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7/24/08
6/16/08
Lovesong for Anna
Dear Anna,
Look at me. I am writing this because it is absolutely impossible to tell you any of it. Not because it is wrong, not because wolves will fetch your babies if I do. Only because I can’t say it in person, not face to face, not with gestures, not over the phone, not to you, not like that. Why? Because you don’t deserve it. This song, Anna, is not really a song but let’s pretend it’s a song so I can sing it easier. And my singing voice, Anna, is not the prettiest . You call, you write, you ask why. Actually, you don’t even ask why. I imagine you ask why or shall we say, why not? In words, you ask about the weather, the whereabouts; the here and there of life. In fact, strangers always talk about the weather. We’re not strangers? We are. So let me answer questions you haven’t asked in person for the same reasons I can’t answer them in person.
Let’s face it; at your age, it’s impossible for you to understand what I am singing about; but let’s be fair too; at my age, I’ve forgotten the notes you sing. Age doesn’t make any of us better or better looking. It doesn’t make us worse either. Time is useless. Time’s job is the job of a blind librarian; cataloging chaos. But how does one catalog chaos?
It seems that my doors and windows to you are shut. These shut doors and windows don’t reflect much sunlight. You sit and wonder why. Are you not enough? What is wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with you, Anna. You are beautiful, your golden hair, be it real or be it painted reflects more sunlight than the cigarette smoke which drifts away from my beard as I yell at the gatekeeper “Let the dogs in!”
I know I started something I can’t finish. Blame me. I am good at taking it. Only don’t blame yourself. Ever. I dream that you imagine a plateau which people call the world. And in that world, is a village, where you and I can watch horses play in black sand and whiskey flows in the rivers. But I am not there, Anna. Not because of you, not because I don’t trust your horses, not because your horses are are toothless.
I just can’t ride horses whose shoes I haven’t made myself. Let’s be friends?
5/31/08
Sex and The City
There hasn't been a more sexist TV show/film than Sex and The City in the last decade. This deeply upsets me. No, it is not sexist towards men, it's sexist towards women. And believe me, I am all for admitting and cherishing the difference between men and women. I do think we have essential differences that make us behave, react, think in absolutely distinct ways. Our interest in each other is mostly caused by this variation between the two sexes. Consciously or unconsciously, we are fascinated by each other because we are different; to the point that it becomes a curiosity which must be researched and studied. This research and study translates itself into flirting, love and sex. This is wonderful. I believe the two studying each other (or whatever you want to call it) is actually progressive, beautiful and even. The odds are fair.Sex and The City preaches the opposite. It says women are beings who spend all their time drinking cocktails, talking about men, buying shoes and that's pretty much it. It dumbs down the female to a few almost material equations. The problem gets worse; on top of the picture it paints, it also says that is cool. It lies to the female and says 'if you are like this, it's ok and if you are not like this, you should be; go out and buy some pink heels and everything will be fine, these are your essentials'. In other words, it advocates and confirms that this material, dumb and pseudo-sexual way is the female way.
I think you get what I am saying.
There is, of course, a third and most important layer to the problem. Many women, including some of my very close friends watch the show. Some actually like it, some like it ironically; pretending they only watch it for fun which is all good until it is not good. Ironic appreciation is worse than actual appreciation, it fuels the show's idea further and enlarges its platform for 'proving' itself right. These women who are otherwise intelligent, feminist and progressive get themselves caught in the show's web. It becomes a secret fetish but unfortunately it is not as good as chocolate. :)
I am personally shocked to find so many intelligent females to be engulfed by this nonsense; people who are otherwise ready at all times to fight for women's rights, equality and a fair environment where we can continue the exciting exploration between the two sexes that I mentioned above.
Come on, ladies. Your interest in Sex and The City is making us men look smarter, and believe me; we are not.
5/5/08
Amsterdam - bittergarnituur, maatjesharing
I never thought travel essays made any sense as they are written by the person traveling almost for the same person. I did this, I did that and then the girl in the traditional outfit brought me a rose with my tea, etc, etc. I only have a few notes about Amsterdam, the rest remains for you to find out. And since I have already left and am in Zagreb now, I will still write it in the present tense, that should make it more genuine.
I am staying at a former jail. My room feels like I should be guilty and I feel guilty. In fact, I am guilty. Thank you for this opportunity to confess, retreat and rehabilitate. Shared institutional bathrooms remind me of my boarding school days and that's good. I liked boarding school. I liked it a lot. I spent 7 years there. Most of western Europe has merged into the same notion of the western European cosmopolis and no that's not because of the EU. It has become hard to distinguish between Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona and so on; not in the way they or their people are or look, just in the daily routine of things; the coffee, the trains, the so-called global intellectualism which bores me to death. I miss when you could sit at a cafe in Barcelona and not feel like you are sitting at a cafe in Paris and vice versa. I guess this sort of strict difference is brought upon by war. War always brings us back to what we believe we rightfully own or have invented. If there was a war between the Dutch and the French, the French cafe cup might very well disappear from the Amsterdam cafes and get replaced by the Dutch goblet in a matter of days?
Two more little notes and I will leave you alone:
a) The main difference between America and the rest of the world is renting vs. owning one's life. In Europe and the Middle East, for instance, one rents his life from the history and the tradition that owns it. In America, one buys, makes and owns one's life. More on this later..
b) I have discovered why prostitution is legal and over-marketed in the Netherlands; the local girls do not wear skirts. They really don't. Don't ask me why.
Bye.
4/17/08
On a Personal Note
I can't seem to find that letter. I can't even remember if I handwrote or typed it. Maybe I sent it? Have I? I have purchased 2 small things that will stay with me forever. I paid $20 for a moment. A moment alone. New curtains. I rolled the dice and got 4 and 6; not bad for a thursday night. I received a letter. I rolled it up and blew smoke rings through it. I cut my fingernails. I will see my mother in 13 days. I will see Nick Cave in 10. I will buy useless stupid souvenirs for my friends and carry them on the plane. I have made an inquiry at the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce. I will spend a night at a former jail building in 11 days. I will see Vienna for the first time and visit Nietzsche's room where he spent months trying to decide if he was crazy. I bought two bottles of Mexican coke, 10 oz. of Amsterdam Shag but it's made in Denmark.
I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I've got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.
I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I've got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.
3/22/08
Fatherless Daughters of America
They arrange to meet. It won't do any harm. It will be beautiful. His hair parted, her heart skips every other beat; there is future, it's around the corner and it doesn't matter what they do, there will be time to patch and rearrange even if it's a bomb, an apparition, fraud, a fool's paradise. Time will come on its own accord and lay the emergency aids on their table. That's none of their concern.
She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it's there, it's in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.
A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn't let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it's ok because he loves her, he won't leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?
Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.
Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.
Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it's the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.
The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn't come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn't say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You've learned to forget, that's good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That's good. This kind of debt doesn't get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.
A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.
On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.
He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.
She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it's there, it's in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.
A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn't let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it's ok because he loves her, he won't leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?
Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.
Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.
Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it's the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.
The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn't come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn't say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You've learned to forget, that's good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That's good. This kind of debt doesn't get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.
A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.
On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.
He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.
3/10/08
Diesel Fuck
He keeps everything she ever gave him in a box. Mostly obselete loose ends and meaningless word couplings, I and you this, I and you that, we then, we would. When the car did this, when your mother cooked that, building up, waiting for a sunny Sunday to be returned; in place and as it should be. The weather gets warmer, blossoms reappear, the days are a bit longer. He still waits for something to fall from the sky, hit him on the head so he never has to return the box wishing it would disappear on its own accord; quietly and without unnecessary debate. Go box, go.
The box doesn't go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn't get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can't comprehend, it forms more words; I can't this, you can't that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let's fuck.
We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can't. Bathroom, fridge, let's make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can't hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.
The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.
On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don't be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.
9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?
The box doesn't go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn't get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can't comprehend, it forms more words; I can't this, you can't that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let's fuck.
We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can't. Bathroom, fridge, let's make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can't hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.
The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.
On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don't be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.
9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?
3/3/08
Brooklyn
It came fast, it came pretty; your dress and hair in complete unison, unanimous, I don't even know the right word. You know all this. At your age, you're still questioning your reasons for doing it, doing it well, doing it wrong, cheap or expensive, as if there was a camera watching you; slow footsteps, floorcreaks, you're out of there, for a brief moment or a whole night, it's the same thing; all of time is madeup. Not of seconds, minutes or hours but of every decision you made; a phone call, an elevator, taxi ride, Manhattan's lights behind you and then we're in Brooklyn; far from the hotel.
