Thin Paper Harlequin

Paradigm shift

2011-08-28T19:22:00.005+03:00

Since the last time I posted, I have been true to my word and have been shedding a few skins, but now it seems the plot thickens. Thick is bad, so I've decided to step it up a notch. Grabbing the fat cow by the horns, 'twas time for the "Couch to 5 k" program, regimen, regime.

This evening was my first day, and I must say, it has prompted a desire in my lungs and in my heart which they haven't felt in a long time, namely, to escape my body and run away forever, or rather, climb off and leave my demented muscles to their self-flagellating activities. In other words, I know how a knight must have felt for running in full plate armor, for that is exactly the excess weight I am carrying. I am a knight, clad in useless, fluffy, unsightly armor. And I shall not renounce this regimen until I learn to take it off once and for all.

The eventually Thin Paper Harlequin

Metamorphosis

2011-08-13T09:48:00.003+03:00

Much like the wooden Pinnochio, the Thin Paper Harlequin decided to turn himself from paper to flesh and blood, "thin" still being the operative word. So, my friends, squeeze your bony, scrawny knuckles in my direction and wish me thin luck.

The plan is as follows: scarsdale diet for as long as M. allows it. Also, I shall be treading mills, softly, for they'll take me to my dreams. Three times a week. After I plateau, swimming.

More, later.

Cold

2011-01-05T09:27:00.001+02:00

Snow

2010-11-26T09:05:00.004+02:00

Uncomfortable silences litter the landscape,
Lie in every place we've ever been -
translucent
thin
naked
bodies tinged with blue in the fresh snow

I crushed one of them,
its vast volume caved,
hollow and dry between my teeth.

Eventually, so did we.

Unghii

2010-11-15T23:14:00.006+02:00

După-amiezele scormoneam cu unghiile vopseaua plesnită, până la tencuială.

Din coconul meu de pături chinezeşti întindeam arătătorul
zgâriam
şi aşteptam să cresc
dezamăgit.

Îi şopteam unei fete imaginate sunetele pe care mi-aş fi dorit să le aud -
ea credea că mă rog înainte de culcare.

(Pata de apă sfinţită de pe frunte o simţeam, răcoroasă, toată ziua)

Dalele încinse din curte îmi ardeau tălpile,
mirosea a lemn uscat şi a fier;
Zdrobeam păpădii în eprubete şi împrumutam amintiri
pe care nu le-a, dat înapoi nici până azi.

În firida mea scurmată cu unghiile sunt toate arsurile, cuiele, păpădiile şi vocile.
Aici, afară, sunt toate lucrurile de care n-am nevoie.

Technology

2010-11-13T18:49:00.004+02:00

Human ghosts in silicate shells,
circuitry lines on my face and around my mouth
heat and light and a slight ozone scent.

These shells, like bullets, fit perfectly
I wear them on my feet, on my hands and over my eyes,
They sound dry and accurate bouncing off surfaces

I send them around as scouts.
I use them as currency.
They are not part of me.

When I sleep, they all rattle at once and I get static.

I've been trying to program my words into phrases
they started flashing a message on every screen,
On every wall
Cold, green lasers all over my skin.

Human, slow motion

2010-11-08T12:15:00.005+02:00

This video is by the amazing mjranum on DeviantArt. Enjoy.

Whatever future's left over

2010-10-25T15:12:00.004+03:00

Philip Glass: Cello Concerto - 1st Movement
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Imaginează-ţi mintea ca un hotel. În fiecare cameră stă câte un individ (sau un cuplu), fiecare încercând să-şi personalizeze camera cât mai bine.

Fiecare îşi umple camera cu amprente, ca şi cum atingereile suprafeţelor s-ar aduna, ar îngroşa stratul de piele şi de grăsime lăsat în urmă de degete, până când, după sute şi sute de ani de atins, individul s-ar putea resorbi în obiecte.

Unii desenează figurine sau cuvinte cu vârfurile degetelor pe ferestre.

Cei care nu au ferestre îşi ascultă muzica, lasând-o să se absoarbă în pereţi, să circule seismic prin toată clădirea.

