Worth more than Thousand words
28 de novembre 2007
25 de novembre 2007
that IS it!
Short update NOV 25: Yesterday I had to use the pink little saviour
see MAY 8 2007 aka the therapist.
It was that, or eating my blanket.
And it is a pity, because it is so easy to be happy, and sometimes I seem to forget...
Better said: sometimes it seems I remember
see MAY 8 2007 aka the therapist.
It was that, or eating my blanket.
And it is a pity, because it is so easy to be happy, and sometimes I seem to forget...
Better said: sometimes it seems I remember
13 de novembre 2007
29 d’octubre 2007
I sniffed cement
Well. This story stayed in the stack of stories to be told, since I wanted to add bitter comedy to the history of these ongoing restless months.
I guess there is no humour left here for a while, and unfortunately I had no camera to immortalize such a ridiculous moment: the day I sniffed cement.
Do you know when you receive some news you are actually not surprised of, but somehow not really ready to accept?
Well, what happens after? It has to be celebrated. You open your best red to sadly say farewell to the most precious moments, the most precious memories and the most precious individual you keep close to your heart.
Sometimes you have to be ceremonial .
At some point you get tired of the unilateral farewell and discover such moments can yield to other sensations that can keep your lyrical ego flowing in conceptual clouds. Clouds...
My best idea at that moment was a physical act: to finally remove old stuff from the terrace. You know, you want to stay clean in the inside and suddenly scrap the outside as if it was a temporary solution, to postpone the pain to come. Oh, yeah, you see it coming.
In my case a terrace full of a year of dried material and old useless gadgets (somebody sees the connection there?)
I swear I couldn't think of anything else than that filthy terrace, the result of a day by day of endless "mañanas".
One of the gadgets in question was a 25 Kilo heavy cement bag. Why not carrying a bag slightly lighter than half my weight on a dark October night? It had to go out that_very_moment. Out with the gadgets, the thoughts, the memories and the precious pain. Out with the excretions, the dusty static, the fetal cramps, the dry cretinism, the impertinent cataclysm, the inevitable implosion.
A heavy weight. A heavy weight held on my ceremonious sweaty, shaky hands, the crusty guano, ah, the roting carton.
3, 2 ... 1 it slept. Slept like all those hugs, like the memories, like all those words that will not be said, swollen, swallowed... Sniffed!
The bag, like my heart broke down the steps, both, one pounding upwards, the other bouncing downwards in a cloud of grey... My life turned suddenly in a dusty black and white peripathetic film.
My clothes, my hair and my face, the light faded, and I sat there, fetal, again trying to comprehend, looking at those grey dusty spots, like a Dutch sky indoors above red carpet, all over the stairway. I saw it coming, but how couldn't I help it from happening? Why? WHY??!!
Apart from lyrical allegory, all that was left were 25 Kilograms of dry cement spread on each step. I was too afraid to cry for fear I would petrify that very moment and become an amalgam of cement and salty water.
Oh dear! It took me about one and a half hours to get it all out, to accept the failure and my lack of planning skill: I could have secured it, act preventively, but now, spread on the floor, now it was too late. There comes the time to pick up the pieces, to sweep the leftovers, to gather a pile of dust all around, over and partly inside of you. And make a new bag with whatever can still be collected.
Coming back to wine, after the exhausting task of cleaning, I decided to indulge myself with another couple of glasses of sweet, ceremonial aroma and taste. My unilateral farewell party wasn't over, yet. Could it get worse?
The mix resulted in a stomach ball. I felt it in the morning, I couldn't sleep, couldn't quite walk. It felt as if I had made a mixture of 10 Kilos of cement with wine in my stomach. In fact I kinda did...
That day I didn't leave the house. The sky was heavy, so was my head, so were my guts.
I babbled my last words, this time in an asynchronously bilateral textual farewell speech. My tribute. My "I lost you one day, and when I lost your heart I lost myself". I searched for the arms that rocked my cradle to refuge under the wings of involuntarily re-experienced childhood.