1/21/08
Mirrors, Scars and Soy Milk OR Love, Desire and Lust
After four years, seeing you is no ordinary occurence in my life. I can't be quiet about it, so first, forgive me, all apologies..
You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.
Time teaches people each other; that's all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it's here, now it's gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it'll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother's letters.
Time is useless. Other than this. This is time's job; today's coffee is time's job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time's job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it's own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time's job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.
Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let's put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time's machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today's coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?
Whether you are awake or asleep doesn't negate the question. It's simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says "you need to change". Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It's just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?
Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?
That's enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it's not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time's gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn't show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it's job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.
So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.
See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don't die. I've already lost one.
P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.
You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.
Time teaches people each other; that's all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it's here, now it's gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it'll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother's letters.
Time is useless. Other than this. This is time's job; today's coffee is time's job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time's job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it's own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time's job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.
Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let's put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time's machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today's coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?
Whether you are awake or asleep doesn't negate the question. It's simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says "you need to change". Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It's just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?
Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?
That's enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it's not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time's gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn't show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it's job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.
So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.
See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don't die. I've already lost one.
P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.
1/12/08
Nikolai's Death Version I
There is no doubt I will be blamed for Nikolai's death. I get blamed for a lot of shit. It's always Bruno's fault. Bruno did this, Bruno did that.. Bruno said this to me, Bruno said that to me. Did you see Bruno do that? Were you there when Bruno?... I am used to it. I have never left a place or a situation without at least a few sentences being spoken after I've left. I attract blame. If a cat fell from the sky and bit everyone, it would be my fault.
The circumstances are too convenient. Nikolai and I have worked together for 11 years at the same harbor, everyone knows we quarelled quite a bit and as his second in command, I am now the new chief engineer. No one will even think for a second that Nikolai and I were actually friends.
I'll tell you the truth:
It was late. Really late. 5am. Most Saturday nights at the harbor are quiet. People go off in their social circles, some chase after women, some chase after men in order to be chased, some simply cannot stand an idle moment at home. Whatever their reasons, Saturday night is no night to be spent at the harbor. Once in a while, we do get a couple here and there who'd like to sit and stare at the moon. That's understandable; the moon has been romantic since day one and the harbor is no exception to the rule. We even have an advantage because our boats here add a special touch to the whole experience. Women have always loved sailors and men have always loved women staring at the sea. The reflection of the moon falling onto the water is really like the dressing on the salad. It completes the seduction game. Delicious.
Anyhow, there were no couples on any of the docks when I took my usual walk around 5. I walked all the way to the last dock.
My pockets were empty except some change and a large key I use to lock the gate. I should mention my shoes were wet because I almost fell in the water as I was trying to catch a couple of shrimp for breakfast by the large rocks at the north gate. It was quiet, relatively quiet. It's never quiet at the harbor. There's always some hustle going on somewhere though you can never hear or guess what it is. Somebody's selling oysters, the chinese are trading salt and pepper for salmon, the harbor hotel's owner is on the roof trying to fix the antenna, Leila is clicking her red heels together to attract customers. It's not loud here but it's not quiet either. Only the dirtiest of the dirty are around at this time.
As I reached the last dock, I saw a silhouette sitting at the end of it. It was Nikolai. He looked solitary and content. I watched him for a brief moment. I thought "look at you, Nik, sitting there quietly, not yelling at me or saving my life, so together, so wholesome, so posed.." I don't really know what people thought of him. He was not blamed for things like I am. He didn't really talk to strangers, didn't stick his nose into others' businesses except mine and most notably, he never took anything for granted. I turned around to see if I turned off the light in the office. I had. I turned back around. There was no Nikolai. So simple. So gracious. Gone in a moment.
That's what happened. I don't know what happened. It wasn't me.
The circumstances are too convenient. Nikolai and I have worked together for 11 years at the same harbor, everyone knows we quarelled quite a bit and as his second in command, I am now the new chief engineer. No one will even think for a second that Nikolai and I were actually friends.
I'll tell you the truth:
It was late. Really late. 5am. Most Saturday nights at the harbor are quiet. People go off in their social circles, some chase after women, some chase after men in order to be chased, some simply cannot stand an idle moment at home. Whatever their reasons, Saturday night is no night to be spent at the harbor. Once in a while, we do get a couple here and there who'd like to sit and stare at the moon. That's understandable; the moon has been romantic since day one and the harbor is no exception to the rule. We even have an advantage because our boats here add a special touch to the whole experience. Women have always loved sailors and men have always loved women staring at the sea. The reflection of the moon falling onto the water is really like the dressing on the salad. It completes the seduction game. Delicious.
Anyhow, there were no couples on any of the docks when I took my usual walk around 5. I walked all the way to the last dock.
My pockets were empty except some change and a large key I use to lock the gate. I should mention my shoes were wet because I almost fell in the water as I was trying to catch a couple of shrimp for breakfast by the large rocks at the north gate. It was quiet, relatively quiet. It's never quiet at the harbor. There's always some hustle going on somewhere though you can never hear or guess what it is. Somebody's selling oysters, the chinese are trading salt and pepper for salmon, the harbor hotel's owner is on the roof trying to fix the antenna, Leila is clicking her red heels together to attract customers. It's not loud here but it's not quiet either. Only the dirtiest of the dirty are around at this time.
As I reached the last dock, I saw a silhouette sitting at the end of it. It was Nikolai. He looked solitary and content. I watched him for a brief moment. I thought "look at you, Nik, sitting there quietly, not yelling at me or saving my life, so together, so wholesome, so posed.." I don't really know what people thought of him. He was not blamed for things like I am. He didn't really talk to strangers, didn't stick his nose into others' businesses except mine and most notably, he never took anything for granted. I turned around to see if I turned off the light in the office. I had. I turned back around. There was no Nikolai. So simple. So gracious. Gone in a moment.
That's what happened. I don't know what happened. It wasn't me.
12/11/07
EGON SCHIELE and THE ACTOR
The biggest lie schools of "acting" and "directing" have manufactured is the "process". This "process", they claim, is the essence and the real development of the actor's character study and also somewhat relates the director to the actor and vice versa, pretending to aid a better telling of the story or narrative. This "process" pretends to happen in pre-production or so-called development stage and during production itself, simultaneously disregarding the subject matter and the more important aftermath.
Believing and practicing the "process" leads to self-admiration on both sides of the camera and stage, bringing forth a bogus sense of pretense that lifts the focus from the work itself to the people involved in the production; allowing the cinema to act as a playground for the actors' personal manifestations and self-importance (covered up by the misbelief that it will ultimately create better elements and building blocks for the story to be told).
Among many other unpleasant side effects, the "process" is largely responsible for most of the oversaturation of narrative and character in cinema at large while shrinking the essential purpose of celluloid art: representation of ideas and behavior; a notion much closer to painting rather than storytelling, theater or photography (though an analogy is not necessary or useful).
Cinema's purpose is not to tell stories. But the current state of new cinema, including the so-called "independents" tell stories; translating literature with a linear narrative onto the cinematic medium that wants to remain predominantly visual, behavioral and theoretical as that is its nature, birthright and a much more interesting place to be than the narrative-based platform which belongs and works better in literature. The idea of the book or novel is perfect and beautiful as it is, it doesn't need to be carried over to other artforms.
Extended practice of the "process" and the muscle narrative over the last century has poisoned cinema by mesmerizing audiences and the directors by the "and then and then"; stimulating the human mind to find out "what happens next".
Cinema has its own vocabulary and syntax to build meaning. It does not need to use tools and structures of literature and/or theater to construct its unique substance which can pretty much only be described by its own name; cinema.
The extreme oversaturation of dramatic narrative and the "actor's process" has led most actors and directors to believe that acting is a profession of its own. This is alarming and dangerous. There is no profession such as acting; it is NOT possible to be an ACTOR that can simultaneously practice this false profession in both theater and cinema; the notion of the ACTOR that ACTS a certain CHARACTER no matter what the composition format is a counterfeit reference to the theater world before the invention of the moving pictures.
