Letter

I'm writting...

When the earth thawed I came to sit on the mound.

Thick grass carpet sprawled beneath me, soft and squishy and hugging the densly packed ground. It stood in the full sun, far away from the sea, just to the left of the middle of the gorge, beautifuly warm and inviting.

I sat on it and enjoyed the warmth with the soft sun streching across the plain and I listened to the trickle of water over the stones. Heart was fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird but I breathed deeply and drank from my sack and waited for my brain to stop burning the inside of my skull. Last time I was here I sang, with my voice amplifyed by the cliffs into a blinding crescendo of effort and sound,.. blinding crescendo to blind me to the work in front of me.

None Of Us Are Free

I've been listening to Solomon Burke's None of Us Are Free lately and also have been craving for some nice homemade pasta so I made myself some fettuccine that I intend to boil in milk and season with some walnuts and sugar in the morning. I've been kinda down. Somehow the easiness of mistake accumulation seems more visible in the last few days and I am sad and perplexed and angry and sad. Mostly sad. Right now before I went to bed I watched the beginning of House S06E14 to see Peter Jacobson/Chris Taub defend community again. I just love how it all makes sense when he does it; watching him I still see Wally Jabrowski and the world somehow feels less misaligned.

Saying Goodbye

Yesterday evening we were returning from great Giant Sand concert and we were driving home, excited and tired and happy, exchanging impressions and giggling and sighing and yawning and in one sudden moment of silence my friend who was driving said: 'And the guy who got sacked due to recession downsizing and had his last day in the firm today, I could talk to him about music.'. It was so seemingly unconnected that the rest of us remained silent and he continued:'There is nobody left in the firm that I could carry on decent discussion about music with.'. As we drove in silence for minutes after that confession I thought how horrible this is - not the notion that there isn't anyone in your workplace that you connect to, or share an interest with - but the fact that there is Me on one side and the World on the other. That there are times we lose worthy conversationalists to flukes of (mis)fortune. And lastly, how terrifying it is to know that there are people feeling like this every day, permanently disconnected, barren to nonexistence, broken.

My House

I watch House when I am unwell. It soothes me and stops me from making rash and irreversible decisions. There are moments in which I feel I am not going to make it and watching House somehow buffers that feeling and makes me more patient, more resilient. It is not really the show that helps me - it is the notion that somewhere out there may be people understanding and going through the same shit... Same exotic and hard to explain shit.

I have been reading Laozi's The Tao Teh King lately and it also seems to help.

As I see it and also as Laozi has seen it, so it seems, there is a very fine line between to help and to hinder, release to freedom and tear asunder...and that fine line not being a line at all but a mirage, a rock, an omnipresence.

Leopardi was damn right

I am very sad tonight.
From time to time, world seems to bend over backwards to show me that it is disgusting and sordid place populated with equally repugnant miscreatens.
And it looks like that every time this happens, my belief in statistical distributions of traits falters and this saddens me because it seems that I'll have to admit that there's only so much I can reinterpret as statistical flukes.

Letter

I'm writing...

There is snow outside and my nook is warm and fragrant. Using wattles and clay I enclosed my cave, arranged fireplace in such way that the smoke would not accumulate indoors, using driftwood I set up tiles and shelves for crops. A gaze of my hoard fills me with bliss. Cauldron gently squeals hanging over the fireplace, porridge with herbs smells divine.

I was busy.

I kept myself busy so I wouldn't think. About you. But it is not working any more.

xkcd 334

Go to xkcd and hover with your mouse over the comic.

Will your grace command me any service to the world's end?

Second Life Syndrome

Nothing helps.
Every one lost leaving a dent
That no replacement could ever fill;
No ersatz touch, or feel, or scent,
No self-delusion or strength of will.

Nothing helps.
Every one lost leaving a brand,
Leaving a skid mark on one's soul
Where something sacred used to stand
'till one is forced to let it go.

Firefly

Rotating spark in the flame of discord.

Everything that is left from you:
Bundle of unasked questions
And pages of fat books too empty to ever be written.


Touch me, Universe...


Like a drop of blood from the eye of space,
Perfect point of perfect geometric object,
and what else could you be than monument to the fallen in some ancient, too ancient war
waged for some sorrowful doomed desire.


Soulbeats rather than heartbeats.
Momentum of extravagant footnote.
Unrecognized manifestation of essentiality.