The ball of cement eventually dissipated leaving an empty spheric and heavier ball in my insides, an ball full of very heavy empty. The grey cloud still goes with me to bed and doesn't let me sleep.
The day I lost myself I disappeared amidst a 25 Kilo cloud of cement. The smoky cement greyness flowed over my petrified heart and now wanders around grey streets under dark canals.
My tears now taste like concrete and roll down my cheeks like gravel.
May my clearing act flow with the wind like a cloud of dust for the sake of other's happiness... but mine.
I guess there is no humour left here for a while, and unfortunately I had no camera to immortalize such a ridiculous moment: the day I sniffed cement.
Do you know when you receive some news you are actually not surprised of, but somehow not really ready to accept?
Well, what happens after? It has to be celebrated. You open your best red to sadly say farewell to the most precious moments, the most precious memories and the most precious individual you keep close to your heart.
Sometimes you have to be ceremonial .
At some point you get tired of the unilateral farewell and discover such moments can yield to other sensations that can keep your lyrical ego flowing in conceptual clouds. Clouds...
My best idea at that moment was a physical act: to finally remove old stuff from the terrace. You know, you want to stay clean in the inside and suddenly scrap the outside as if it was a temporary solution, to postpone the pain to come. Oh, yeah, you see it coming.
In my case a terrace full of a year of dried material and old useless gadgets (somebody sees the connection there?)
I swear I couldn't think of anything else than that filthy terrace, the result of a day by day of endless "mañanas".
One of the gadgets in question was a 25 Kilo heavy cement bag. Why not carrying a bag slightly lighter than half my weight on a dark October night? It had to go out that_very_moment. Out with the gadgets, the thoughts, the memories and the precious pain. Out with the excretions, the dusty static, the fetal cramps, the dry cretinism, the impertinent cataclysm, the inevitable implosion.
A heavy weight. A heavy weight held on my ceremonious sweaty, shaky hands, the crusty guano, ah, the roting carton.
3, 2 ... 1 it slept. Slept like all those hugs, like the memories, like all those words that will not be said, swollen, swallowed... Sniffed!
The bag, like my heart broke down the steps, both, one pounding upwards, the other bouncing downwards in a cloud of grey... My life turned suddenly in a dusty black and white peripathetic film.
My clothes, my hair and my face, the light faded, and I sat there, fetal, again trying to comprehend, looking at those grey dusty spots, like a Dutch sky indoors above red carpet, all over the stairway. I saw it coming, but how couldn't I help it from happening? Why? WHY??!!
Apart from lyrical allegory, all that was left were 25 Kilograms of dry cement spread on each step. I was too afraid to cry for fear I would petrify that very moment and become an amalgam of cement and salty water.
Oh dear! It took me about one and a half hours to get it all out, to accept the failure and my lack of planning skill: I could have secured it, act preventively, but now, spread on the floor, now it was too late. There comes the time to pick up the pieces, to sweep the leftovers, to gather a pile of dust all around, over and partly inside of you. And make a new bag with whatever can still be collected.
Coming back to wine, after the exhausting task of cleaning, I decided to indulge myself with another couple of glasses of sweet, ceremonial aroma and taste. My unilateral farewell party wasn't over, yet. Could it get worse?
The mix resulted in a stomach ball. I felt it in the morning, I couldn't sleep, couldn't quite walk. It felt as if I had made a mixture of 10 Kilos of cement with wine in my stomach. In fact I kinda did...
That day I didn't leave the house. The sky was heavy, so was my head, so were my guts.
I babbled my last words, this time in an asynchronously bilateral textual farewell speech. My tribute. My "I lost you one day, and when I lost your heart I lost myself". I searched for the arms that rocked my cradle to refuge under the wings of involuntarily re-experienced childhood.