A quick thoughtless amalgam of the self-sustaining system of PROCESS, NARRATIVE, CHARACTER and ACTING in the 1930s (primarily for financial reasons) has given birth to the organism known as the STAR which, being also a cardboard profession, is not as corrupt as the modern day version of the CROSS-INDUSTRY ACTOR.
Last paragraph: I am not going to say anything about theater-acting or any other kind of acting that might be out there today as they are not my concern or interest. But I would like to say a few things about acting in the cinema. Acting in cinema means that your profession is CINEMA and NOT acting. Fundamentally, this means that any "actor" partaking in cinematic art should be engulfed by it and realize the responsibility they carry to a medium that is not only bigger and more complex than their personal manifestations or goal but also requires a certain love, deep interest and education in its past, present and future on an intellectual and theoretical basis. Cinema is partly a self-referential art and requires studying. It's an art of ideas that is not newly-born, it's labyrinth of idea representation, identification-reflection, micro/macro realization is not something to stumble on in a magazine at a train station. It is much bigger than ACTING and can only encompass it. I am, on a somewhat regular basis, faced with actors who see cinema as ANOTHER medium they can work in. This unaware and childish instinct to ACT for the sake of ACTING is the main reason why auditions are flooded with disappointment and the market is oversaturated with films that don't mean a thing or have any afterlife. A real FILM doesn't end when it ends. It has an afterlife because it's a film of IDEAS, because it works off of a history of cinema, because it's another entry in the library of cinema that can not and does not exist with single entities but as a library at large. To put it simpler; an actor that hasn't studied or is not at least genuinely interested in the IDEAS (not necessarily films) of, say, FELLINI or FASSBINDER or BERGMAN (eventhough I don't like him) or doesn't know who MELIES is, is only clearly self-obsessed with desire for personal exhibition and thus will not find himself properly situated in cinema. The cinema is big, it's doors are open, but it requires more investment and study from the ACTOR than just ACTING.
In a nutshell: The cinema is NOT an artform composed of ACTING, CHARACTER, NARRATIVE and the PROCESS. It is a much bigger platform of THOUGHT-IMAGE-BEHAVIOR-HYPOTHESIS construction that can only be composed by studying its own essence, history and complexity at all its levels. To leave you with another example of what I mean; EGON SCHIELE's paintings are much more precious to cinema than SCORCESE will ever be.
Believing and practicing the "process" leads to self-admiration on both sides of the camera and stage, bringing forth a bogus sense of pretense that lifts the focus from the work itself to the people involved in the production; allowing the cinema to act as a playground for the actors' personal manifestations and self-importance (covered up by the misbelief that it will ultimately create better elements and building blocks for the story to be told).
Among many other unpleasant side effects, the "process" is largely responsible for most of the oversaturation of narrative and character in cinema at large while shrinking the essential purpose of celluloid art: representation of ideas and behavior; a notion much closer to painting rather than storytelling, theater or photography (though an analogy is not necessary or useful).
Cinema's purpose is not to tell stories. But the current state of new cinema, including the so-called "independents" tell stories; translating literature with a linear narrative onto the cinematic medium that wants to remain predominantly visual, behavioral and theoretical as that is its nature, birthright and a much more interesting place to be than the narrative-based platform which belongs and works better in literature. The idea of the book or novel is perfect and beautiful as it is, it doesn't need to be carried over to other artforms.
Extended practice of the "process" and the muscle narrative over the last century has poisoned cinema by mesmerizing audiences and the directors by the "and then and then"; stimulating the human mind to find out "what happens next".
Cinema has its own vocabulary and syntax to build meaning. It does not need to use tools and structures of literature and/or theater to construct its unique substance which can pretty much only be described by its own name; cinema.
The extreme oversaturation of dramatic narrative and the "actor's process" has led most actors and directors to believe that acting is a profession of its own. This is alarming and dangerous. There is no profession such as acting; it is NOT possible to be an ACTOR that can simultaneously practice this false profession in both theater and cinema; the notion of the ACTOR that ACTS a certain CHARACTER no matter what the composition format is a counterfeit reference to the theater world before the invention of the moving pictures.
A quick thoughtless amalgam of the self-sustaining system of PROCESS, NARRATIVE, CHARACTER and ACTING in the 1930s (primarily for financial reasons) has given birth to the organism known as the STAR which, being also a cardboard profession, is not as corrupt as the modern day version of the CROSS-INDUSTRY ACTOR.
Last paragraph: I am not going to say anything about theater-acting or any other kind of acting that might be out there today as they are not my concern or interest. But I would like to say a few things about acting in the cinema. Acting in cinema means that your profession is CINEMA and NOT acting. Fundamentally, this means that any "actor" partaking in cinematic art should be engulfed by it and realize the responsibility they carry to a medium that is not only bigger and more complex than their personal manifestations or goal but also requires a certain love, deep interest and education in its past, present and future on an intellectual and theoretical basis. Cinema is partly a self-referential art and requires studying. It's an art of ideas that is not newly-born, it's labyrinth of idea representation, identification-reflection, micro/macro realization is not something to stumble on in a magazine at a train station. It is much bigger than ACTING and can only encompass it. I am, on a somewhat regular basis, faced with actors who see cinema as ANOTHER medium they can work in. This unaware and childish instinct to ACT for the sake of ACTING is the main reason why auditions are flooded with disappointment and the market is oversaturated with films that don't mean a thing or have any afterlife. A real FILM doesn't end when it ends. It has an afterlife because it's a film of IDEAS, because it works off of a history of cinema, because it's another entry in the library of cinema that can not and does not exist with single entities but as a library at large. To put it simpler; an actor that hasn't studied or is not at least genuinely interested in the IDEAS (not necessarily films) of, say, FELLINI or FASSBINDER or BERGMAN (eventhough I don't like him) or doesn't know who MELIES is, is only clearly self-obsessed with desire for personal exhibition and thus will not find himself properly situated in cinema. The cinema is big, it's doors are open, but it requires more investment and study from the ACTOR than just ACTING.
In a nutshell: The cinema is NOT an artform composed of ACTING, CHARACTER, NARRATIVE and the PROCESS. It is a much bigger platform of THOUGHT-IMAGE-BEHAVIOR-HYPOTHESIS construction that can only be composed by studying its own essence, history and complexity at all its levels. To leave you with another example of what I mean; EGON SCHIELE's paintings are much more precious to cinema than SCORCESE will ever be.
Come Be Metaphor
Horses. The horse that never sleeps. Easy metaphor. No time to think, no unnecessary complications. There is a horse that never sleeps. This horse is clearly blind. One knows there is a fence. There will be a jump. The situation is somewhat elevated. Come with your measuring tape, your animals, tie a tie around that neck.
Thousands of years ago, this horse was born. You've already thought of Troy. Good. Me and you will ride this horse together. That's out there. There's no doubt. We've already setup a dream. Someone will dream it. Someone always dreams it, in order to validate it, write it down in history, no matter how starless a night, in the middle of Times Square, Hyde Park, etc. You know what this means.
To be dreamt in return. Like salt dreams of seawater.
So, come be metaphor.
Thousands of years ago, this horse was born. You've already thought of Troy. Good. Me and you will ride this horse together. That's out there. There's no doubt. We've already setup a dream. Someone will dream it. Someone always dreams it, in order to validate it, write it down in history, no matter how starless a night, in the middle of Times Square, Hyde Park, etc. You know what this means.
To be dreamt in return. Like salt dreams of seawater.
So, come be metaphor.
12/2/07
Thanksgiving Message
Now, whatever you do, do not let Thanksgiving get to you. The following are simple cautious measures I would like to pass on to all my dear friends this Thanksgiving:
First, if you have a dog; try to keep him outside without a leash as much as you can, he will be thankful for this and your relationship with him will greatly improve. At least, let him run around on the roof.
Do not worry about having Thanksgiving dinner if the day means nothing to you; it’s just another meal but also do not have Thanksgiving dinner if you have not harvested anything this year (this harvesting can be in the form of artistic work or a good return on your good behavior with a certain person). Realize that all these days have really lost all their meaning and you’re doing this because everyone else is. If you dig deeper, you might even find that you detest this kind of behavior and celebration. If that is the case, do NOT dig deeper.
Ignore all religious talk that might slip through the course of the meal. Do not fight against it. You are outnumbered. “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist.” You are not the devil and he really doesn’t exist. Realize that you are sitting around and pseudo-thanking pseudo-something while your army is killing people in another country. Keep eating regardless. You’ll have to eat something so this might just as well be it.
