chicken goes boom

a lot of my right-before-falling-asleep time has been dedicated to perfecting a device that would help me focus more in meaningless conversations, as i seemed to have an instant fidget-yawn reaction (sometimes i even screeched my teeth) and i immediately noticed the possibility for serious offense (and who am i to offend people who will never think there's something wrong with them or their conversations?). 

i failed. but there was genius in the failure. well, i say genius, but much in the spirit of humpty dumpty i might mean something else. and i do. i mean luck. but maybe even by luck i mean something else. so once you get over this, you'll understand everything, for my new invention will be a way to completely avoid and escape (guilt free) from those stinky, stinky stinky stinky conversations that without even the slightest awareness of your collocutor bore you tremendously.

to descriptively clarify: by "bore you tremendously" i mean suck out your soul and sell it to hungarian gypsies who will turn it into a fake famous person's autograph and make it so realistic that they'll want to keep it. (that is ultimately boring on exactly 5 levels.)

she moves me

one goes where the other one can't.

and then they smile.

and then they stop smiling.

and then they smile again.

passive man opened the lock and kept it.

the woman looked at him worriedly:

why are you keeping it?, asked she.

for practical purposes, my dear.

he wasn't a practical man and she wasn't a worried woman.

but we all experiment.

and then we drink wine.

nevermind this is an acknowledgement of something that could very well not be mentioned but the long title makes it stand out

whaddayaknow? a lot. probably a lot more than your forefathers knew a hundred years ago. unless you're really the bad apple in your genius-bred family. in which case i am sure that is not something you like being brought up. so back to me: i've been writing, ranting, rhyming, rambling and playing with this blog-like-living-creature for 5 years.

happy anniversary, dear.

but you forgot.

but i remembered.

much later!

well happy anniversary for next year!

ok thanks.

millie nope

three a.m. 0300. oh three hundred. past. past. past. wake up early, yup, charlie yup, wake up early how, how, no how. know how? know-how. instead of sleeping which you can't do, stay up and not sleep. cause you can't otherwise. who's wise? whose wise?

mine. my wise moment of no sleep, of sobriety, of clever aloofness, when i realize what there is to realize. realize not in accomplish, but in the milder form similar to being hit in the head with a flying object that knocks off your hat. so what? you can keep it. i didn't like that hat anyway. ok, not hat, heart? what about it? oh. i see.

so back to the books tomorrow. little adventure awaits millie nope. if millie nope could be a superhero she'd be a sidekick. a kick on the side. millie nope could use a sidekick when she feels like this. simon says give it time. i say simon is no beaver. i say it's not happening. but what am i really wishing for?

i rant purposelessly

this quote, that someone made to somehow motivate a lot of someone elses is ridiculous and obsolete and it could make me angry if i wanted it to. but i don't:

"Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein."

first of all, they were all so free to focus on their little (ok, big) obsessions. NOTHING else was going on. or even if there was, it would have taken weeks and probably lots of homing pigeons to get news and updates. 

second of all, Mother Teresa didn't have to reply to her followers on twitter or update her website, Leonardo da Vinci didn't have to read 1000 manifestos and theories from all the other scientists or artists, Pasteur was all into his microbiology thing that no one else really cared about at the time (ok, there were a few others, but in some other country), Helen Keller didn't have a choice but to focus, Einstein didn't have to waste time looking at his friends' photo albums, Jefferson had his thing with the british and, besides all of them being (somewhat) brilliant, they were not bombarded with the mind-numbing huge amount of information we have access to today, that not only scares the hell out of me but makes me feel puny and insignificant and unable to KNOW EVERYTHING like i'd like to.

So Jackson Brown Jr., i don't care if your little instruction book was a best-seller, i hate you.

am i living living living?

i keep finding things that others have said so well. things that i've felt in feelings and colors and notions perhaps hundreds of times better, but that they have expressed in words a million times better, where "hundreds" and "a million" mean anything, except what others, long time ago, have agreed they do. i'm keeping those findings and i'm grinning when they're not looking. not because i'm jealous, but because i'm overwhelmed. 

