There’s a few hundred thoughts passing by in my head, just like old, outdated cars on a country road trying to avoid long forgotten holes in the pavement. They’re driven by no one, going towards nowhere. Slowing down when they get in front of me and right before disappearing, I notice some details from the interior ( – and I remembered the word “etamine”, I know it’s some kind of fabric but this isn’t what I had in mind; anyway, I’m letting the word come through, as it would be silly to not write it down, since it appeared so crisp just a moment ago). And some of these cars’ interiors are detailed paintings of eastern european rugs, crucified on walls above a bed where people made love, back in the day.
I wonder if this is normal; if I am acting normal or I am acting unnatural around you; but I mean, we constantly change. we adapt to our environment, to the people around us, we evolve, we develop, we transform. We change our cells. We change ourselves.
And I wonder if this is right, if what I’m living is my truth or the real me, because I feel like I have secrets. By changing the way I step forward or backwards when I’m in your presence, in your present time (or the lack of it, for that matter, when you’re in your head and I’m tip toeing) there are things I haven’t told you; so I don’t feel transparent.
I like being transparent. It is perhaps my only wish. To become transparent. There are things I want to ask you but I’m afraid of doing it. There are things I didn’t tell you but I know there are things you did not show me. And they still are part of us. These are the dark corners of our living room, where the iRobot can’t reach.
Why am I here – that’s a good question, well because
I remember that morning like it was yesterday you slept for two hours maybe then I came into your room I was looking for that hug again longing for it craving it knowing its all wrong but knowing its the only thing I need maybe you touched my left arm then you left for work and I knew I had to leave too
I remember that morning like it was yesterday because of the rain and the silence of its drops on the rooftops and the park was all green and fresh mixing up our breaths in the air going back to our homes with a strange question mark above our heads
will I ever see that room again
two weeks later I was back I remember that day asking myself wtf is love after all it’s like going back to school; the hibbie jibbies feeling; the under the covers when it’s dark and raining outside and there are homeless people out there for fuck’s sake and it’s like colouring a book outside the lines and from time to time thinking of how lucky you are but stillthe only thing that makes me feel like que ça colle it’s writing
we all started out life whole and vital, eager for life’s adventures, but we all had a perilous pilgrimage through childhood. In fact, some wounding took place in the first few months of our lives. Think for a moment about the ceaseless demands of an infant. When an infant wakes up in the morning, it cries to be fed. (…) It signals distress the only way it knows – with an undiferentiated cry – and if the caretakers are perceptive enough, the infant is fed, changed, held and experiences momentary satisfaction. But if the caretakers can’t figure out what is wrong or if they withhold their attention for fear of spoiling the baby, the child experiences a primitive anxiety: the world is not a safe place. (H. Hendrix, Getting the love you want)
the world is now a safe place but sometimes the world is not a safe place here comes my love of books hiding in the attic reading the never ending story Bastian Batlhasar Bux
coffee has a different name every morning today I’m gonna call it butter&jam and who knows tomorrow / christmas cards pagan cookies the winter solstice. sun standing still for the shortest day of the year, standing still at the end of the 29th year on earth this Tuesday and then.
coffee will take another name on Wednes-day of woden, day of Mercury.
that green door opening every time your heart beats. wondering is it love? if it hurts. how do you like your women? rare medium rare.
when I came back to London, the sunset wasn’t on my side. All of its red, pink, orange and purple were sneaking in through the opposite windows. I wished I could have seen it, I think. Or maybe not. There was this blue on my side. Blue was ok to begin with. Green door on the other side. When I think about it, I see myself inside my mother’s womb and trust me, it’s not my fault I want to find that happiness again. With you, the Eros. The vital energy. Door opening and closing. Baby food. Spooning when we’re sleeping. Dead birds and cats and dogs; all the pets I had as a child disappeared like they weren’t even there. What’s on the other side of that door ?
when your mom wraps you up in a cozy warm blanket, puts the warmest wool hat on your little stupid head and dad takes you on a sleigh ride. It’s dark, it’s freezing, it’s only 7pm right before dinner and you’re going on a snow adventure. your nose is red and cold, interesting, you always thought red goes with hot. your breathing stops for a second looking at the bluest snow ever and it sparkles everywhere. it sparkles and it squeezes under the sleigh, under your tiny stupid little feet. you’ll never forget the snow. You were born on a Monday. Was it snowing? You don’t remember, you’ll never remember.