Serendipity

La sesizarea lui Hamlet, un control inopinat a constatat ca e ceva putred in Danemarca.

or, in the Bard's language,

Being called upon by Hamlet, a surprise inspection revealed that there was indeed something rotten in Denmark.

Words of wit from a high school graduate. I take a leaping bow.

TPH

To M.

Your words are so raw they make me feel like I'm touching open wounds. I'm sorry I couldn't see this, I'm sorry I'm one of the others, the rest, the idle crowd of hangers-on and onlookers who stand in a circle while the onslaught rages. It's not intentional, not on a conscious level, it's watching the bloodsport that makes you feel all the more safe, like you can't be part of it for as long as you keep your eyes peeled and focused on the tearing and the ripping and the scratching. I'm trying to perform now. I'm trying to be a rodeo clown, the man in the middle, the man with the sword. I really am. An empty can is at least able to make sounds, to stir resonance in the air, to vibrate and cause response and impact other surfaces, each sound circle one more knock, one more contact. Thank you.

Much anticipated

Right, so it's about time I live up to my promise, is it not? Especially since I got that which I choose to consider a nocturnal ultimatum. I'll tell you the story of this dream, as warm-up, I have to put on a black tear for that, just a second.

Right - have you ever been heartbroken in a dream? I have these epic dreams at times - I dream long, intertwining stories, scenarios which could fill many pages of pulp or psycho cyberpunk publication. The one last night was no exception - I woke to find myself near a female character of considerable beauty and magnetism, a girl as it were, a beauteous girl, an ancient druid girl, an officiator of forgotten rituals in strange, strange forests girl, a girl who exists in the real world also and whom I happen to know. We were together, we were happy together, we had been very happy together but a few minutes ago, but I (sincerely) didn't dream that part of your happy relationship. We were experiencing this familiar joy in a luxurious hotel room somewhere, which we felt was home. And like some sort of fine measuring device, some sort of industrial-revolution fantasy, Jules Verne-esque self-o-meter, I felt myself slowly beginning to disappear, to occupy less and less space in this female character's memory and consciousness, to the point that, while still considering the hotel room her home, she did not consider me part of it and could see me no more. And so she went in search for something. This is perfectly natural according to the rules of the dream, no? She went in search of two Italian male characters that she could use to search several depths, including that of her memory perhaps. It was not very difficult to find such characters - it was as if the twisted director of the dream had made them available at arm's length. In any case, she thus returned with the two Italian fellows of extremely stereotypical appearance. And, from my fly on the wall position I could easily observe the zeal with which they proceeded to plummet, as it were. Mind you, this whole scene had negligible erotic attributes for me, as I was merely a fly on the wall in their perspective - I had never ceased to have a certain feeling of devotion towards this girl. And so, taking into account the fact that the dream had the usual qualities of a dream, that is to say it greatly resembled reality, my reaction was that of the real me - I also plummeted, but not into an abyss of tunnels, but rather into heartbroken depression... Scroll back up and look at my black tear now. It's the end of the story. I woke up. And the dream had left me this beautiful reminder that I too have a subconscious life and the fact that it stays subconscious and chooses not to pierce through to my carefully constructed persona of patchwork must be compensated somehow. Hello everyone, my hair is fuchsia and I'm a person-that-lives-more-intense-lives-during-sleep-than-while-being
-awake-and-sometimes-these-lives-bleed-through. Umm, no, I mean, I might become an alcoholic.

Yeah, good idea! Could you imagine a preemptive strike at alcoholism? NYA.A. (Not Yet Alcoholics Anonymous) a place where people could go and speak about the things which they think have the potential to drive them to slowly dissolve their internal organs in a selected few alcoholic beverages. This should definitely be organized.

Right, it seems my introduction has indeed managed to take up enough space. I can now begin to tell other tales of depravity. I need a break. Coffee. Muffin. M&M.

I've decided to start using this blog as a pedestal for all the happenings I can't write about on my other blog. So stay sharp! Today is a blogging day, a day for such journals to be written and there shall be a deluge of scabrous and sinister goings-on for you to contemplate in utter shock. And so, after this very charlatanesque introduction, I beg you to keep your trousers on for another couple of hours, presuming you quiver with anticipation already.

P.S. - If it ever crossed your hairs that I'd give the URL to my other blog... I'll quote "what were you expecting from me? A round number?"