“The only people for me are the mad ones,
the ones who are mad to live,
mad to talk,
mad to be saved,
desirous of everything at the same time,
the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,
but burn,
burn,
burn,
like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars
and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop
and everybody goes “Awww!”

~Jack Kerouac

people and stories and chances and nudges

everyone should have a shot at telling stories. everyone should be given a camera and be told: tell us a story. a real story. a story that haunts them before they go to bed, or even in their dreams, maybe even just one scene that they keep on seeing in their mind over and over again or something that is absolutely ineffable and can never be captured on camera and yet finds its way there in the most sublime form.

people's stories would be something worth sharing. they'd be about penguins, or sand, or wind, or misunderstood feelings, broken bicycles, binoculars, riding on trams, kissing boys, teddy bear guards, dinosaurs, powdered sugar, cigarettes, hair standing-up, fire breathing dragons, adventures, car racing, heroes, making love or all of those together. or neither. people's stories would have so much magic.

everyone should have a chance to tell a story and be given a nudge to go along with it. chances and nudges make beautiful music together.
you might think we all do, we all get a shot. but you know better.

a clockwork ding dang dong

i was in the middle of a dream when, suddenly, a voice inside my head said "it's time to wake up". i opened my eyes that very second afterwards and looked at the clock. who would interrupt my dreams like that i dont know, but this voice did it at exactly 8 am. exactly. not to mention that i had actually forgotten to set my alarm the night before.

weird. but thanks, i guess.

na-ti-o franta, ca ti-am dres-o

scriu la nervi cum nu am mai scris de mult. dar sunt niste nervi intarziati. zilele trecute am primit o scrisoare de la comitetul de administratie din bloc care ne informa ca NU e voie sa fumam pe scari, nici macar la geam, inclusiv pe scara din spate, supranumita scara de incendiu. cum nu fumam in casa si geamul de pe scara din spate era deopotriva locul si momentul meu de liniste, vestea m-a intristat, dar nu atat cat m-a enervat. 

si de ce: insa asta, individa asta, al carei nume nu-l cunosc si a carei fata n-am vazut-o inca, ne-a scris o scrisoare!! adica a observat, a cantarit sau nu, apoi si-a asezat fundul plictisit la calculator si a redactat o scrisoare pe care trimis-o firmei de avocati care gestioneaza chestiile legale in bloc (!!) si care, la randul lor, au pus o secretara bine platita sa ne scrie ca nu e voie sa fumam pe scara, med venlig hilsen, a lipit plicul si l-a pus la posta pe adresa noastra. (!!!!)

fumatul ca fumatul. replica aia cu "nu imi place ca nimeni sa puna conditii dependentelor mele" mai are putin si expira. dar sa ne trimita scrisoare? cand putea sa vina la usa, sa urce un etaj si sa vina la usa, sa ciocane, sa zica cine e, sa zica nu mai fuma, bai fata, la noi pe scara din spate, de-aia si de-aia, si eu sa zic imi pare rau, regret, mi scuuuusi, hai sa gasim o cale de mijloc, si ea sa zica nu e, si eu sa insist, si poate sa gasim o cale de mijloc sau sa nu gasim nimic, nicio cale de mijloc, oricum, am vorbit, am fost umpic mai mult oameni azi. ce bine a fost. 

si creierul meu reptilian zice: daneza proasta!

iar in capul meu natang, cred ca sub creierul asta reptilian mai am un creier si mai retrograd, de sunca! fie, de slana, un creier de slana caruia ii place sa fie afumat pentru ca am coborat cinci etaje ca sa fumez singura tigara pe ziua de azi. 

ma rog. i need the exercise. whichever i go for.

(photo via francoise nielly whom i loooooove!)

grandpop(s)

i wish it was story telling time.