Cuplurile se împreunează în fiecare cotlon al camerelor lor şi-apoi cheamă personalul hotelier să cureţe. Se văd din când în când băieţi îmbrăcaţi frumos, cu câte o găletuşă şi un mop într-o mână şi câte-o lampă cu ultraviolete în cealaltă. Ultravioletele fac totul să strălucească înainte de curăţenie. Soarele face totul să strălucească după curăţenie. Simplu.

Undeva în subsol stă un om care miroase a cremă epilatoare. Este neted şi alb, îi place lumina electrică şi plasticul. Face baie câte zece minute pe zi. Umblă numai în papuci de catifea şi are tălpile moi şi albe. Părul lui nu apucă niciodată să crească. Ca angajat al hotelului, el clasifică sunetele, mirosurile, lucirile ultraviolete cu gustul lor astringent şi desenele şi cuvintele de pe ferestre.

Pe coperta dosarului lui scrie "Whatever future's left over, store in here".

Acces

2010-10-17T19:23:00.002+03:00

Îmi deschid ochii cu greu, ca pe o poartă ruginită a vreunei curţi interioare
în primele secunde nu sunt sigur dacă lumina intră sau iese
şi asta îmi place
apoi se trezeşte şi handicapul meu secret. Cască- leneş şi senzual- şi din senin
explicaţiile, cuvintele, gândurile sunt schiloade şi miros a material didactic.

Rafturi

2010-10-08T15:10:00.004+03:00

Cuvintele din gura mea sunt versiuni beta,
rostite cu aparate primitive,
consemnate analogic,
gândite cu lămpi intermitente şi fierbinţi,
scrise pe cartele perforate din carton scămoşat.

Am gura plină de vechituri,
un muzeu al comunicării umplut până la buze cu praf,
plastic,
hârtie îngălbenită,
acarieni şi cerneluri,
suficiente cât să schiţeze un soi de puritate.

Un soi, vegetal, de curăţenie
digitală.

There

2010-10-02T11:28:00.003+03:00

It's cold out there
The light looks tired of its own pace.

Why does it always feel like the cold is a matter of lighting?

Right after I open my eyes - always towards the ceiling -
I catch a glimpse of myself lying there
almost inanimate
my skin prickles as the light washes over it,
milky and heavy,
stitching itself to me with a tangle of threads
so that when I stand up, I get to feel like a puppet
every morning.

No matter how much black I put on
the lace is there
and whenever I look at it
I see the intricacies of panic.

Keys

2010-09-30T17:41:00.003+03:00

The keyboard stopped being white a while ago...
My fingers leave dust and flakes of skin on every key
As if I'm slowly decaying while pressing "d" "e" "c" "a" "y", repeatedly.
White turned to grey and then darker,
Until each key looked like a fresh, blackening sore.
I tried to soak it in alcohol and chlorine
And the tips of my fingers melted more.
The keyboard claimed my fingerprints as its own
And now there's no me,
just "m" and "e"...
repeatedly.

Fear of clowns

2010-09-27T18:50:00.004+03:00

Jen Titus - O death
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Fear of clowns is irrational, animal, primal. Clowns are distortions of humanity, they are reminders of something very old, so old it's become unacceptable. Like cannibalism. Like totemic religions. Clowns are the embodiment of man's inability to understand the world around him, of reason's failure to grasp the patterns of the world. That, in itself, is reason enough to fear the painted mask a clown wears, the chaotic clothes, even castrated to their amusing modern incarnations - even though I believe the way a clown looks cannot be dissociated from his origin, from the primordial idea of man posing as god. The presence of a clown is thus primordial blasphemy, and such blasphemy provokes primordial reactions of terror. A clown may laugh in the face of Order and Chaos alike. A clown may mock the embedded concept of gods (beings greater than oneself, controlling and watching and deciding). And, let us not forget, a clown may flash a wicked, insolent grin at death and beyond death. What is fear other than fear of dissolution in all its forms? Fear is a reaction tied inextricably to death. All fear is fear of entropy, of death. If a clown laughs at death, he commits the ultimate blasphemy, because death cannot be communicated with in any way. Man is wired to ignore it, to escape it. When a man pleads with death, he's actually bargaining with life. There is no communication with death.

And so, when a clown laughs at death, he laughs at life and living and all that is alive and structured according to life's ebbs and flows. Clowns become alien to life in that very moment, and their very existence is an insult to reality as we know it.