If you are a vegetarian, whatever you do, do NOT eat Tofurky! There’s nothing worse than pretending within pretending. Call your family; but only if you call them on a regular basis anyway. If this is the 3rd time this year you’re going to call your mom, hang up the phone immediately and take a shot of vodka instead. Do not worry too much about what you did last Thanksgiving but feel free to compare it to what you did on Halloween. If this starts making you uncomfortable about your personality; drop the thought immediately and take another shot of vodka.
Do not buy organic turkey. Eating organic food is not going to make you live longer; drinking non-organic whiskey with friends and laughing will. Realize that the people you truly love in this world are the ones you can’t work things out with but cannot let go either. If you are single, do not look at happy-looking couples and start thinking if you should pursue a “proper” relationship one of these days. The truth may be they are getting fat, watching TV and petting cats, that is the extent of their happiness. They will never admit it is because of security and habit. Your disfunctional relationship with that special someone with constant relapses and sudden turns and returns is probably much more realistic and will last much longer than theirs. If you are not single, never ever give up your whole self to the other person. Respect yourself but do not think you know anything better than anyone else.
Be proud of your lust, breasts or penis. Do not sleep with every person you find attractive. Only sleep with people you can have brunch with as well. Try to avoid hipsters. After the dinner, do not go to a party in Williamsburg and pretend Andy Warhol is there. He is not. Instead, go to a bar with real people and have a good time with them.
Do not eat too much bread. Smoke less but don’t quit. If you do drugs, start doing them once in a blue moon instead of every weekend. Stop biting your nails. Do not drink decaf coffee. Think about the last person you slept with; if it was good, admit that it wasn’t only sex. If it was bad, do not do it again. If you can’t remember; call them and see if they’d like to try it sober.
Do not try to change people. It won’t happen. Instead, wait for them to change themselves. Appreciate the kindness you receive. Do not put up with stupidity. Whatever you do, do not take anyone for granted. The most beautiful of friends and lovers will walk away the moment they realize you did.
In the end, every spoon will find its dish. Do not lie to yourself. Also realize that the lies you tell others most likely burn out before they reach the shore. People have an amazing ability to let you lie and pretend they believe you. In this case, you would only be racing yourself. Do not EVER race yourself.
Do not play games of Catch. Every horse gets tired at one point and gives up. Do not let people run after you for too long. The more they run, the more they are looking around to see what else is there. Try to get used to hot sauce and whiskey. The sexiest men eat a lot of hot sauce and the sexiest women drink whiskey.
Your siblings are probably the best friends you’ll ever have. Give them money. If you can’t give them money, let them get away with something. Hang out with your grandfather. Buy nice shoes. Do not believe in God. Do not put up with people that believe in God. The biggest sinner of them all is the one who talks about sin. Watch Charlie Chaplin.
Stop trying to look for the truth. The word itself is bogus. Do not wear too much make up. Eat fish. If you don’t already know how to swim, jump into the ocean next chance you get. Know that everything you perceive has been created by you and you have been created by everything that perceives you. Everything happens in this life and stays in this life. It’s like Vegas here. Do not postpone anything. Do not let half-ass things linger too long, either. Admit to love, hate, distrust, care, fetishes, tenderness, loss, gain, hope, weakness, strength. Denial is the enemy of all.
Do not ever ask for pity. The rest comes by itself. Now, put on MEAT IS MURDER on the stereo and dig into that turkey!
Thanksgiving 2007
First, if you have a dog; try to keep him outside without a leash as much as you can, he will be thankful for this and your relationship with him will greatly improve. At least, let him run around on the roof.
Do not worry about having Thanksgiving dinner if the day means nothing to you; it’s just another meal but also do not have Thanksgiving dinner if you have not harvested anything this year (this harvesting can be in the form of artistic work or a good return on your good behavior with a certain person). Realize that all these days have really lost all their meaning and you’re doing this because everyone else is. If you dig deeper, you might even find that you detest this kind of behavior and celebration. If that is the case, do NOT dig deeper.
Ignore all religious talk that might slip through the course of the meal. Do not fight against it. You are outnumbered. “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist.” You are not the devil and he really doesn’t exist. Realize that you are sitting around and pseudo-thanking pseudo-something while your army is killing people in another country. Keep eating regardless. You’ll have to eat something so this might just as well be it.
If you are a vegetarian, whatever you do, do NOT eat Tofurky! There’s nothing worse than pretending within pretending. Call your family; but only if you call them on a regular basis anyway. If this is the 3rd time this year you’re going to call your mom, hang up the phone immediately and take a shot of vodka instead. Do not worry too much about what you did last Thanksgiving but feel free to compare it to what you did on Halloween. If this starts making you uncomfortable about your personality; drop the thought immediately and take another shot of vodka.
Do not buy organic turkey. Eating organic food is not going to make you live longer; drinking non-organic whiskey with friends and laughing will. Realize that the people you truly love in this world are the ones you can’t work things out with but cannot let go either. If you are single, do not look at happy-looking couples and start thinking if you should pursue a “proper” relationship one of these days. The truth may be they are getting fat, watching TV and petting cats, that is the extent of their happiness. They will never admit it is because of security and habit. Your disfunctional relationship with that special someone with constant relapses and sudden turns and returns is probably much more realistic and will last much longer than theirs. If you are not single, never ever give up your whole self to the other person. Respect yourself but do not think you know anything better than anyone else.
Be proud of your lust, breasts or penis. Do not sleep with every person you find attractive. Only sleep with people you can have brunch with as well. Try to avoid hipsters. After the dinner, do not go to a party in Williamsburg and pretend Andy Warhol is there. He is not. Instead, go to a bar with real people and have a good time with them.
Do not eat too much bread. Smoke less but don’t quit. If you do drugs, start doing them once in a blue moon instead of every weekend. Stop biting your nails. Do not drink decaf coffee. Think about the last person you slept with; if it was good, admit that it wasn’t only sex. If it was bad, do not do it again. If you can’t remember; call them and see if they’d like to try it sober.
Do not try to change people. It won’t happen. Instead, wait for them to change themselves. Appreciate the kindness you receive. Do not put up with stupidity. Whatever you do, do not take anyone for granted. The most beautiful of friends and lovers will walk away the moment they realize you did.
In the end, every spoon will find its dish. Do not lie to yourself. Also realize that the lies you tell others most likely burn out before they reach the shore. People have an amazing ability to let you lie and pretend they believe you. In this case, you would only be racing yourself. Do not EVER race yourself.
Do not play games of Catch. Every horse gets tired at one point and gives up. Do not let people run after you for too long. The more they run, the more they are looking around to see what else is there. Try to get used to hot sauce and whiskey. The sexiest men eat a lot of hot sauce and the sexiest women drink whiskey.
Your siblings are probably the best friends you’ll ever have. Give them money. If you can’t give them money, let them get away with something. Hang out with your grandfather. Buy nice shoes. Do not believe in God. Do not put up with people that believe in God. The biggest sinner of them all is the one who talks about sin. Watch Charlie Chaplin.
Stop trying to look for the truth. The word itself is bogus. Do not wear too much make up. Eat fish. If you don’t already know how to swim, jump into the ocean next chance you get. Know that everything you perceive has been created by you and you have been created by everything that perceives you. Everything happens in this life and stays in this life. It’s like Vegas here. Do not postpone anything. Do not let half-ass things linger too long, either. Admit to love, hate, distrust, care, fetishes, tenderness, loss, gain, hope, weakness, strength. Denial is the enemy of all.
Do not ever ask for pity. The rest comes by itself. Now, put on MEAT IS MURDER on the stereo and dig into that turkey!
Thanksgiving 2007
You Specific, Me Specific and Us at Large
We've come a long way. Within hours, minutes, split seconds. I am talking about trust. There's no way of telling what it even is. If it exists, I'll be the first to admit it's necessary. I denied its existence for a long time. I am about to give that up. There's a big misconception out there between what is existentialism and what has commonly been referred to as nihilism. Neither definitions are necessary. We would only complicate this tangle further if we rely or base our day-to-day opinions and feelings on either. Let's just take them out. They are merely reflections; both uneasy; both desperate; both lost in a bottleneck of what is and what isn't. What you do is what you are. We are constructed by our actions (maybe). And maybe we are constructed by what we enforce on the momentary and "the longer run" by manifestations that feel right more than they are right (or wrong). It may very well be we are not constructed at all. I have a gut feeling none of these are true and they don't really matter. We must eat, I know that. We must drink that water, you know that. That is something good. And if it feels better to do it together, we'll do it together. Me specific and you specific. Me at large and you at large. Personal and universal. The rule is true for both.
