Saturday, July 16, 2011

a very, very short story with no luggage but loads of baggage.

I sat up in my bed with nothing around me but the memories of last night. My mind felt blank as my room, the only accessories the clothes that have been seeking refuge on my floor for weeks.
I could hear the movement of another body in my house, the space was small. I could hear the movement of bare feet slowly dragging around the carpet in the spare-room and finally slapping onto the dirty white of the hallway. I imagined the pink feet turning red with each failed movement. You tried so hard not to wake me up. But every morning I would sit up in bed like this while you moved around my house. My mop of brown hair getting more and more tangled as I moved the back of my head in small circles across the material covering the headrest. You would clean up the evenings mess, even if there was nothing to clean. And I would sit up in bed pretending to be asleep. It was a sort of ritual we shared without ever realising it. The silence of the house carved this into our minds like so many stamps on a letter. It stuck to us with intent and meaning.
You had been living with me for a few weeks now. You showed up seeking safety, I asked you to stay for my own. The truth is, I had never felt more comfortable. I now sit back wondering what life was like before you moved in, even though it was no more than a month or so ago. I could not remember if I was scared of the space between the kitchen and the hallway. But the moment you showed up I realised this was the lonely spot in my house. And now I needed the slaps of your feet and the heavy breathing of your body to fill that void.
It scared me whenever I thought of this. How quickly we are to recognize a missing spot in a picture the moment we add a new face or movement.
It petrified me to believe that I was ever that lonely. In my mind there was never just me. I never got up alone in this house, eating my breakfast cereal as the morning news ran on repeat. There was only now. There was always another person ready to listen. You belonged at my kitchen table sipping beer, reading a book I would eventually tease you for picking up.

It took me no more than a few days to beg you to stay. But you told me that this was not possible. That you had places to go. You had the money and the time. I could not imagine having to be alone again. The honesty in each of your words, never belittling me.
Gently letting me down from an ideal I had carved into my own body. I scar on the body was no more than a memory with a house. And then you explained to me that memories are not to be held onto, that they were supposed to be used to create the outlines of the future. The words caught me off guard and I stumbled across each verb and noun like a drunkard.
But eventually I realized that you meant not to hurt or betray me. You only gave me what you had to give.
And I made peace with not ever having all of you, I knew after all that I would forever have a part of you, a small bit that no one else could ever have. And I figured that made it all better. That small space was better than all of you. It meant that the part of you I got to keep was more mine than anyone else would ever have. The small part I owned meant no one would ever fully have you, unless I agreed. And I knew that you had a part of me as well.

I finally got out of bed and walked into the kitchen to find you had gone. A note carefully pinned onto my refrigerator told me that much. The fridge was humming as if nothing had happened and I kicked it for its inconsideration.
I tried so hard to remember the night before you told me you would leave. I begged to have one more cup of coffee with you. One more silent debate while the sirens on an ambulance cried into the distance of our town. But you were packed and ready to go. I knew you would return months later. I knew this because you promised me. And I could feel the honesty in you promise as much as i felt the loneliness in your absence, but who was to say that I would not be in bed again. How many lives would you have come across while I was sitting at home waiting. How many beds and blankets would touch your body. You would not care. You’ve never been one for details. Much like the first painting you bought me, the first of many, it was simple and with no finer details other than the artist name. And you loved it more than me. Months from now did not feel real enough. I made songs and letters of silence to fill the time between day and night. I plastered the walls in my hall and my kitchen with pictures from magazines, photos of strangers I took on the bus, pieces of clippings about deaths in different countries, lines of poetry that read nothing more than absence of the heart to fill the walk between the different rooms of my house.

I walked back to my bed, the front door stood open as I had walked outside to see if maybe you had decided not to go. I wanted to believe that you were sitting in your car waiting for me to run out and stop you. But I saw only tracks on the gravel and the house across the road within which the old lady with the 3 cats lived.
I lay my head back onto the yellow pillows I had picked when I was new at playing house, and I sank into the deepest pool of myself I could find. And I waited.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Pray For Something Real.

I've recently received a string of emails begging me to please pray for Lady Gaga and her army of evil.
I'm not sure why I should spend my days praying for someone I don't know, to save them from an evil I openly doubt.

So let's start praying for something real, like perhaps the Rhino's?
Or the fucking brain-washed children across the globe being forced into sex-trafficking?

Every time I receive an email asking me to pray for Lady Gaga, my response is the same, are you fucking kidding me?

Let's take a look at the 'evil' Lady Gaga has done in recent years :
1. sang a song about a boy called Alejandro [we wish it was God - that way our hate seems okay]
2. She's done charity events, and stood up for gay rights.

She's obviously a vindictive evil motherfucker?

http://www.looktothestars.org/celebrity/1944-lady-gaga <-- read it.

Now, lets take for example, the pope and our favorite dictator, Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe and famine fame.

