour a separate memory complete with dogs barking, the scent of green grass growing, maternal kisses and embarrassing casualties. Each colour representing a childhood that has come to pass. The balloons drift towards the sky while their rightful owners keep their feet on the ground. They drift higher into the unending nothingness which governs our mortal coil of flesh. A sense of futility overwhelms the mind and for a second you almost feel like you are losing balance. You look around at the marvel of love and realize that mortality is only reasoned by emotions and thus, decide to continue passing on balloons.

You gaze up at the now distant balloons - small dots of paint in the eternal blue of the sky - and with a heavy sigh, turn to those around you. You hug and you're hugged in return.

This is here. This is now.

Years later, the balloons are a faded image carved into the mind: their significance now even more poignant than before. But still, a distant memory.

Come on, die young.

2007-04-18T09:46:00.000-07:00

Enter vehicle.

First - second - third gear. You might even move on to the fourth. Rapidly overtaking the toads who pull you behind, you aim for faster. The destination is certain, and the time is limited. Looking left and right, doesn't really matter - not really. It's a mere afterthought indoctrinated into your system by those who think they know what is needed to be done. Red light is easily dismissed into a portal of anxiety and sweat: all that matters is the destination, no? Coincidence (or chance, however you take it) stalls you and thrusts you back into an avid re-examination of how time is fleeting. Where's that time machine again?

Start over: the entire monotonous routine-based course is chained into action. The routes themselves are paved straight, while at their sides a collection of the dogs who have gone astray casually exhibit their puppy eyes for the next Dummy-laden passenger. Oh look. A frog. Of course, none of that captivates the smallest bit of your attention, not even the scary looking paper bag being rolled around the road by a stampede of wheels.

You're almost there. The road to awe cracks in the middle with the light of purification, allowing you safe passage to a dream, devoid of all the toads dragging you behind with them. It's all clear, almost by fate (or coincidence, or, by some, chance). You smile with a sense of exhilarated relief from anxiety - almost as if that tiny defect comfortably lying on your surface has been finally wiped clean. It's almost over, just a little further on, past the parting of the sands and the end of the sea. You think back on the puppy eyes staring at the eloquence of speed - that gaze seizes the clogs of movement and grants you wings to fly back.

The collection of dogs is grande, diverse, decisive. All in need, need and need. But these dogs are different. They display themselves without giving way to the rationing of need.

And so, now you find yourself; back with the quintessence of happiness and love, deliriously mocking yourself with the illusion of reciprocation from what you have given. Sadly, you receive nothing in return, and ask yourself why you even bothered in the first place.

Death is the road to awe. So I dare you: come on, die young.

Shortbus

2007-04-12T03:46:00.000-07:00

So they say that

Life is a bus.
All you need to do is decide whether to get on or stay off.

I don't know whether or not to agree with the theory because of all the contradictions persisting to delay the bus' arrival. We spend entire lives waiting for the bus and when it never arrives, we are never really given the chance to jump on. I guess, it's all a matter of being able to call for the bus then. Just a simple nod, a simple flip of the hand, and it's there. You get on and look around:

There's the priest, and the clerk. There's the teacher and the homeless man. There's the mother and the father, the boy and the girl. There's the couple purposely kissing away, and the couple subconsciously holding hands. There's the housemaid and there's the taxi driver. Oh and there's the porter and the waitress, the barman and the stripper, the prostitute and the nun. You can even see the soldier and the garbageman way at the back.

Every single one of them deciding to get on. Every single one of them blind to their course, oblivious to their time of departure. None of them wanting to get off.

The bus goes uphill and downhill, through speed bumps and lost highways, by mountains with solitary trees, fields abundant with sweet scents of purple petunias, pits of slaughtered pig stenches and dumped rubbish. The window panes by the two sides are an updated display of a society where new types of fascism conquer day after day - one after another, where the thirst for power is quenched by the continuous stabbing of the Earth, where materialism flips over the need for values and morals. The displays are windows, and the windows are mere displays. The passengers watch, sometimes unable to speak out or act, sometimes without the will to speak out and act.

It is sad how some never have the chance to get on. It is a choice, after all. All I know is that, whether we get on or off, we're all in the same boat and we all get it in the end.

You've got to get on to get off.
-Shortbus

(that can be taken in more than one way...)

Evil Easter Bunny for Governor!

2007-04-09T02:40:00.000-07:00

THE EVIL EASTER BUNNY WANTS YOU.

It is that time of the year, once again, ladies and gentlemen, when huge wooden crosses enable skinny men to be nailed on, churches are packed with hypocritical non-believers, and the priests have new ways of spending our tax money on golden chandelier merchandise with the Made in China trademark.