The ball of cement eventually dissipated leaving an empty spheric and heavier ball in my insides, an ball full of very heavy empty. The grey cloud still goes with me to bed and doesn't let me sleep.
The day I lost myself I disappeared amidst a 25 Kilo cloud of cement. The smoky cement greyness flowed over my petrified heart and now wanders around grey streets under dark canals.
My tears now taste like concrete and roll down my cheeks like gravel.
May my clearing act flow with the wind like a cloud of dust for the sake of other's happiness... but mine.
24 d’octubre 2007
Drama, drama and melogadrama
I was cleaning the terrace today. Stopped now and will do it in bits since I cannot throw all the things away I'd like to at once.
It is also a disgusting job, all that pigeon shit.
I put some spikes on the edges and now I don't have to hear the pigeons when I sleep.
I was standing one leg on a veranda, one leg on a stair, scrubbing with my right hand and holding a soap-ammonia solution in the other.
Some background music was building a soundtrack of poo cleaning. Apart from the fact that the background must have been most possibly Pachabel.
There I discover my neighbour built a cute little isolated house in the garden to play the cello. I immediately became interested in this stranger. If he lives alone, or if he has a husband or if he is married to a woman or worse, with children and poor man needs the retrieve of music to feel close to something.
In any case it reminded me it's been a long time I don't practice guitar. I gave up the moment I realised that book was not going to teach me to get used to different positions. I have to get a teacher ASAP.
Then started thinking how much I admire people who can paint, write or make music. It is plastic, so full of meaning. Specially painters. Be able to say so much in just a few traces...
I got over the fact that I am sensitive instead of smart, I guess I cannot change my heritage of sleepy, totally resigned braincells. Wonder what makes me always so unsatisfied, where all my dismay, all my anxiety comes from. And alas, I am still quite conformed, and therefore unhappy.
I look at this neighbor playing cello, his eyes closed, the time he will spend concentrated in little moves that make such art... I see talent and try to look for mine. No particular one. I always think I can work on that. But I am getting older and my life so lame and event less.
Ay!
Today's feelings:
Little, I knew it was going to be an apathetic winter
I miss some moments with some people. But they will never be there. That's called melancholy...
It is also a disgusting job, all that pigeon shit.
I put some spikes on the edges and now I don't have to hear the pigeons when I sleep.
I was standing one leg on a veranda, one leg on a stair, scrubbing with my right hand and holding a soap-ammonia solution in the other.
Some background music was building a soundtrack of poo cleaning. Apart from the fact that the background must have been most possibly Pachabel.
There I discover my neighbour built a cute little isolated house in the garden to play the cello. I immediately became interested in this stranger. If he lives alone, or if he has a husband or if he is married to a woman or worse, with children and poor man needs the retrieve of music to feel close to something.
In any case it reminded me it's been a long time I don't practice guitar. I gave up the moment I realised that book was not going to teach me to get used to different positions. I have to get a teacher ASAP.
Then started thinking how much I admire people who can paint, write or make music. It is plastic, so full of meaning. Specially painters. Be able to say so much in just a few traces...
I got over the fact that I am sensitive instead of smart, I guess I cannot change my heritage of sleepy, totally resigned braincells. Wonder what makes me always so unsatisfied, where all my dismay, all my anxiety comes from. And alas, I am still quite conformed, and therefore unhappy.
I look at this neighbor playing cello, his eyes closed, the time he will spend concentrated in little moves that make such art... I see talent and try to look for mine. No particular one. I always think I can work on that. But I am getting older and my life so lame and event less.
Ay!
Today's feelings:
Little, I knew it was going to be an apathetic winter
I miss some moments with some people. But they will never be there. That's called melancholy...
02 d’octubre 2007
the day internet abandoned me
Beginning October and still not having my own connection.
Mid October and connection is there again, an amazing quick and powerful 24/7 internet. Funny enough I am more used to be without it, so the 4 internetless months have delivered good things.