Some things happen. There is no denying it. The world and its apparitions happen, to us, and somewhat on a daily basis. In sleep as well as awake. We deny a portion of them, admit another, open doors, close them, let a certain light in, leave out another. I am well aware I am speaking generally and metaphorically. It doesn't matter. I am not at all speaking generally or metaphorically. The last three sentences before this one travel together. Once again, that is ok.
Man writes because man thinks when written down, these things are validated at a slightly higher level than their feeling counterpart. Unfortunately, this is not true or let's just say I don't think it is. Let's do more. Let's not give up writing them down or thinking either.
Contemplation and orderless cataloging is our nature. Absolutely. But we mostly rely on it when we can't rely on its birth mother: Life itself.
When we do and live more rather than talk about it, this might not be such a bad place to be if talking about there is less than actually being there and I hope that it is.
I could end this with a million metaphors. They are all as good as the next one. They are true too, but the meta is useless without the phor and vice versa. It's everyone's responsibility to fill BOTH parts. Personal and universal. On their own and together.
Death will win every battle but it is wrong to think of death as enemy. I am not writing this to contemplate about that, neither am I writing this so you contemplate it. I am writing this to you, to you who is alive. You specific and you at large.
Some things happen. There is no denying it. The world and its apparitions happen, to us, and somewhat on a daily basis. In sleep as well as awake. We deny a portion of them, admit another, open doors, close them, let a certain light in, leave out another. I am well aware I am speaking generally and metaphorically. It doesn't matter. I am not at all speaking generally or metaphorically. The last three sentences before this one travel together. Once again, that is ok.
Man writes because man thinks when written down, these things are validated at a slightly higher level than their feeling counterpart. Unfortunately, this is not true or let's just say I don't think it is. Let's do more. Let's not give up writing them down or thinking either.
Contemplation and orderless cataloging is our nature. Absolutely. But we mostly rely on it when we can't rely on its birth mother: Life itself.
When we do and live more rather than talk about it, this might not be such a bad place to be if talking about there is less than actually being there and I hope that it is.
I could end this with a million metaphors. They are all as good as the next one. They are true too, but the meta is useless without the phor and vice versa. It's everyone's responsibility to fill BOTH parts. Personal and universal. On their own and together.
Death will win every battle but it is wrong to think of death as enemy. I am not writing this to contemplate about that, neither am I writing this so you contemplate it. I am writing this to you, to you who is alive. You specific and you at large.
Incomplete List
black sheets. claire. a boat my grandfather burned. the mercedes-benz i've fallen in love with. your last goodbye. awful vile pathetic conversations that loop. my last goodbye. overgrown high-school love affair. cigarettes. she talks about herself until even her self doesn't listen anymore. red. one black tie. glad to have lived this far. robert walser. sharon. bunkbeds. are you married? amazing friend nobody else likes. katie. kati. kat. cigarettes. a grave in the middle of nothing. an indian wind. inheritance. nick cave. this film. pregnancy scares. a telephone call never made. a telephone call should've never made. whiskey. too much whiskey. coffee. a bone that hurts on rainy days. rain. do not like rain. great man around town. a boat in greece. a lie about a boat in greece. carlee. my apricot tree. a room full of watermelons. nietzsche. the summer that lasted too long. trying to figure out how it started, what started. a spark. confetti. her virginity. honking car at 3am. phoebe. 10 days in prague. laura. lost boy in tangier. a girl who held my hand and jumped on stage. a face i couldn't remember. when i jumped on stage and broke my leg. locked myself in my car. deer close to headlights. she cried. tace. father's cancer. nice shoes. elisa. repeating french vocabulary while crying. a turkish girl with an amazing ass. fucking. hotel room in morocco. a door that creaks. stoned english couple on boat to italy. moustache. emily. a house torn down. year-long fights about money. kill uncle. shalalae. not too much ice. liz. the other liz. the rabbit that died. winking at each other in 4th grade. great roommate. great friend. nicole. cactus and harbors. mad man at the piraeus harbor. $27 stolen. $50 found. another nicole. german. heather. i really can't remember her name. a hole in my face. lucinda's death. hospital smell. an alarm clock wrong. the morning i woke up to find my father dead. kids at play watching us secretly as we made out on the rocks. magdalena. a 28-year old crying for a 15-year old through a bus window. maya. never got beaten up. lebanese woman with endless pseudo-romantic requests. i broke someone's finger. 3 people whose names I cannot mention. the girl who stripped for me in porn heels. trying to avoid a never-ending loop of yes and no. the most beautiful girl who wrote to me. indian friend so dear to my heart (never thought i could be such good friends with a woman.) she said "we have to talk, you're killing me!" constant guilt games. retarded macho-gay hipsters. games of pity. pathetic games. jessica's breasts are 34c. my guitar i haven't touched in a year. fish. more fish. fish all around. bullet. half a person. the other jessica. 29th birthday. useless phone conversations at 5am. sitting in front of the fridge naked. impossible alcohol withdrawal. merrill. people that force you to apologize. bob dylan. you liked it. the girl who looked at my penis in the basement using matches for light when we were 14. the man who shot my dog. small breasts and penniless depressed lady in the middle of istanbul whose cab i had to pay for because she kissed me. my new work. dreamless. fucking your girlfriend's best friend and wondering what kind of best friend she is. crissy. the night i made it home alive. daphne. weird self-assesments. freddie mercury's death. beets mistaken for blood. the vast archive of next moments you are guaranteed to come on top. chocolate. luisa. kurt cobain's death. claire's earring in my beard. cobra. tiger. the girl i am ashamed to have slept with. honesty. disgusting human being accusing me of nothings. my two beautiful secrets. rumi. forgetting how. harmful distrust. understanding too much too soon. hurtful relapse. sex in the garden with wet leaves. rebecca. how she wouldn't believe me. my father's clarinet. lost tooth. nice hands. dressing up for me. the letter i wrote to a lover covering the basics of existence and the meaning of worthlessness. emma. you are man and you age better. there's more. a deal made without details. i've really only fallen in love twice. learning to have enough. leila (how beautiful you are). people's names you can't mention so you don't break the magic. green tea morning with your winning smile. masking tape on her nipples. that blonde's long legs and small breasts. binary code. the tattoos on her ass. bruno s. million-dollar blowjob. absinth. a kiss that came 3 years late. feeling right to have learned to put an end to things. nice fat zeros. sticking her ass out of the cab window. two paintings buried deep in my closet. rude person asking for pity. m. rude person always wanting to be the victim. red heels. bruno schulz. all this will soon be over. selfish slut. thinking why you while the others thought why them. the bruise on her breast. william s. burroughs. spend at least 20 minutes everyday completely naked. one early evening on that couch twelve years ago. standing still with my eyes closed and trying to fall flat on my face. lhasa. sitting by the big rock in spain and telling each other it was over. 6 fucking years of never ending. another 6 years with another never ending. monica. all that i am forgetting. the joy in forgetting. racing eventhough when you know you are only racing yourself. my hand up her skirt as the boys watched through the bar window and she smiled at them. sex in the corn field. stuck in the middle of the pond. sharon's naked picture. another's virginity. werner herzog. she only seems smart because she doesn’t speak much. remembering a particular room of sleep. the one-night stand that turned into 6 months of torture until she had to be carried out. best brother. tom waits. my mother. everyone's mother. the bliss of finding out that you've learned to change your ways. red book, black rose. federico fellini. constant acknowledgement of relapses in everyone else's lives. good posture. a threesome that stopped at the right time. klaus kinski. the turkish army. the year-long lie. walking out on time. knowing how to turn tables for ones you used to care for. the slap in the face that I certainly deserved. jorge luis borges. slow games of chess. always missed when gone. you’ve read this far. that sunny sunday you decided not to put up any longer with people who are reckless with your heart. i can't remember the name of my first girlfriend and feel awful about it even if it lasted just 3 weeks. the monday you learned not to be reckless with other people’s hearts. incapability to keep your mouth shut. disregard. cybil. truly beautiful gestures that keep us alive. always wondering how she can even keep it together enough to buy cigarettes. debts. bargains. expired conversations. one day goodbye will be farewell. she used to carry me on her back. mirrorless. the night i couldn't make it home. the story is old, i know, but it goes on. lucinda. where were you?