How's that for a "memento mori"?

Precious

2010-09-26T19:18:00.008+03:00

The sunset starts from the ground up.
Buildings become molten and darken the sky.
Pixels shoot up into the clouds like slow motion lightning through a lens diffusely and melt everything in sight, leaving the piles of square ash on the ground, sometimes even five stories high.
After that, the air goes bald, shedding its copper locks within an ozone bath.
And that's how it ends, way over your head.

Marţi după Crăciun

2010-09-25T22:42:00.003+03:00

Mă chinui de câteva săptămâni să găsesc un mod de-a aborda un fel de recenzie generală a cărţilor lui Nick Hornby. E greu, pentru că omul e un fel de "inventator" al aşa-zisului roman-pop, nişte cărţi cu mize mici, scrise cu litere mici despre oameni mici. Dereglările lor mentale sunt mici, problemele pe care le au sunt banale, ticurile/ideile/dumele pe care le produc se încadrează într-un standard de spontaneitate şi inteligenţă subsumat principiului "nici prea-prea nici foarte-foarte" şi lista de lucruri ne-ieşite din comun poate continua. Ca să folosesc o formulare biblică, romanele lui Nick Hornby sunt "căldicele".

Prin această prismă, pot aprecia pe deplin dificultatea muncii lui Hornby - cred că e foarte greu să scrii aşa, simplu, uniform, despre oameni aflaţi în vârful curbei lui Gauss. Dar dincolo de respectul analitic pentru tipul ăsta de scriitură nu prea mai e mult de spus - acest tip de scenariu nu lasă nimic în urmă, n-are nici un fel de morală unificatoare, nici un fel de mare evoluţie psihologică a personajelor, este, esenţialmente un stil descriptiv, dezgolit de aproape orice înclinaţie speculativă.

Asta e senzaţia pe care am avut-o vizionând filmul lui Radu Muntean - Marţi după Crăciun. Am făcut această lungă introducere despre Nick Hornby tocmai pentru că mi se pare că demersurile artistice sunt foarte strâns înrudite, dar în acelaşi timp, sunt convins că procedeul funcţionează mult mai bine în film decât pe hârtie. Dincolo de nedumerirea pe care o am în legătură cu miza filmului, cu sâmburele său cathartic (sunt înfiorător de preţios, îmi cer scuze, n-am timp să mă exprim simplu), Marţi după Crăciun a reuşit să mă ţină interesat pe întreaga sa durată şi să creeze tensiuni cu foarte mare răbdare şi minuţie, lăsându-le să crească organic, credibil, şi având tot timpul din lume să convingă spectatorul să empatizeze.

Sub aspect formal, filmul mai are o imensă, după părerea mea, victorie de revendicat - este primul film românesc la care am avut senzaţia că se vorbeşte limba română "normală". Carevasăzică nici apelând la mirodenii regionale simpatice, nici la picanterii excesive de mahala şi nici la broccoli-ul complicat şi sinistru al limbajului "academic" de "film serios". Am crezut personajele pentru că le-am crezut maniera de exprimare - lecţia NUMĂRUL 1 după părerea mea, ilustrată excepţional de acest film.

Actorii joacă excelent (Mimi Brănescu şi Mirela Oprişor în special), complementând perfect naturaleţea şi naturalismul limbajului.

Cu cât mă gândesc mai mult cu atât îmi dau seama cât de sucite sunt circuitele în capul meu - pus în faţa unui film lipsit de simbolistici şi de arhetipuri tragi-comice am senzaţia că îmi scapă ceva, că încerc să fac o recenzie unei "felii de viaţă", nu unui film. Feliile de viaţă le recenzează destul memoria, cu propriul ei limbaj. Despre filme nu "se gândeşte" în aceeaşi termeni, şi totuşi mă simt forţat să renunţ la majoritatea instrumentarului critic standard. Recenzia unui astfel de film ar suna mai bine ca o re-povestire subiectivizată a întâmplărior, ca o bârfă. Dar mă opresc aici. "Suffice to say" că e un film care merită văzut (în sala de aşteptare, în trafic, auzit prin pereţii apartamentelor de bloc, la piaţă şi în coada de la casa de la Carrefour).