What most people do not know though, is that the candidate which ought to win at this year's Beautiful People Governors elections is, in fact, not Stewie Griffin (the horrible little toddler with a peculiar British accent, who wants to take over the world - refer to: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stewie_Griffin), but the very very evil indeed Easter Bunny.

Yes, that's right. He's the one who is forcing your children to skip meals and run to devour chocolate eggs. And he's the one who will transform them into his own legion of chocolate sucking Chocoholic Pyromaniacs, and thus rapture the world's natural supply of chocolate and make this a very happy state indeed.

So please, support the Evil Easter Bunny at www.allyoureggsareus.com (that is, All Your Eggs Are Us.com) or else the future ruler of the world will steal your children and turn them into Cadbury (as illustrated below).

EVIL EASTER BUNNY FOR GOVERNOR!

I observe

2007-04-08T13:52:00.000-07:00

I observe as they roam through their fields of roses
How they drink each other’s wine
And smile through cellophane and gum
Wonderfully wallow in puppy devotion
Singing silent songs reminiscent of boats on stars
And pile up experiences like bodies
Doing their best to hang on to the fleeting
Memorizing every bloody wrinkle and painful shadow
How they eloquently read into each other’s arms
Blowing rings of smoke on their fingers
Dancing hand in hand with thorns from roses
Attempting social suicides with their boats
And even jumping to catch blue balloons
And drowning in grass like buffoons.

I observe with anticipation - half bleeding.

I observe
Holding on tight to my replica of a New Zealand shell,
Wanting hard to believe that it will give me the roses
And make me feel the drifting boats, as was promised.

I observe
My heart served on a plate for the malicious
appetites of maggots;
Naked fiends of plastic grins and gritty blinks.

My fingertips reek of nicotine as I look down,
Cigarettes piling up like mounts of little boats drowned in ash.
I guess it’s all a matter of luck before they sink.

But I continue to observe.

Fight Club

2007-01-18T07:55:00.000-08:00

Some men have middle age crisis’ with an extensive and expensive taste in cars, women and general trivialities by a society which knows no more good than bad. Norton’s middle age crisis comes in the form of a split-personality, in the Existentialist revolutionary film by David Fincher ‘Fight Club’. Of course, Norton’s character’s name in the film is never mentioned, referred to in the credits as The Narrator – he actually narrates the story of an ordinary man who wishes to live an extraordinary life. We never really know whether or not Norton is in reality the legendary icon of Tyler Durden, and neither does it matter. What matters is the obscure and simultaneously profound effect Fincher’s film has (or doesn’t have)on its audience. With its never-sweeping political ideologies and its hands-on darkly comic aspects, screenwriter Uhls manages to adapt the original novel to a very intriguingly funny epic.

And an epic it is. It chronicles the change within a certain period of time in Norton’s life. “You met me at a very strange time in my life”, he turns and tells Carter in the closing minutes of the film. The result? A baffling, transcendent journey on the road which questions our morality, our mortality, our existence and our consumer delights. We slowly trail Norton’s ordinary life which ironically is presented as being anything but ordinary (the irony being, he himself makes it so ordinary by believing it). Fincher explores the recital of human nature as Norton lingers from social group to social group (of every kind – testicular cancer victims, alcoholics) with the single hope of feeling something which would originate from the pain of others. He is only able to cry when others cry for him, and his pain can be associated to all the hopelessness felt by white-collar workers around the world. But the film does not attack white-collar workers per se, it attacks the idea of their manipulation, their daily torment and pointlessness. The world we are presented with here is like the dirt straight from the pavement – grovelled up from the woman who is ready to die in desperate need of human affection, to even Norton whose own desperation to sleep extents to the empathy of the pain of others. His life is defined by the meaningless consumerism which actually consumes his life.

The mid-life crisis comes in the form of Tyler Durden, who becomes an almost idol for iconolatry. Pitt is naturally perfect for the part, being everything that every man could ever dream of being. In this way, Norton becomes absorbed into his own little world of truths and half-truths, never really lying to himself, but rather avoiding the harsh reality. The film progresses in a completely new light once Norton meets his role model, and the world presented, all of a sudden becomes much more exciting, ravishing – new. The ultimate truth is, though, that Norton is avoiding the reality, he is avoiding the consequences of the actions he takes as the new Tyler Durden and while his fight clubs gain a cult status in the underground of every city in the USA, we see that it is not only Norton, our narrator, who is in need of a change, but almost every single one of us. The Narrator is, perhaps, not even named to remain universal to every man who is fed up, angry - who is tired of the pointlessness of his existence - and whose only way of human interaction and actual feeling is by fighting and delighting in the newly tasted blood in his mouth. With the fight clubs, and later on, the Project Mayhem, these men have something to live for, something to fight for. Their own revolution becomes the means for living and they slowly extend throughout the entire of the USA, slowly taking over any man who is feeling angst and desperation, like them.