Space ligature is too weak, and time ligature is inexorable. Not even the shape of dream matter could withstand the leavening of the only word I could divulge to you right now.

To Drown In Torpor

Up until few days ago I had a friend whom I liked very much. We have known each other for well over a year. He seemed to understand where I'm coming from. He seemed to care. It seemed that we get along really well, that we support and understand each other, that the world is much friendlier place when people exist who will let you lean on them for support and let you support them when and if they will need that.

I thought we get along so well because we're being entirely honest to each other.

It turned out that this was not the case.

I feel as stupid as a cabbage.

It was going so well because I was lied to the entire time.

What kind of person reckons: I will just let this whole situation tide over and than she will be so relieved and thankful that I stayed with her that she will reward my effort with being with me (regardless of our personal differences that we talked about and agreed that this would never ever work)?

Or is it just me? …. Me being too dense to acknowledge that being good to somebody actually implies that you have a hidden agenda.

I’m really not ready to believe such a thing.

Letter

I'm writing...

I woke up with my mouth full of acid. Cloudless sky was getting tinted yellow and pink.

Dew was glistening in semidarkness.

I walked up to the water, one foot in front of the other, rummaging in my mind through last night's dreams, sticky and thick mush of lies, quicksand of overblown emotions.

„I'm worried. “ – I said to honeysuckle shrub, scooped up water with my cupped palms and, instead of washing my face, I stared into my reflection in spring crater for a long time.

Letter

I'm writing…

I'm dreaming rich. All-encompassing. I smell and taste. Touch. I see and hear. I dive in and resurface.

By day, I offer my bare back to the Sun. She licks me yearningly, fierce. Salty droplets creep down the hairline. Fists are tingling. Shovel is gleaming.

I sing 'till I remain voiceless. In bitter silence, gorge walls reverberate my song.

Suck it up son of mine, thunder blowing up your horizon.*

What I dislike the most about this situation is not being able to express my emotions – not having a place to cry, to scream, to grunt.

Daily self-motivation is eating me alive

*Puscifer – Momma Sed

Letter

I'm writing:

Dear, the nights are so cold.

I dream, covered over my head, in the mist of breath, how with my eyes closed, under the blanket I search for the soft fleece of your crotch. You greet me, hot and salty, with crown of your scent.

I wake up in sweat, firm and confused. I search for you in darkness within too long minutes, unwilling to admit I know where I am.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth. We are happy when we are growing.*

For the longest time now, amidst the social conventions, I feel like a proverbial Martian. I don't really feel the need to affirm my every action through other people. Don't get me wrong - I'm not stating that I'm infallible - but I try to play with the cards I already have, not the ones I could have if circumstances or whatever was different. And I cannot come to terms with aforementioned non-affirmation being socially penalized just for the heck of it.

I'm painfully aware that it is the misery-loves-company rule in action, but still it seems to me that something could and should be done to rectify this course of action.

*William Butler Yeats

Spectre

Broken,
Finding myself another low.
Dreaming,
Reviewing options with nowhere to go.

Just being alive means being alone,
Retracing my steps,
Revealing my circles.
Devoid of meaning with pleasure all gone
I stumble through life,
I find it all worthless.

There`s nothing there
On the other end of sorrow
No escape and no relief
No hope, no tomorrow.

Abstract

Maybe it is because "I don`t understand that"
and maybe that really rises from perpetual knurd I`m usually blamed for,
but when I find myself in conditions of listening people mull over past events

- of the "faceless trivia"category -

with irrefutable love that they don`t give even to their firstborn,
and all I see is just light stroll through the past,
microcosm of history,

rummaging through old closet full of Nostalgia`s pungent stench, reekage far more potent than dampness and mustiness,

I really cannot think of what to say
because we all know for a longest time that occurences are always more beautiful
looked upon backward from safe distances
or distant safety,
and they still go and act delighted
intoxicated
and
overweening
like morons that do not see that their infatuation with "then" is destroying their life now.

Red Moon

We`re lying in hammock strapped between two trees. I `m scratching her forearm with my fingertips and her head is resting on my naked chest.

Night breeze blows away the smell of fervor.

- Our garden. - she says.

- Our garden. - I repeat and then deeply, deeply, into even the farthest alveoli breathe in the musky scent of her hair.

- I have to go home. - she whispers.

- I know.

Blood moon hangs from the horizon.