As an apology, the bad thing is the abandoning of the blog. I haven't been able to write without a computer with internet connection in front of me, which is somehow disturbing.
When talking about transmitting the deeds of everyday feelings, thoughts and events, it has remained somehow still and empty. But only in text...
If the idea was to keep in touch with people and more or less transmit what's been up to me I must say I still have been doing a good job at it. Without internet my telephone had to become a bit more active and I gained some time off to be able to see people and in fact be in touch with those I didn't see in a long time, summer helped a lot, and the time off I got to get to travel a bit.
Winter days, time, temperature is approaching and I retrieve, again. In a sense of "early retire rather than defeat" I stopped commuting from one life to other and decided to deal first with mine, stay in one place and try to sort out the overwhelming and sad weight that it is to be subdued to so-called grown up crap. I think it is more fair to carry it alone than banging on thresholds where you will never be understood, nevertheless supported.
So, a step into winter depression having the feeling that this year, is going to be more apathy than depression. Ah! and a whole lotta loneliness I will learn to live with the hard way. Way to go! and well deserved.
My camera doesn't work anymore, which pushes me to write endless texts that a few people might gonna read. I understand. It is the era of visual stimulation.
I leave it here in the hope to continue. believe it or not, it has been eventful, outgoing months, but let's breathe that cold air and take it a bit at a time.
Mid October and connection is there again, an amazing quick and powerful 24/7 internet. Funny enough I am more used to be without it, so the 4 internetless months have delivered good things.
As an apology, the bad thing is the abandoning of the blog. I haven't been able to write without a computer with internet connection in front of me, which is somehow disturbing.
When talking about transmitting the deeds of everyday feelings, thoughts and events, it has remained somehow still and empty. But only in text...
If the idea was to keep in touch with people and more or less transmit what's been up to me I must say I still have been doing a good job at it. Without internet my telephone had to become a bit more active and I gained some time off to be able to see people and in fact be in touch with those I didn't see in a long time, summer helped a lot, and the time off I got to get to travel a bit.
Winter days, time, temperature is approaching and I retrieve, again. In a sense of "early retire rather than defeat" I stopped commuting from one life to other and decided to deal first with mine, stay in one place and try to sort out the overwhelming and sad weight that it is to be subdued to so-called grown up crap. I think it is more fair to carry it alone than banging on thresholds where you will never be understood, nevertheless supported.
So, a step into winter depression having the feeling that this year, is going to be more apathy than depression. Ah! and a whole lotta loneliness I will learn to live with the hard way. Way to go! and well deserved.
My camera doesn't work anymore, which pushes me to write endless texts that a few people might gonna read. I understand. It is the era of visual stimulation.
I leave it here in the hope to continue. believe it or not, it has been eventful, outgoing months, but let's breathe that cold air and take it a bit at a time.
10 d’agost 2007
mein activist Kampf (week versioned)
Kampf you say? I almost get to fists with a very unaware and unsensitive lady.
So. Let's get it straight. I have a problem with pigeons. It is growing, because they love hanging around on my terrace, I am even dedicating them a hate song.
It is not that they are not allowed to live, I don't want to gt murderish with them. They are not allowed to be fed. Basta.
So this is what happened: I come back form taking myself out for a jog in the park and these two women, who definetely had no social life (not that mine is that exciting, but they were a sadder example) were chatting while feeding the pigeons, as if it was a natural and habitual thing of theirs.
I hated the guts of that action and in my sweatty state I looked at them in disgust and anger (and aaah am I good with facial expresions).
One of the ?ladies?, who looked like the wannabe_wife_of_a_torero turns to me and says: "wha?"
So I use my most friendly-slightly concerned and pedagogic tone to tell that shame of a lady that feeding pigeons will also attract rats.
She replies that rats hide on corners, so I say to her: well, pigeons are like flying rats anyway.
I think she must have been a rat or a pigeon in a previous life (which would explain what she turned into in this life) because she took it personal. You won’t believe this lady wanted to start a physical fight with me.