(to be continued and extended till death do us part)
(to be continued and extended till death do us part)
A World Divorced
On a regular basis, I am faced with Robert Walser's assessment of the world. I believe we all are:
"Everything that's called 'the world,' and how grand and exciting what I privately call the world is to me."
It seems all short-circuits of emotion and behavior take place on that thin line of moments between comprehending and trying to digest the inevitable difference between 'the world' and what we 'privately call the world'.
Everything transforms itself there in those tiny moments which are repeated till our possible death. The meanings of the following words oscillate:
action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.
Coincidence: is the word that merely means the other has clashed into your chain of moments when you unconciously made a decision between 'the world' and 'your world' on a given specific word/feeling/notion. This happens in split seconds.
Then, the meanings of the following words oscillate once again, (they oscillate wildly):
action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.
The 2nd oscillation gives birth to the following figures of speech:
tables have turned, put yourself in my shoes, say i am you, the lunatics have taken over the asylum, the pearl that buys itself.
By then, 'the world' is left alone. You no longer know the world, you only know what you privately call the world.
So the world is alone. You've divorced it.
The only thing that remains is your capability to see the same pattern in other people's lives and when you do, if you do, be brave about it. Don't hide the fact that you understand them.
The world has billions of lovers. What you privately call the world only has one.
I hope I was able to explain why I've been feeling so good recently.
"Everything that's called 'the world,' and how grand and exciting what I privately call the world is to me."
It seems all short-circuits of emotion and behavior take place on that thin line of moments between comprehending and trying to digest the inevitable difference between 'the world' and what we 'privately call the world'.
Everything transforms itself there in those tiny moments which are repeated till our possible death. The meanings of the following words oscillate:
action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.
Coincidence: is the word that merely means the other has clashed into your chain of moments when you unconciously made a decision between 'the world' and 'your world' on a given specific word/feeling/notion. This happens in split seconds.
Then, the meanings of the following words oscillate once again, (they oscillate wildly):
action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.
The 2nd oscillation gives birth to the following figures of speech:
tables have turned, put yourself in my shoes, say i am you, the lunatics have taken over the asylum, the pearl that buys itself.
By then, 'the world' is left alone. You no longer know the world, you only know what you privately call the world.
So the world is alone. You've divorced it.
The only thing that remains is your capability to see the same pattern in other people's lives and when you do, if you do, be brave about it. Don't hide the fact that you understand them.
The world has billions of lovers. What you privately call the world only has one.
I hope I was able to explain why I've been feeling so good recently.
Summertime, accident-prone.
The fall has finally arrived. And when I say that, I completely acknowledge I am making small talk. Strangers only talk about the weather. But honestly, I am glad the summer is over. Summer-time is accident-prone. My summers at least, usually suffer from a greater number of accidents than normal. I am one of those who put spring and summer in the same pot.
Then the fall. Big beautiful fall. Autumn; easy, we've done this before, guns back in the barrell, worms back in the can. Bye-bye summer, goodbye sweating lips, breakfasts to make, lunch to be arranged, as for dinner is lost into the night; humid and insistent. Bye-bye humid. Goodbye conditional persistence.
On a thin chain of next ones and what-happened-nexts, I put my hand out to shake this past summer's hand. Have you been a good one? Have you behaved as summer should behave? Are we actually going to shake on it?
An orange hoodie, a pair of cream-colored boots, a sock in the kitchen drawer, 3 films, a baby in the making, a chandelier made of garbage cans, a kiss 3-years past due, a conversation handful of "finally" and "why now?" somehow mixed in the same sentence, 23 gallons of quality bourbon, a dance that lasted two days, a telephone call of repair and recap, one loveletter (not sent), a new set of lies and a new set of instructions to dance around them, coffee and chocolate as usual, $27 stolen, 3 consecutive days of one thought (sans alcohol), new soles and old feet for the same shoes, a bargain taken, a bargain given, a Mexican, an Italian, masking tape on nipples, a kiss for a name, some glass hidden in the grass, a knock on a door at 5am, a hand-over at 8am, a phone call of half-truths, laughter in a bottle with old friends, confetti on a street corner, a walk to someone else's door, a light that glimmered at that door, slow games of chess, a walk through an old park, a misplaced phone call, that beautiful brunch on that honest morning, that lost face found on that sunday night, some hands held, longer sideburns, new soap, a request granted, an arm to break, a question never asked, bets others made on us, a fish lost in her own ocean, the last payment on a twelve-year love lease, new curtains and there is more.
There's more but you get the gist of it, dear summer, goodbye summer, goodbye as I shake your hand again this time around but my dear summer, one day, goodbye will be farewell.
Then the fall. Big beautiful fall. Autumn; easy, we've done this before, guns back in the barrell, worms back in the can. Bye-bye summer, goodbye sweating lips, breakfasts to make, lunch to be arranged, as for dinner is lost into the night; humid and insistent. Bye-bye humid. Goodbye conditional persistence.
On a thin chain of next ones and what-happened-nexts, I put my hand out to shake this past summer's hand. Have you been a good one? Have you behaved as summer should behave? Are we actually going to shake on it?
An orange hoodie, a pair of cream-colored boots, a sock in the kitchen drawer, 3 films, a baby in the making, a chandelier made of garbage cans, a kiss 3-years past due, a conversation handful of "finally" and "why now?" somehow mixed in the same sentence, 23 gallons of quality bourbon, a dance that lasted two days, a telephone call of repair and recap, one loveletter (not sent), a new set of lies and a new set of instructions to dance around them, coffee and chocolate as usual, $27 stolen, 3 consecutive days of one thought (sans alcohol), new soles and old feet for the same shoes, a bargain taken, a bargain given, a Mexican, an Italian, masking tape on nipples, a kiss for a name, some glass hidden in the grass, a knock on a door at 5am, a hand-over at 8am, a phone call of half-truths, laughter in a bottle with old friends, confetti on a street corner, a walk to someone else's door, a light that glimmered at that door, slow games of chess, a walk through an old park, a misplaced phone call, that beautiful brunch on that honest morning, that lost face found on that sunday night, some hands held, longer sideburns, new soap, a request granted, an arm to break, a question never asked, bets others made on us, a fish lost in her own ocean, the last payment on a twelve-year love lease, new curtains and there is more.
There's more but you get the gist of it, dear summer, goodbye summer, goodbye as I shake your hand again this time around but my dear summer, one day, goodbye will be farewell.
Petitioprincipii Part II
So, let's continue:
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn't be here talking about it. We'd either be fucking or I would've been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant "false dilemna" and then after that it said "perfect solution"
Well, after staring at the screen for about half an hour, I decided there's no need to continue this; False Dilemna. Perfect Solution.
I remember your name. I don't have your phone number nor do I know your last name so I can't spy on you on the internet. Your sock is still in the kitchen drawer and as promised I have fixed the flush. I hope to run into you one fall afternoon when the sky's the color of a lonely wren. How? How do I find you when I haven't lost you? You don't even know my real name. You will never find this for you have never lost it. Petitio principii.
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn't be here talking about it. We'd either be fucking or I would've been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant "false dilemna" and then after that it said "perfect solution"
Well, after staring at the screen for about half an hour, I decided there's no need to continue this; False Dilemna. Perfect Solution.
I remember your name. I don't have your phone number nor do I know your last name so I can't spy on you on the internet. Your sock is still in the kitchen drawer and as promised I have fixed the flush. I hope to run into you one fall afternoon when the sky's the color of a lonely wren. How? How do I find you when I haven't lost you? You don't even know my real name. You will never find this for you have never lost it. Petitio principii.
Petitioprincipii Part I
I usually do not write this directly without metaphors but this one just begs for it:
I can not mention her name out of respect so we're going to go with "she" or "woman". (I hope you are not reading this. I just had to do it, sorry.) She was hesitant to believe and stay or to forget and walk away. She stood there. I stood there. At guard but also willing to drop it at any moment, waiting for the right (or wrong) word to be spoken. We both knew that one of us might not be there tomorrow to speak even right or wrong. We were old enough. The conversation took place as follows (or as close to it as possible):
Man (I) : I like your hesitance.
Woman (She): I am 34.
Man: I will hold your hand and please react as naturally as possible.