The pope is a religious icon, even more so than we should care to admit.
He is a man that people should look up to, he should fight for the right of society and its people. But he doesn't. But we dare not argue this, he is the fucking pope after all?
The tea drinking in heaven motherfucking pope.

Now, Robert Mugabe, long time dictator, murderer and Hitler mustache enthusiast of Zimbabwe.

Guess, what. The hang out together. http://articles.cnn.com/2011-04-30/world/vatican.beatification.mugabe_1_beatification-vatican-city-rome?_s=PM:WORLD

Why are we not being forced to email-pray for this?

Robert Mugabe, a man that is know around the world to have KILLED millions of people, welcomed by the pope.
But we worry our pretty little heads shitless about a pop-star with weird hats and exciting lyrics.

Our children can pray and worship at the feet of the church and its leaders, but don't you fucking dare play a song about drinking a beer and having fun on the radio.

I'm not here to tell you to like Lady Gaga, or to dislike the Pope.
I'm only saying, if you are gonna send useless fucking emails about praying for someone who's done more to help the world than most of your religious institutes, google around a bit before you assume.

Its in all religions. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesus_Camp <-- some more fun reading.

Now, if you feel the need to send an email, calling for mass prayer, then I'm down with that. Please just send me one with a 'cause worth my prayer/time.
Send me an email asking me to help/pray/donate/part-take in action groups such as save the rhino or whales. Or feed a child.
Broadcasting hate towards a person who's helping the world, then paying adoration to a cause that's done nothing but feed fear into children and adults alike, is not going to change anything.

You are wasting the time of everyone involved.

Rather go feed a poor kid, give some money to save the wild life and walk to the fucking store instead of driving your over-priced petrol guzzling ozone destroying car with your stupid bumper sticker.

If you want to make a difference, then make a real one.
Besides, I'm pretty sure you don't give a fuck about Lady Gaga's soul.


Now go spread some peace and love.

pardon.

So,
my language is terrible.
well, on this blog at least.
And I'm not talking about the cussing.

But whatever.
You live you learn.

peace and love fookers.
smile. <3

ps. a poem :

The little lovers,
How they cross the distance with such haste
How about the sky?
Hands clasped in awkward movement.
I smell their sweaty palms
Cupping each other.
It’s what they want.

The cigarette smoke
Littering their chitter-chat
An intimate party
A small dresser
And then none.

The darkened night
Kissing my face,
As he yours.
But mine with no distraction.
And then they smile.

He gently brushes hair aside,
With rusty yellowed fingers
You seem to believe all of those tiny chirps
Oh woe the silence.
One dreadful moment lost.
And you slip,
And he nips
And gone.

The little lovers,
Their feet so blistered with adore.
Their lips chapped from moments missed by all.
Forgotten yet shared.
Covered miles clinging on like baby born
In case the one should pop.
And float into the night sky towards me.
Blissfully dismissing the adoration and compassion.
Yet slightly amused.
On a dresser.
At the party
And none.

Oh woe the one
Who has not you.
Woe the one that is not yours.
For like a child he shall claw
Don’t leave me.

[there is no real deeper meaning, for once. It was a whimsical idea that I realized. Oh woe me.
<3]

p.s.s I will add pictures again soon.

A suicide turned simple or thursday.

So,
the day was eventful. Here goes.

It all started the morning of the suicide attempt down the road. All of us either ran or drove towards the idling car fueled by the idea of rescuing its victim. The woman inside the car seemed happy despite her situation. She seemed almost safe from the world, hidden inside her small gas chamber [regardless of the terrible location]. The car turned into a sort of womb for when the worlds pressure just became too much. I could see the dark cloak of the night sky gently blowing over her mind.
It was a pure and safe place before the world started seeping through the unseen cracks. Even the strongest of minds have simple cracks.

I thought back, remembering myself a few years ago trying to explain to someone the liquid state of the brain. That moment between wanting everything in life to work out, and everything to fall to pieces. That was the liquid state of the brain, and this woman had drowned. She sat, blissfully gassing her cares away, inviting onto her the coldness and darkness. Begging to be enveloped. Her pure mind being blistered by the thoughts fighting to take shape. She wanted to depart.

When I woke up this morning, it seemed the day promised nothing but marking and sitting. Had this woman not decided to life our spirits by dampening hers, the day would have gone unnoticed. I find it funny how things work out, we dropped her and her broken spirit of, a husband or a friend agrees to take care of it. And we rush home to be heroes. We are odd creatures.
She was trying to end a life she loathed, and we took it upon ourselves to elongate it.

The events do not bother me, not nearly as much as my own mind now seems to do.
I woke up that morning, complained about the weather and my clothes. Things I can't change out of pure habit. The bad habit of waking up in a bad mood daily. The habit that smells up my neighborhood and is slowly seeping its way across the world.
The moment our alarms go off, our eyes open and our first reaction is to complain about the time the weather or the date.
I woke up hating the cold, hating my clothes and wanting more.


I hope this wasn't too serious. or lame.
Just something that tickled my brain.

peace and love fookers. <3