last tuesday

nevermind
what time of the day it is
what weather it is
throbbing through walls of perception


you and i are getting older


and what is that
if not a little bit of dust on a little china doll
inside the little cabinet where i hid my soul
a little bit of coffee spilled
on a little bit of white cloth
owned by a little man with an odd glare
who owns so many other things that he would never care
not even a little bit


a little bit of soup in my spaghetti
please,
to make it taste like nothing.
i love the taste of nothing,
not just in my food.

poetry mash-up

in an obscene attempt to make me more aware of time
my watch started ticking louder, even in the street
my watch has no tact, just tick.


but there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
time for you and time for me,
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of a toast and tea.


(thank you, t.s., you're so full of whimsy)

non sequitur

this idea that hit me today about how the right, almost gourmet, mix of media consumption can make you feel extremely happy/content/excited/thrilled to be alone (without any potential perils of feeling lonely) is doomed. 

if you agree because you got the point (which is unlikely as i'll only make it later on), we won't talk about it, as of course i am in the highest stage of my alone happiness, unaccompanied by loneliness. 

if you agree but didn't get the point we still won't talk about it, and most likely we won't talk about any other things, as well.

if you disagree without being cynical, it makes you cynical, as you then agree to the initial premise, that according to which some books, movies, tunes etc in the right combination can give you an intellectual high that makes you feel happy without anyone around you. not even people you love having around, madly. and if self-sufficiency isn't a sign of cynicism, then it is a sign of twatness.

if you disagree just because you're cynical, it makes little difference to me, and probably even less to you. 

so qed, it is doomed. where doomed refers to the non existence of any favorable situation. where do i stand? i'm cellophane. that's a word i'd like to use from now on for semi-cynical, self-contented girls or boys who would rate spending time alone among their top 2 favorite activities. 

but it's temporary.

like achilles. 

ok, or like watermelon. 

june, she'll change her tune

last week i fell into a rose bush and then, unrelated, i wanted to see a movie that tells me what to do. i have also started a coffee drinking ritual with a strict policy about the coffee's look and composition. my knee hurt. i saw on average two movies a day. i never liked averages. i had a time panic attack. mostly, i felt really lost, but somewhat happy.

flying in love

"I wasn't 'falling in love', because i never felt any weight, I was 'flying in love' for the first time in my life."

 (Arizona Dream, 1993)

flying in love beats falling in love, because it's dynamic. falling in love is static, you fall and stay there, in a love hole miles underground, you don't know anyone else anymore, you don't see anyone else anymore, you don't even want to, the whole world comes down to you and the object (and some girls might object to the term) of your affection. an emotional reclusion that doesn't work in spite of you thinking it's the best thing that could ever happen. you've been there, and if you haven't, you're lucky.

when you're flying in love it's a whole different story. you're floating above and around, you keep on moving and you love everything, absolutely everything, the blue sky above (when you're floating on your back), the tall people you can see clearly, the short people you can't really see, the rain in spain, champagne from maine, a dane called jane, a train in vain, etc, and you are so happy you can't believe it, you can't believe little tormented you can be so happy about it all, all that you see and all that you do, and then you hit a big tree because you were so happy you weren't paying attention, so hitting the tree makes you fall (in love) and it's all over, i mean, it's (happening) all over again, you fall, then the hole, then the absolutes regarding your object of affection, then the reclusion, then the end, then the quiet period, and then, if you're lucky, soon enough you'll be flying in love again, hopefully wearing some winged sandals this time or at least a helmet.

truth is, when you fly in love, you're really in love with yourself and with how you fit in so well with what's around you that it makes 'clac!'.

badabing!

all about id

"One day I carried thirty pounds of wood a distance of file miles. Another day while hiding in the forest I covered my eyes with make up to see how they'd come out."

i took a small break tonight from the heat, the heat of exams, these ghostly, ghastly exams banging like mad on the exit door of my superego, trying to take over and suck out all the fun. (speaking of which, my superego is losing lots of ground lately to the hedonistic id, but it still knows more tricks; e.g. the first sentence was very much good superego P.R.).