ML

William Styron - Beznă vizibilă

2010-09-23T12:44:00.005+03:00

Cartea lui Styron se citeşte pe drumul de la Oradea la Cluj,
pe tren,
întreruptă
de mici conversaţii punctând gradat nivelele de inutilitate
pe care începi să le simţi în legătură cu tot şi toate.

Scriam mai demult (foarte demult) despre ochi
ca nişte lanterne prin care răzbate
un fel de lumină creatoare de realitate.

Amintirile despre nebunie ale lui Styrone vorbesc, în cadrul metaforei,
Despre stingerea lanternei. Bezna vizibilă este atunci când deschizi ochii şi nimic din ceea ce vezi nu îţi aparţine iar realitatea nu face decât
să se reflecte în retine.

O catatonie a percepţiei, dacă vreţi, dacă se poate numi aşa,
Dacă acceptăm faptul că percepţia nu e doar pasivă
în mod normal.

Ieri seară făceam cumpărături - mi se pare ironic faptul că eram în căutare de draperii - la Auchan. Supermarketurile sunt foarte triste, aproape insuportabil de triste. Mi-am scăpat coşul de cumpărături pe jos şi, desigur, nu s-a spart nimic, n-a fost nici o problemă. Aş fi vrut foarte tare să se fi spart ceva.

Bezna vizibilă este atunci când nu mai eşti capabil să umpli spaţiile dintre obiecte cu relaţii şi obiectele rămân mereu la fel, foarte departe unele de altele şi ajungi să vezi numai absenţe.

Tom Waits - Burma Shave

Neon

2009-11-05T15:40:00.005+02:00

Nervii noştri sunt casanţi
ca
sloiurile

Când se sparg respirăm artificii,
arcuri electrice orbitoare,
imagini pe care ochii noştri le proiecteaza
ca
două lentile

Ne scrie
pielea larg deschisă
ideograme aburinde sub pleoape
ca şi cum am
putea
memora
spune
reacţiona

Nervii noştri sunt casanţi,
cu glasuri uscate
abrupte
fusiforme
expirând
unul câte unul
ca
un trup plonjând mereu
perpendicular pe mare

Favorites

2009-10-12T00:08:00.002+03:00

Herman Hesse - an author so German that, by using unrelenting structure and discipline, manages to transcend his very innate rigidity. The Glass Bead Game is without a doubt my favorite book as of yet, since it demonstrated the uncanny ability to weave itself into my life, like an ink stain slowly spreading over many a monochrome memory. It is a book of contrast, as it can withstand sixteen hours in a train compartment, with seven people bent on eating as many onions, slices of buttered bread and drinking as many cups of potent alcoholic beverages as humanly possible, and still inspire the illusion that the air is clean, the mind is transparent and fresh and time, while being of the essence, is "a kind god". It is a book written as much in and between the lines, which makes me a very happy reader.

Coin locker babies - Ryu Murakami
A novel of overwhelming sensory overload. To experience a book by feeling the rough, burning sand between one's toes, the taste of some strange poison on one's gums, an untold number of textures ranging from ostrich feathers to cold, scaly, throbbing crocodile skin, the smell of burning fingernails and the sound of heartbeats turned into music, that is a privilege which no other book has offered me to such an extent. And the empathy, the heartbreaking empathy, held in check, always, by the shocking cruelness and insanity of the characters, each with his own brand... A treat indeed.

The Gate - Frederick Pohl
I judge sci-fi by the ability to "be needed", as it were. In other words, a good sci-fi story is to me one which I cannot instantly picture in a non-sci-fi setting. I realize this is a double-edged sword, I do however believe that The Gate illustrates my point to the letter. Such a wondeful set of rules to be tested, such potent character portrayal and psychology, such unlikely and subtle romance... and it's written from a rather dim guy's perspective, which makes it all the more charming.

Wit - Margaret Edson
The main character of this play would make you believe you are held at bay by wit alone in your empathic response, up until the breaking point, when your own mental mechanisms get mangled by her meltdown. It is drama at its best, as far as I can tell, by far.