The film clearly makes a huge (yet extremely subtle) political statement by presenting internal terrorism of the state. In a country so absorbed with dissolving and absolving trouble with its external affairs, playing Superman with the less fortunate countries, its own people are suppressed and hated. The country’s politics themselves have caused the white-collar worker uproar and have caused terrorism in itself. Fincher forces his viewers to judge what is morally and politically righteous in a land whose original motto was liberty, and whose remains now are possession and captivity. Indeed, every man in the fight club is a captive to this society created by the big credit card companies, and the consumer items everybody is expected to devour. The fight club offers them hope, choice, and the ability to fight them. Tyler Durden becomes their role model who tells them that they can make bombs out of household items, indirectly implying that each and every one of them can rise up and take a stand – revolutionize. And when the poor, wronged people of a country result to such violent behaviour such as the fight clubs and the Project Mayhem terrorist group, then what will become of the country itself?

Fincher ultimately deals more with the ignorance and negligence of our actions, rather than any strong, evident and absolute statements, and proves that what remains of us is love. The theme of love in itself is emphasized from the very beginning. It’s actually all that The Narrator needed in his life to make it less trivial, it was all that the cancer victims needed in the form of a hug, it was all Carter needed to get her out of her depression-ridden mania. Love was all that every single fight club member needed to put some meaning back into their lives. The sexual aspect is focused through the relationship of Norton and Carter (Fincher cleverly includes a third person, without ever allowing us to suspect that it is mere imagination – this is done through the dodging of questions and Uhls’ witty screenplay structure). To Norton, the relationship only begins as sex because it is what Tyler Durden believes it should be. And who is Tyler Durden to decide? He is the face and body of every poster-boy printed out by consumer companies to tell the people of the society what they should look and act like. In this way, he overlooks the romantic emotions that Carter begins to feel for him, and becomes so absorbed into fitting into this Calvin Klein role-model image which he sees everywhere, that in reality he can’t actually see anything that is in front of him. The ending, very suitably accommodated by The Pixies’ song ‘Where is my mind?’ is easily the most memorable scene in the film, as Norton realizes his true calling, he fully understands what he really needs in life: Carter and the love and impulsiveness that they share, even if the whole world around them is collapsing and exploding into ashes and dust, due to terrorism, violence, and general madness. He holds her hand, and she holds his, and they gaze into the impending doom of the human world they have come to know.

Through the randomness of trivial facts such as the reason for giving oxygen on the plane when there’s a crash, or that petrol can be used for lawn fertilizer, Fincher emerges out of a confusion of psychobabble which in conclusion gives the film a heightened philosophical view of the trivialities which consume our society and worlds and make our existence pointless. “The things you own end up owning you”, Tyler says. In fact, nothing the great role-model says is ever wrong. He knows what he is talking about. He has the true answer to Norton’s life because he is Norton himself, and he concludes by making a point that from the very beginning it was up to Norton to fix his life and give it meaning, it was his choices which formed the life he had ended up living – and in such a way, the viewers can draw their own allusions that we are in charge of our lives, and that Existentialism is indeed a triviality because we are the ones who give our lives form and shape. Unless seen and fully understood though, ‘Fight Club’ remains just an incoherent film still of a penis from some porn flick, simply slid into the daily movie schedule of our lives: glimmering for one single instant, undeniably evident in our lives, but chosen to be forgotten in that single flicker (just like the children in the cinema; some cry, some stare, others pretend they didn’t see the penis in between their ‘Lady & the Tramp’ feature– Fincher draws analogies to his own audience’s responses through them), and in the end, not understanding what was seen makes it have absolutely no meaning at all.

Road Kill

2006-12-15T08:08:00.000-08:00

It’s that dog
Which is hit by that car:
Head smashing onto irrelevant number plates,
Body clashing under grey muted wheels.
Immediate time lapse to a
Time of love, a time of
Tenderness.
Sweet cuddles, bubble kisses – a time of
Belonging.

Hurriedly scurrying along the sidetracks,
That dog runs. And runs.
Blistering traffic amber,
And heartless asphalt blend
Into one continuous romp.
That car doesn’t stop.

An ear thrashing onto the pavement,
A leg dragged by instinct, the only way is
Forward.
Pain set aside, finding Home becomes tricky.
What is right? What is left?
What is right? What is right?

What. Is. Right.

Sooner than later, that dog turns
And twists under the old lady’s porch
(she’s dead in her bed).
Whimpering silently it tries to sleep and
Comfort itself of the currents of love that a new day will bring.
The only movement:
The dying beat of its lonely, broken heart.