but well, during this break i did a small unscientific study on the aesthetics of my face. it's this new long hair thing, combined with the questionable possibility of being more feminine derived from years of awkward haircuts and my charming, but boyish walk. there was some recent cinesseurial influence, too. i proceeded as follows: i put my hair in a due i could never re-do (hi!), applied make-up, and turned on photo booth.

mind you, i don't think it's pretty stupid to take pictures of yourself with a computer, then put them all together and publish them online somewhere, hoping people will appreciate or even be amused by the content and not think of how sad and narcissistic and insecure it really is you did it. i know it's stupid. which is why i didn't publish them online. the one below is an evocative, but unintelligible exception.

contrast was added to protect the integrity of this webpage

so i took them anyway, and as they're lying in a diversion folder called pictures of meadows, flowers and sunsets, i went on with analyzing and writing down my conclusions. of course, the results of this pseudo-study shall not be published either, but the superego P.R. team released the following statement: "the battle between the little-unaware-tomboy and estrogen-regulated-society-inoculated-girly-girl is far from over, but as they say in curling: let the best man win!"

but now, gentlemen, to bed! we rise at dawn!, said the superego to the ego, as the id wasn't listening.

you have my soul and i have your money

if calves are babies of cows, elephants or whales and every woman has two, uncomplicated but grammatically irreverent logic would have it that all women are cows. or elephants. or whales.

but men have calves, too. so they must be cows as well.

and we're all equal, finally.

why i'd like to be a cat

the enfant terrible of the citrus family, mr. grapefruit, has an identity issue. you'd think he's the fruit of the grape or maybe they're somewhat related, so you could realistically expect him to be crunchy yet soft and sweet just like a grape is. but he's not. he's bitter and difficult with deceiving on top. i like him anyway, though, and even if every attempt at devouring him ends in a mess, i remain ridiculously positive. just like i once liked this boy called benignus who i suspected very early on would hurt me terribly, but i acted against my better judgement and my own interest, just like one does in love, and my only consolation was the little laugh i had to myself in the end at the irony of benignus' evil side, cause har har, things are not what they seem to be, and benignus was actually malignus.

but if i turned into a cat i wouldn't care about eating grapefruit. i'd ignore it just like i would ignore anything that doesn't move frantically or looks like dinner. and boys called benignus couldn't hurt me, firstly because of my feisty cat claws and secondly because everyone's name would be spelled in meows, which would make benignus (or anyone else by any other name) somewhat non-existant by my new rules of perception. i'd be happy licking my paws, listening to jazz and maybe sometimes getting a bit confused and howling at the moon. or i could be william burroughs' cat, junkie. that would be pretty cool, too. except he's dead.

sleeping sissy

for entertainment and also differentiation purposes, we develop certain likes and dislikes throughout our lives which make us more or less idiosyncratic, depending especially on how well we groom our dislikes into dramas of different proportions.

in a top three major dislikes list i would always include afternoon naps (i hate them so much, so very much), which could also feature on all or any of the following lists: things to do when you're almost dead, top ways to waste your time (besides facebook), 10 ways to politely avoid seeing people you live with and natural ways to authentic bed hair.

today's afternoon nap came into being despite all my efforts to prevent it and had an abrupt and loud end: i was talking to someone in my dream, about naps themselves, when i noticed his face looking worriedly at my chest. i had no time to react awkwardly because he immediately said "your heart, it's gonna blow!" and then i heard a big noise, kind of like 12804 cheap chinese fireworks blowing up at the same time, my heart exploded and i woke up.

sax and violins

nothing makes me more sad on beautiful sunny days than couples walking hand in hand, with gloomy looks on their faces. you know the kind, looking in different directions, almost as if there was nothing to say to each other, walking the same way the losing team leaves the field, facial expression similar to that of remembering the day your first pet died. and as hand-in-hand is pretty disturbing anyway, with all the questions and sighs it generates in the mind of the standalone viewer in springtime, if you add the gloom you've got a whole different type of horror. facial gloom and hand-in-hand simply don't go together, cause they stand for opposite things (e.g. boredom vs. bedroom, dead end vs. happiness, there might have been love vs. this could be love etc. etc) and they cause maximum confusion in my apparently cynical but really hopeful mind.

here's a slogan for a new kind of spring cleaning: fuck habit. break up this spring!