His Dark Materials series - Phillip Pullman
I am a reader who dives head-first into books. Predisposition to empathy, Don Quixote-at-the-puppet-theater syndrome, call it what you will, methinks I've got it. The literary gimmick of creating so many "two-in-one" characters (the human and her daemon, sides of the same coin, n'est-ce pas?) as a chance to delve deeply into relationship crafting and situation spawning, the slow and steady buildup, the fascinating clockwork of the narrative, mirrored closely by the clockwork parallel dimension, epic psycho-analysis, quantum physics, issues of religion, parenthood, love, sacrifice, morals, armored polar bears and objects of such vibrant energy that they become characters themselves... I think I might be failing to speak about this book as a "rational human being". It is however one of my all time favorites.

Borsallino

2009-10-10T23:25:00.001+03:00

Îmi plăcea foarte mult să „explorez” prin casă. Erau atâtea locuri secrete, atâtea sertare nedeschise, pline cu obiecte de forme, texturi şi culori numai ale lor, numai bune de atins şi de mirosit, fascinante tocmai pentru rostul lor era de neînţeles. Până şi mobilele grele, lăcuite şi netede mă ştiau prinde într-un fel de joc de-a „care cedează primul”, le diagnosticam bolile şi le învăţam metehnele, glasurile dogite înainte să adorm şi lucirile molcome după-amiază. Atunci nu înţelegeam de ce Magdalena le păstrase atâta vreme, de ce se înconjura cu ele, păstrându-le totuşi la o distanţă sigură, aseptică, în Cealaltă Cameră. Probabil că n-aş fi înţeles nici până acum, dacă nu mi-aş fi petrecut atâtea ore acolo doar ca să pot asculta acele scârţâituri şi pocnete uscate pe care le scoteau parchetul şi mobilele de fiecare dată când le vizitam.

Totul în acea cameră era stratificat într-un fel. Diferitele niveluri ale mobilei mi s-au relevat foarte încet, în ani şi ani de perseverenţă şi răbdare. La trei ani partenerul meu de conversaţie preferat era podeaua. O întâlneam atât de des şi atât de brusc încât la un moment dat a încetat să mă irite lipsa ei de candoare atunci când luam contact cu ea, am obosit să urlu la ea, mai ales că eram întrerupt de fiecare dată de cineva cu o mângâiere sau o bomboană care-mi umplea gura. Cu timpul am învăţat s-o ascult. Era singura parte din casă care... glăsuia. Mocheta adâncă şi moale sau covoarele din celelalte camere erau foarte impresonale. Comode, sigur, mai ales atunci când cădeam grămadă, dar esenţialmente necuvântătoare. Podeaua din Cealaltă Cameră m-a făcut să-mi dau seama că până şi casa are mereu ceva de spus, are felul ei de personalitate. La trei ani totul părea foarte vast şi nepopulat, în special Cealaltă Cameră. Mingile de ping-pong stârneau un ecou teribil când le lăsam să se rostogolească pe podea. Ecourile se transformă în rezonanţe atunci când ţi le aminteşti... Asta e prima memorie pe care o am legată de casa aceea, un fel de rezonanţă rece strecurată atunci pe sub piele care s-a întins încet-încet, a crescut o dată cu mine şi mă cuprinde chiar şi acum.

Ceva mai târziu, capabil să mă ridic de la nivelul podelei, am luat cunoştinţă de mobila din Cealaltă Cameră – măsuţa de cafea pe care nu trebuia niciodată să mă sprijin sau să mă aşez fiindcă avea un picior şubrezit, scaunul foarte înalt, din lemn dat cu un lac dur şi întunecat, fotoliile puţin aspre şi biblioteca rubicondă, furniruită şi sticloasă. Nici măcar în micuţa curte din spatele casei nu eram asaltat de o asemenea scăpărare de atingeri diferite, poate pentru că de fiecare dată când ieşeam „afară” aveam senzaţia că timpul încetineşte brusc şi ameţitor, până se instala o vagă senzaţie de greaţă în care totul părea onctuos şi călduţ, până şi lumina. În Cealaltă Cameră era mereu răcoare, aproape întuneric... timpul era îngheţat şi proaspăt, contururile erau dure şi străluceau, texturile te asaltau elegant şi graţios... Am lustruit fiecare suprafaţă la care puteam ajunge în acei ani, mi-am întipărit în amprente atâta lac, furnir, stofă veche şi sticlă groasă încât le mai pot mirosi şi acum dacă mă concentrez puţin. Atingerea, gustul şi mirosul s-au lipit atunci între ele în mintea mea. Câteodată chiar aş vrea să nu mi se năzărească gustul tastaturii mele sau a clanţelor de acasă, dar am reuşit să mă adaptez şi la asta.