Woman: As in?
Man: No pretense.
Woman: No premise.
I thought she had said "promise" but she had actually said "premise". Man holds Woman's hand.
Woman: That's too tight but it's ok.
Man: Should we stop talking about it?
Woman: No, we're old enough.
Man: But words will ruin it, no?
Woman: No, that's your own past. Don't curse this by what has happened before. We will talk.
Man: We just met.
Woman: We will talk before we "have" to talk.
Man: Thank you. That's like this thing called petitio principii.
Woman: I know. We're avoiding it.
Man: You know what petitio principii means?!
Woman: I said I was 34 and I read books.
Man: I love that word. I mean, yes, the word is cute but the meaning.
Woman: It's beautiful.
Man: You know there are two types of it. Both as puzzling.
Woman: Yes.
Man: Are you fucking with me?
Woman: The conclusion comes before the premise OR the premise is the consequence of the conclusion.
Man: Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?
Woman: I said no premise. (smiles)
Man: I thought you had said "no promise"
Woman: I said premise.
Man: It took me years to even come close to understand petitio principii.
Woman: It's the closest thing to the word "love". It might even be a better word for that feeling.
Man: Literally, it means "looking for a beginning" but it supposes there's already an end in place and it's like..uh.. swimming backwards.
Woman: No, no. It means "looking for a premise". That's different from a beginning. Principii means premise in Latin.
Man: Then it doesn't suppose there's an end.
Woman: No, but it supposes a conclusion which has already been accepted by both parties.
Man: Are you talking about love or logic?
Woman: It's the same thing. It's like saying magic and work are different. They are not.
Man: It is so strange to me that we're talking about petitio principii. I think about it all the time. I write about it. I am trying to understand it. I am always trying to explain it to someone and I inevitably fail. I've never met anyone who knows the word even.
Woman: Me, too. Me, neither (laughs) It is so hard to explain because when you are trying to explain it, you are once again in petitio principii.
Man: Fuck.
Woman: How did you come upon it?
Man: An exgirlfriend told me. Claire.
Woman: Did she know what it meant exactly?
Man: No, she just liked the way it sounded.
Woman: Petitio principii.
Man: Stop it! Aristotle's version is written on the wall at my apartment.
Woman: Some people say it means "begging the question"
Man: That's an easy way out.
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn't be here talking about it. We'd either be fucking or I would've been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant "false dilemna" and then after that it said "perfect solution"
Both laugh.
--to be continued (I need to sleep a bit)-
I can not mention her name out of respect so we're going to go with "she" or "woman". (I hope you are not reading this. I just had to do it, sorry.) She was hesitant to believe and stay or to forget and walk away. She stood there. I stood there. At guard but also willing to drop it at any moment, waiting for the right (or wrong) word to be spoken. We both knew that one of us might not be there tomorrow to speak even right or wrong. We were old enough. The conversation took place as follows (or as close to it as possible):
Man (I) : I like your hesitance.
Woman (She): I am 34.
Man: I will hold your hand and please react as naturally as possible.
Woman: As in?
Man: No pretense.
Woman: No premise.
I thought she had said "promise" but she had actually said "premise". Man holds Woman's hand.
Woman: That's too tight but it's ok.
Man: Should we stop talking about it?
Woman: No, we're old enough.
Man: But words will ruin it, no?
Woman: No, that's your own past. Don't curse this by what has happened before. We will talk.
Man: We just met.
Woman: We will talk before we "have" to talk.
Man: Thank you. That's like this thing called petitio principii.
Woman: I know. We're avoiding it.
Man: You know what petitio principii means?!
Woman: I said I was 34 and I read books.
Man: I love that word. I mean, yes, the word is cute but the meaning.
Woman: It's beautiful.
Man: You know there are two types of it. Both as puzzling.
Woman: Yes.
Man: Are you fucking with me?
Woman: The conclusion comes before the premise OR the premise is the consequence of the conclusion.
Man: Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?
Woman: I said no premise. (smiles)
Man: I thought you had said "no promise"
Woman: I said premise.
Man: It took me years to even come close to understand petitio principii.
Woman: It's the closest thing to the word "love". It might even be a better word for that feeling.
Man: Literally, it means "looking for a beginning" but it supposes there's already an end in place and it's like..uh.. swimming backwards.
Woman: No, no. It means "looking for a premise". That's different from a beginning. Principii means premise in Latin.
Man: Then it doesn't suppose there's an end.
Woman: No, but it supposes a conclusion which has already been accepted by both parties.
Man: Are you talking about love or logic?
Woman: It's the same thing. It's like saying magic and work are different. They are not.
Man: It is so strange to me that we're talking about petitio principii. I think about it all the time. I write about it. I am trying to understand it. I am always trying to explain it to someone and I inevitably fail. I've never met anyone who knows the word even.
Woman: Me, too. Me, neither (laughs) It is so hard to explain because when you are trying to explain it, you are once again in petitio principii.
Man: Fuck.
Woman: How did you come upon it?
Man: An exgirlfriend told me. Claire.
Woman: Did she know what it meant exactly?
Man: No, she just liked the way it sounded.
Woman: Petitio principii.
Man: Stop it! Aristotle's version is written on the wall at my apartment.
Woman: Some people say it means "begging the question"
Man: That's an easy way out.
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn't be here talking about it. We'd either be fucking or I would've been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant "false dilemna" and then after that it said "perfect solution"
Both laugh.
--to be continued (I need to sleep a bit)-
Werner Herzog dreams alone.
Or he doesn't dream, claims to not dream. The two go hand in hand; the dream and its persistent claim. The clouds shrink when he sleeps. Silhouettes stop whispering. The clock's shadow doesn't tick on time.
Let's get this straight: In a world where there is no dreaming, Werner Herzog wakes up every morning. Leila, too, wakes up every morning. You, too, wake up every morning. Werner doesn't dream. Leila doesn't dream either. I don't know about you; according to some, I may be the one and only person that sees your dreams. According to others, we haven't even met. The equation and the odds are as good as we make them.
There's an essential difference between Werner and Leila; Werner claims to not dream. Leila says she dreams, but in actuality, she doesn't. She is too scared to be someone who doesn't dream. (Also note that Leila and Werner do not know each other)
She makes up dreams, to tell people, as if she dreamt them. She thinks she can construct them as freely as she can since they are dreams and do not need to make sense or ride on the logistics of the awake-life. She builds them with apparitions, hopes, regrets, ghostly wishes, reverse disappointments but mostly with secret code she derives from moments when people (we) misunderstood her.
In the back alley, the birds stood around waiting for the sky to fall in; bright day, come gather, shrinking clouds and all; the carnival was about to begin. Weapons were dropped; her sirens silenced, she looked beautiful at dusk. Only if we could understand the little glimmer, she wouldn't have made up all these dreams, all the half-truths and unusable lies.
But we didn't. Nor did we stop to wonder what it was we wanted from her. She spoke, surely, she spoke in tongues and codes from a land we weren't allowed in. She called it bad land, crooked land, broken land, an edge; a tiny thin line between what we referred to as reality and she referred to her as, well, herself. Constantly balancing on the fishing line between us (us people who buy and sell) and a strange endless ocean behind her, back there. It is not that she knew what that ocean was made of. She swam there nevertheless. Amongst kelp, shipwrecks and seaweed. No fish lived there. Fish lived over here. Fish lived with us.
And then me. There's me, that's where I come in. If you can believe this, I was there, on top of a blind horse, gaging, trying to figure out which way the dirty wind was actually blowing. Dusty road, I thought, I can blame it all on the dusty road. This horse isn't sick, he is just blind! And now come on, in this world, there is no real left or real right so what's the use of sight?!. One with another for one without the other couldn't just be one another.
Let's get this straight: In a world where there is no dreaming, Werner Herzog wakes up every morning. Leila, too, wakes up every morning. You, too, wake up every morning. Werner doesn't dream. Leila doesn't dream either. I don't know about you; according to some, I may be the one and only person that sees your dreams. According to others, we haven't even met. The equation and the odds are as good as we make them.
There's an essential difference between Werner and Leila; Werner claims to not dream. Leila says she dreams, but in actuality, she doesn't. She is too scared to be someone who doesn't dream. (Also note that Leila and Werner do not know each other)
She makes up dreams, to tell people, as if she dreamt them. She thinks she can construct them as freely as she can since they are dreams and do not need to make sense or ride on the logistics of the awake-life. She builds them with apparitions, hopes, regrets, ghostly wishes, reverse disappointments but mostly with secret code she derives from moments when people (we) misunderstood her.