I definitely have no fighting skills, talent or tendency to get into physical fights, but I do have that sassied adrenaline drive when someone gets aggressive at me, so I replied: "woman, it is my opinion. And I really think what you do is sick.
I just calmly turned around and left with clear non-verbal signs that she was absolutely out of her mind. Of course she was already getting ready to get up and kick the shit out of my face, but I kost interest.
Whatever the case, I had quite an activist week. Also at the fish market.
This lady next to me was ordering a big junk of tuna. Again, I started having goose pimples and shivers all over my body and had to let it go:
"Tuna is being overfished, you are just contributing of having more tuna being killed before they even reach a decent shape and to the desertation of the Mediterranean (although it is naive to assume that the Mediterrenean has a chance by now).
So you see. I am not sure if these little acts contribute in any way to make people aware, but hey!, if they have internet maybe it makes a difference. Or next time they see an article on the newspapers about tuna fishing it will catch their attention or hey!, people do watch TV, no? Maybe between talk show, gossip, MTV and reality show, maybe, maybe there is a chance some channel would have nothing better to do than bring the overfishing issue to attention.
For more information I left some links in one of my posts. See JAN 16, on tag 'overfishing'
And Greenpeace made this hilarious clip about it.
http://www.greenpeace.org/international/fungames/e-cards/blame-canada-and-espa-a
There was a "pulp fishing" one, Tarantion style, but has been removed...
So. Let's get it straight. I have a problem with pigeons. It is growing, because they love hanging around on my terrace, I am even dedicating them a hate song.
It is not that they are not allowed to live, I don't want to gt murderish with them. They are not allowed to be fed. Basta.
So this is what happened: I come back form taking myself out for a jog in the park and these two women, who definetely had no social life (not that mine is that exciting, but they were a sadder example) were chatting while feeding the pigeons, as if it was a natural and habitual thing of theirs.
I hated the guts of that action and in my sweatty state I looked at them in disgust and anger (and aaah am I good with facial expresions).
One of the ?ladies?, who looked like the wannabe_wife_of_a_torero turns to me and says: "wha?"
So I use my most friendly-slightly concerned and pedagogic tone to tell that shame of a lady that feeding pigeons will also attract rats.
She replies that rats hide on corners, so I say to her: well, pigeons are like flying rats anyway.
I think she must have been a rat or a pigeon in a previous life (which would explain what she turned into in this life) because she took it personal. You won’t believe this lady wanted to start a physical fight with me.
I definitely have no fighting skills, talent or tendency to get into physical fights, but I do have that sassied adrenaline drive when someone gets aggressive at me, so I replied: "woman, it is my opinion. And I really think what you do is sick.
I just calmly turned around and left with clear non-verbal signs that she was absolutely out of her mind. Of course she was already getting ready to get up and kick the shit out of my face, but I kost interest.
Whatever the case, I had quite an activist week. Also at the fish market.
This lady next to me was ordering a big junk of tuna. Again, I started having goose pimples and shivers all over my body and had to let it go:
"Tuna is being overfished, you are just contributing of having more tuna being killed before they even reach a decent shape and to the desertation of the Mediterranean (although it is naive to assume that the Mediterrenean has a chance by now).
So you see. I am not sure if these little acts contribute in any way to make people aware, but hey!, if they have internet maybe it makes a difference. Or next time they see an article on the newspapers about tuna fishing it will catch their attention or hey!, people do watch TV, no? Maybe between talk show, gossip, MTV and reality show, maybe, maybe there is a chance some channel would have nothing better to do than bring the overfishing issue to attention.
For more information I left some links in one of my posts. See JAN 16, on tag 'overfishing'
And Greenpeace made this hilarious clip about it.
http://www.greenpeace.org/international/fungames/e-cards/blame-canada-and-espa-a
There was a "pulp fishing" one, Tarantion style, but has been removed...
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