Am ajuns la un moment dat la vârsta la care puteam să fac diferenţa dintre un sertar şi întreaga bibliotecă. Atunci a început perioada explorărilor, pornind de jos, de la cutiile cu materiale didactice de sub recameu şi dulăpioarele cu pături chinezeşti, macrameuri şi dantele, urcând încet, în spirală, până la rafturile cu cărţi, spărturile din tencuială pe care le lărgeam zilnic câte puţin pe măsură ce-mi creşteau degetele şi mecanismele metalice de cele mai multe ori stricate ale diferitelor compartimente ale bibliotecii. Camera mi se releva împreună cu secretele sale odată cu creşterea în înălţime, era companionul meu atunci când încheieturile, rămase cumva în urma oaselor, mă cadoriseau ironic cu artificii dureroase, nu înceta niciodată să mă surprindă, era ca şi cum doar corpul şi-ar fi amintit ce găsea înăuntru, nu şi mintea, astfel încât experienţele mele deveneau un hibrid zăpăcit şi bonom între familiar şi neaşteptat. Am trecut de la suprafeţe la conţinuturi – mobila, podeaua, pereţii, tapiseriile, toate îmi erau deja cunoscute, dar nu şi mărunţişurile care se ascundeau printre ele. Tot ceea ce scoteam din cameră devenea prilej de poveste, servea ca un cârlig cu ajutorul căruia puteam extrage din memoria Magdalenei fragmente din viaţa altora, memorii pe care le simţeam marginal legate de mine, din moment ce eu le ştiusem provoca să mi se arate, amintiri în care mă simţeam inclus.

Mai erau, desigur, si jocurile logice, instrumentele didactice, la graniţa dintre jucării şi artefacte de nefolosit şi de neexplicat. Discuri găurite de plastic, în culori reci şi palide, semănând cu modelul capetelor brichetelor chinezeşti, care în mâinile mele deveneau obiecte de studiu al magiei. Încercam mereu să le întrepătrund, ca pe zalele unui lanţ... ele m-au învăţat un soi de scepticism în raport cu memoria, sau cu realitatea fiindcă mi s-a explicat că n-aveam cum să le unesc, dar îmi amintesc atât de clar cum, cel puţin o dată, le-am unit pe toate pe post de podoabă pentru fata din vecini, fiica pantofarului. Ea obişnuia să coacă şoarecii prinşi de pisica lor cea neagră în cuşti de canar, deasupra unui bec Bunsen picurat cu lac maroniu de pantofi. Mi s-a părut logic să-i dau un cadou păgân, primitiv, ca desenele cu amfore şi mâzgălelile cu tempera albă pe hârtie albastră de împachetat.

Tot ce-am descoperit în acea perioadă am împrăştiat în jurul meu, neobosit, sărind de la un obiect la altul aproape zilnic, secându-le pe toate de sens şi de forţă, acumulând din ce în ce mai mult, până ce aproape că mă înstrăinasem, aproape că nu mai percepeam generozitatea acelui spaţiu, doar... potenţialul său. Atunci când am descoperit pălăria, s-a rupt ceva în mine, mi-am dat brusc seama ce făceam şi m-am oprit, păstrând în piept sentimentul sâcâitor că era deja prea târziu. Poate de aceea m-am ataşat atât de tare de pălărie, n-am mai vrut să întreb nimic de ea, n-am arătat-o nici măcar fetei cu şobolani şi brăţări de muşeţel la glezne. În schimb, am început să mi-o asum, să o fac a mea, ca un fel de compensaţie pentru toate celelalte minunăţii din cameră pe care le păstrasem undeva în exterior, pe care nu le personalizasem pe deplin. În loc să mă ataşez de ea prin intermediul poveştilor Magdalenei, a amintirilor ei, am grefat-o pe propria mea imaginaţie şi pe propriile mele amintiri.