Angst

2006-10-18T06:49:00.000-07:00

I'm walking through the isles of the supermarket, and I'm searching desperately. I search and I search, and I can't see. See what I want to discover, an ounce of hope, an ounce of joy, perhaps an ounce of pain. It all falls down to which turning I take next. I gaze at the never ending pathways. Countless products all pending. And pending. And pending. I walk and walk through the corridors of the paints made of glass, of the brushes made of fibre, of the canvases made of tissue. It's an uphill way. Too high for me to see what's beyond, and the corridor continues to widen and at the same time incline towards me. I start jogging, in the hope of avoiding a clash of isles, a clash of ideas, a clash of product. I will be hurt. I run away not to get hurt. The rest of the isles are waiting for me. They want me to see them, they want me to end the one I'm on. They want to see me end.

I tire of this.

My disposition is now sweaty. It's almost like something mean and green inside of me busting out. Its tentacles warp my skin and extend to my legs. My brain is left untouched. It soon will. I am left with no choice but running. I run and run and run. I can't get there. Where am I?

I think I am bound to fall.

Roots

2006-07-20T14:06:00.000-07:00

Your roots absorb my self-control,
And the one mineral – my soul,
Taken in by your terrible will
To suck,
And draw my pain away.
The bark doesn’t seem worse than the bite,
A vampire embrace.
Cold, stone eyes
Bring my knees to soil
And all is black, my words.
Ophelia drowned for love.
No light shone upon her willow ridge.
My lust leads to the sturdy bark,
The one with fierce words – never gentle.
I will cut down this cypress.

Il Simmo

2006-07-08T02:13:00.000-07:00

Of course, the title is completely made up because I actually thought of naming it: Le Summer, and then thought well, Il Simmo sounds sooo much better even though I have absolutely no idea what it means, it's not like it matters anyway right? But still it's got a funky ring to it, so there.

On to the very long testimony of this summer's accomplishments. Well, actually, no, there's no point writing all that down here because, well, it's none of your business. Buuuut.. I guess I have to say that I had a fantastic time in Augsburg. Totally open and had the most amazing moments with Natashaaa (say my name say my name), my very own Lucifer-ine, and that includes sitting at the tram stops and making advertisements about hair products (thimase: Oh look! She's such a goddess!), and of course getting my hair dyed and her hair cut and then coming up with completely lesbian hairstyles for both of us which took about 15 minutes to do each. Had to travel long distances to go to each other's houses - foster houses - and create this masterpieces. Of course, we looked bloody awesome. And lesbian. And walked down the street like a bunch of dykes, having every German staring at us. Oh and we tempted this waitor into chatting to us and then had a fantastic experience involving a marker and a condom.

In addition to that, I have to say that the Chicken Chinese Fry was amazing because I did everything and Natasha simply cut peppers. Well darling, that still helped, but the food was stunning because of me. ME. Now then, lesbian haircuts, condoms and markers, chinese food, oh and also! Having very long conversations in the tram about what would happen if penises had teeth (I mean, they'd need braces, cut chunks off people who tried to bother them, etc - it's really a big hassle) - yiaks me kou je sou as poume. Apart from that, it was funny how we would swear at everyone and they wouldn't realize a thing. Completely amazing. Everybody needs to do this at least once in their life. That is why we need LANGUAGES. So learn languages people! ..Even though I got a C on my german... (an ine dinaton).

Got straight A's (yay)! As well as full marks for my Art (if they didn't give me that, they'd be soon killed by a chopping pallette knife in their very own canvases), and I also got full marks on the Hamlet unit for Literature (yay). I love Shakespeare. I more than love him. We're involved.

South Africa is the best place in the world. I shall be filming there. Soon. And returning. To see the damn elephants and leopards I didn't see! DAMNIT! But ok, I petted lion cubs so that was cool. And the scenery.. oh how marvelous and inspiring. Everybody needs to go there. Even if they don't have any money. Sell your houses, your possessions, your kids, your parents, yourselves. Just go. It's worth it. Trust me.

Got my very own car - Signor Squishy Pedro de la Serra. (who of course, would have been named: Colonel Pablo/Dutchess Smut/Pingo, but then I changed my mind and thought Squishy is soo much nicer) And he's absolutely gorgeous! You should see him! Problem is... I don't have the bloody license nor knowledge to drive him yet. But soon... yesss... sooon... muahahahah! Fellow drivers beware.

Nuff of that, school is starting and I can't wait. I can do bugger all and read all day and go gym and eat, and work on the show, oh and they didn't accept my Moulin Rouge screenplay (what a surprise - rolls eyes), and now I have to do some lousy show where I'll be the damn narrator again and my dear dear Laura will have to play someone's mother again (oh dear...). Sigh.. I guess that's life huh? But Ok, i'll be a 7th grader so I can intimidate little kids out of their stupid little socks. BRATS!

So until then, loads of sex, violence, drugs and the usual. Hail to the Horton.

the cut.

2006-06-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

it’s a minor slit,
just a bit above the core.
let the red fluid pour down.
you’ll be happy for it
later.