In the back alley, the birds stood around waiting for the sky to fall in; bright day, come gather, shrinking clouds and all; the carnival was about to begin. Weapons were dropped; her sirens silenced, she looked beautiful at dusk. Only if we could understand the little glimmer, she wouldn't have made up all these dreams, all the half-truths and unusable lies.
But we didn't. Nor did we stop to wonder what it was we wanted from her. She spoke, surely, she spoke in tongues and codes from a land we weren't allowed in. She called it bad land, crooked land, broken land, an edge; a tiny thin line between what we referred to as reality and she referred to her as, well, herself. Constantly balancing on the fishing line between us (us people who buy and sell) and a strange endless ocean behind her, back there. It is not that she knew what that ocean was made of. She swam there nevertheless. Amongst kelp, shipwrecks and seaweed. No fish lived there. Fish lived over here. Fish lived with us.
And then me. There's me, that's where I come in. If you can believe this, I was there, on top of a blind horse, gaging, trying to figure out which way the dirty wind was actually blowing. Dusty road, I thought, I can blame it all on the dusty road. This horse isn't sick, he is just blind! And now come on, in this world, there is no real left or real right so what's the use of sight?!. One with another for one without the other couldn't just be one another.
In this world, your friends will fall flat on their faces.
In this world, your friends will fall flat on their faces and break their noses for no particular reason. You too, one day in this world, will fall flat on your face and break your nose for no particular reason.
You will do this on your own for it's your own falling and falling is a private matter in this world, but only at first. You have various reasons for it. You have to learn how to do it and do it well. Stand in the middle of your living room, the kitchen will also do if it's a decent size. Make sure you've got solid shoes, shoes with holes won't render good results, if you've got holes in your shoes, get them repaired, repaired ones are more beautiful than a new pair. This exercise will unveil so many exquisite revelations about yourself and you'll even understand why you can't let go of your old shoes. (side note: twice in a lifetime, you are allowed to try this with someone else's shoes but only twice - trust me on this; the first because you just have to, the second because shoes travel in pairs)
Let's get back to it: you are going to need stimulation for this (it is more important than you assume), you will need a concentration point, not necessarily a person, just a thing. Some use alcohol, some use cigarettes, coffee or water, you can even just use a thought, think of that special person, for instance. (No, not the one you want to kiss, the one who actually loves you) But if you choose to think of them, just for that few minutes; forgive everything about them that you usually can't. You can take it back later.
Stand up straight. Use your stimulant. Take the shot, take a big drag, if you are using water, splash it all over your face, you could also soak your whole body in water if you wanted to. No matter how much you want to concentrate, it's not going to work because you are on your own so you might just as well stop believing that you can do anything on your own; but rules are rules and you are going to have to do this first fall by yourself; just to learn to do it well so that when you fall with others later, no one gets hurt.
Are you there? If you are still there, do not close your eyes. It's crucial that you keep your eyes open as you fall. Do not take a deep breath; breathe normally. Now in one split second; think of your mother, in the next split second, think of the time you learned to swim, (if you don't know how to swim, think of the time you will and who will teach you), the truth is everyone knows how to swim, many just do not want to try. This is difficult; you're going to have to let go of a lot; your muscles for one, your fear of keeping your eyes open, your fear of sleeping in the middle of the bed, let them go, you can take them back later.
Now, just do it, stop questioning and considering; In this world, some answers only beg a question that is not there, stop answering questions that aren't being asked and instead, admit your answers are only what you love and what you want. Admit to wanting. Admit to wanting to sleep in the middle of the bed, away from the edge, away from the door. Even if it is to see what it's like. You can take it all back later.
Let go of your muscles, look at the ocean that is right by your feet, you are going to swim; how delightful! Fall down, face first, then limb, what was it you wanted? Does it matter?
Welcome to the world. You've fallen, now you can fall with others. Only I should tell you that I lied earlier, you can't take anything back in this world. What you do is what you are. Now sleep in the middle of the bed and remember you have forgiven at least someone in this world.
You will do this on your own for it's your own falling and falling is a private matter in this world, but only at first. You have various reasons for it. You have to learn how to do it and do it well. Stand in the middle of your living room, the kitchen will also do if it's a decent size. Make sure you've got solid shoes, shoes with holes won't render good results, if you've got holes in your shoes, get them repaired, repaired ones are more beautiful than a new pair. This exercise will unveil so many exquisite revelations about yourself and you'll even understand why you can't let go of your old shoes. (side note: twice in a lifetime, you are allowed to try this with someone else's shoes but only twice - trust me on this; the first because you just have to, the second because shoes travel in pairs)
Let's get back to it: you are going to need stimulation for this (it is more important than you assume), you will need a concentration point, not necessarily a person, just a thing. Some use alcohol, some use cigarettes, coffee or water, you can even just use a thought, think of that special person, for instance. (No, not the one you want to kiss, the one who actually loves you) But if you choose to think of them, just for that few minutes; forgive everything about them that you usually can't. You can take it back later.
Stand up straight. Use your stimulant. Take the shot, take a big drag, if you are using water, splash it all over your face, you could also soak your whole body in water if you wanted to. No matter how much you want to concentrate, it's not going to work because you are on your own so you might just as well stop believing that you can do anything on your own; but rules are rules and you are going to have to do this first fall by yourself; just to learn to do it well so that when you fall with others later, no one gets hurt.
Are you there? If you are still there, do not close your eyes. It's crucial that you keep your eyes open as you fall. Do not take a deep breath; breathe normally. Now in one split second; think of your mother, in the next split second, think of the time you learned to swim, (if you don't know how to swim, think of the time you will and who will teach you), the truth is everyone knows how to swim, many just do not want to try. This is difficult; you're going to have to let go of a lot; your muscles for one, your fear of keeping your eyes open, your fear of sleeping in the middle of the bed, let them go, you can take them back later.
Now, just do it, stop questioning and considering; In this world, some answers only beg a question that is not there, stop answering questions that aren't being asked and instead, admit your answers are only what you love and what you want. Admit to wanting. Admit to wanting to sleep in the middle of the bed, away from the edge, away from the door. Even if it is to see what it's like. You can take it all back later.
Let go of your muscles, look at the ocean that is right by your feet, you are going to swim; how delightful! Fall down, face first, then limb, what was it you wanted? Does it matter?
Welcome to the world. You've fallen, now you can fall with others. Only I should tell you that I lied earlier, you can't take anything back in this world. What you do is what you are. Now sleep in the middle of the bed and remember you have forgiven at least someone in this world.
In this world, we made a promise.
To ourselves that we will share the world with everyone else; openly and publicly, without hesitation or doubt. We are forever indebted to this beautiful promise eventhough we came up with it ourselves, did it on our own and did it privately involving only one thief and only one joker, the one and the same.
Within our big promise, we will incite other promises, contracts, settlements, bonds and bargains, small and big, dual and multiple. The only way to keep our promises is to love them, without suspicion, sans denial.
In this world, we made a promise, we made it alone but we all made the same one.
Within our big promise, we will incite other promises, contracts, settlements, bonds and bargains, small and big, dual and multiple. The only way to keep our promises is to love them, without suspicion, sans denial.
In this world, we made a promise, we made it alone but we all made the same one.
Foremost Human
In this world, I am, foremost, human. Don't confuse me with other species, that is; I have legs, arms, a face with a mouth, blue eyes, black hair, and other mishaped parts but I am (a) man, that is; I have a honorable-sized and fully functioning penis.
In this world, I have a sense, a sense of things, my own sense, infinitely circling its own; intermittently breaking its orbit, swimming out to other's dreams and occasionally, haphazardly locking in, conversing, talking, calling and shifting with them. Sometimes, in this world, we don't dream alone. Stars and clouds do match up on given nights and in reflected daylight.
In this world, pretty girls fart too and some ashtrays overflow.
In this world, I have a sense, a sense of things, my own sense, infinitely circling its own; intermittently breaking its orbit, swimming out to other's dreams and occasionally, haphazardly locking in, conversing, talking, calling and shifting with them. Sometimes, in this world, we don't dream alone. Stars and clouds do match up on given nights and in reflected daylight.
In this world, pretty girls fart too and some ashtrays overflow.
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