My name is… well, never mind.
Oh, sweetness, how should I start?
first of all, let me apologize
if I stare at you down upside.
Look far up to the May starry night
waving at you from the plane
passing above where we both belong.
You think I’m thrilled deep in my heart.
what difference does it make,
do you really mind?
It’s bouncing, I’m burning, and starsailing
don’t look up and continue
with your taxi ride, would you?
Crawling up the stirring metals
lucid bricks on the frozen walls
one by one, add by two, perhaps four
falling into thousand puzzles
He is loaded with nothingness
she counts her dreams and all her cents
she and them; he, himself;
tumbling into all those riddles
They hate lovers, let’s love haters
we’re all players of storytellers:
the beauty falls for the villain one
whites and blacks become one
I return, even turn
passing thought the “No Exits”
here and there, final dribbles
indulging my mislaid wishes.
“Love is a mess, at best, and I figure it can be very real in spite of all the things people try to attach to it.”
— Sean Penn
It’s twelve past three;
swallowed in this terrorizing night
when another flame
ignites right before dawn.
The greedy concrete, the frozen thoughts;
the blank postcards and the empty lots;
she won’t trust nor will she fall for
those rendezvous spots.
The barriers, the forbidden lies;
the traffic lights and the broken time;
oh, where have all those
What if her heart breaks no more;
and the yellow balloon keeps
swinging in the night that
lends away its green light.
What if her heart still tastes
the confined love?
Shit, what if the damage
is already done?
“I’d rather live on my own than live with a face that looks at me with the wrong eyes.”
— Jane Birkin
I just read in the news about a toddler, who is disgustingly a chain smoker. Apparently, he was first given a cigarette when he was only 18 months old and now he smokes two packs of cigarettes a day.
I feel really sick and disturbed inside my body and mind. How can an abusive loser of a father do something like this to a 2-year old child’s immaculate soul, make a film and portray it as something extraordinary or perhaps a record? It’s such gross neglect that I’m not even going to believe it.
Where is this world going to end?
The dreaming cloud is swirling above her head and she is losing herself in all those question marks unanswered…
How to respond to challenges and not crack? Where to escape when her conscience constantly nags at her? Who to follow when the hopelessness beats the promises? How to stop the foolish games and trust that they are all part of a design, which is much grander? Which path to choose, the unknown or the proverb? How much longer will the moon and its fullness delay?
Oh, she is pushing herself hard these days… and now the same old cloud becomes unbearable…
How to sprint ahead while taking a backward step? How much is an attachment really costing her? Will the future of love be very similar to its past, as he said?
Is it really over?
“Do you know what *genius* means?,” the stranger on the train asked me. “Hmmm, someone who is smart; I mean really smart. Smarter than the norm,” I replied. He shook his head with a messy crop of hair on top. “A genius is someone, who never gives up. Never give up writing love. Never be obsessive about what others think of your words. Try to write the words, which float out from your unconsciousness; in the middle of the night or elsewhere under any special circumstances,” he said.
Last week, Kerry asked us to talk to a stranger and write about it, which for me is nothing new or offbeat. I do it all the time. On the train ride home, while my mind was full of new and old ideas, the above conversation took place between me and a guy who seemed graceless with a huge inner scar. I got home, ate something and fell asleep. I had a dream. I don’t remember a thing. I woke up to the sound of the alarm and the same routine began. A few hours passed. I looked peaked. Took the lift down for some fresh air in temperatures far above zero. I took a quick glance at my own shadow and realized that only a shot of espresso can bring my focus back to reality. I entered the little shop on my right, put the coins, including a lot of pennies, down on his counter and asked for a double shot. He looked at me with a sweet smile. I looked at his inner arm and saw an appealing tattoo font. I grabbed it and read: “Keep walking past open windows.” I asked him to tell me the story behind it. He did with a bigger smile, looked into my eyes, and said: “Never give up.” I was stunned. A few tears found their way in my eyes. Two strangers with diverse histories told me the same thing in less than twenty four hours.
I walked more unfocused out the glass doors while listening to the sound of the Doors: “People are strange when you’re a stranger… Faces look ugly when you’re alone…”
… and that day, I never got back to reality.
“Saturday I’m running wild… and all the lights are changing red to green…”
I distinctly remember his warm voice in my head… I remember clear crystal, my Aussie friend, Megan, whom I was daydreaming with about David Gray and about one wild night when we would finally see him in person on the big stage, singing the songs which were once the soundtrack of our London-time memories… the constant dreams, which were often distracted by not-so-friendly customers asking for a million size requests or were wondering if we had the red sequined skirt in stock.
Oh, how I miss those afternoons… how I miss my chilled friend, Meg, whom regrettably I lost touch with… I left the country with David Gray’s CD in my handbag, in case my luggage got lost or stolen… I immigrated to the land of nature with small desires but big hopes… Meg left to continue the rest of her life in her homeland, at least for a while… contrary to our wishes, we never met Mr. Gray.
On Saturday night, after almost twelve years since my love affair with the guy, whose voice still make me feel nostalgic, I drove to Hamilton with someone who appreciates his music as much as myself, to see him live on stage… and let me tell you this much: he was no different than years ago, but this time he was no longer a dream alone, but one which came true.
I sang, screamed, and stared at him, refreshing the memories in my heart and remembering the good old times… and suddenly I felt strange and started to miss those days, Megan and all the silly talks, when we were sailing away and were running wild on Saturday nights.
“What makes a person sexy is when he’s not trying to be sexy.”
— Juliette Binoche