Pălăria a devenit pentru mine un fel de "prieten imaginar". Nu mi-o puteam imagina în orice caz disociată de trecutul Mamei Bătrâne, eram conştient că era probabil un obiect foarte vechi, îmbibat cu scene din viaţa ei, dar nu mai căutam povestea oficială. Doream să-mi imaginez eu scenele respective. Şi din acest punct de vedere, pălăria avea foarte mult de oferit...

Era o pălărie bărbătească dintr-o stofă albă, moale şi catifelată, cu o panglică neagră de jur împrejur. Într-o cameră plină cu şabloane şi texturi explorate an după an, nimic nu se asemăna formei acelei pălării din cutia de pe dulap. Prima dată când am luat-o în mână am avut senzaţia că sprijin un adevărat parc de distracţii, un montaigne-rousse textil! Nu mai văzusem nicăieri o formă atât de neregulată şi totuşi atât de simetrică în felul ei. Până atunci, lucrurile fuseseră interesante prin sunetele pe care le scoteau, prin felul subtil în care, mângâindu-le, te puteau surprinde. Pălăria în schimb mă obliga să-mi ţin ochii deschişi, ca pe un fel de măsură de siguranţă – m-aş fi putut hipnotiza pe mine însumi atingând-o cu ochii închişi. Chiar şi aşa, mă asaltau atâtea imagini când îmi plimbam degetele peste ea încât mi-a fost foarte greu, la început, să mă hotărăsc asupra primului capitol al poveştii sale... Totuşi, cea mai pregnantă prezenţă pe care i-o puteam asocia rămânea Magdalena – pălăria îi împrumuta textura pielii şi parfumul, simţeam că dintre toate obiectele din Cealaltă Cameră, ea era în modul cel mai sigur „a ei”. Şi mai simţeam ceva, ciudat pentru mine, ceva la care nu mă gândisem până atunci – era a unei Magdalene înainte să fi fost bătrână.

De la aceste două senzaţii am plecat atunci când mi-am formulat pentru prima dată începutul poveştii pălăriei. Se făcea că pe un stadion se adunase o mare de oameni. Era întuneric, aerul era asurzitor, fierbinte, umed şi strâmt, oamenii tălăzuiau înnebuniţi şi în faţa lor, pe o scenă scăldată în roşu stătea o statuie suflată de vânt. Era un bărbat cu părul lung, negru, cârlionţat, prins într-o coadă, o cămaşă albă, foarte largă, descheiată la piept, pantaloni strâmţi de piele neagră şi o mănuşă sclipitoare care îi acoperea mâna stângă până la cot. Bărbatul stătea drept, cu o mână întinsă spre public, respira greu dar nu făcea nici o mişcare şi părea că ştia să incendieze totul în jur cu privirea. Apoi, brusc, incredibil de rapid, scena se umplea de gangsteri din vremea prohibiţiei, îmbrăcaţi în alb, care foiau în jurul lui ca nişte stoluri pescăruşi, totul se cutremura şi bărbatul dispărea din vedere câteva secunde, doar ca să reapară, neatins, în fruntea tuturor celorlalţi, aliniaţi ca la un semnal, îmbrăcat şi el ca ei, cu pălăria albă pe cap.

Priveam scena din primul rând, chiar lângă scenă, unde presiunea era aproape insuportabilă. Mă simţeam între ciocan şi nicovală, oamenii dezlânţuiţi împingeau din spate copleşindu-mă şi doar prezenţa de pe scenă mă făcea să rezist. Am reuşit să-mi dezlipesc ochii de la dansul din faţa mea şi cu urechile asaltate de ritmul aproape tribal, am văzut-o alături pe Magdalena, pe când era doar o adolescentă isterizată de apropierea de megastar, de idol. Avea faţa lucioasă, era „lac de sudoare”, cum ar zice ea acum, şi îi curgeau lacrimi în neştire, direct în gura deschisă parcă numai pentru a expira, pentru a striga mai tare decât toţi ceilalţi şi decât însăşi muzica năucitoare din peretele de boxe de pe lângă scenă. Bărbatul dansa ca şi cum ar fi fost în lumina unui stroboscop, fiecare mişcare îi părea complet separată de toate celelalte, schimbându-şi postura instantaneu la fiecare tunet al ritmului. Singurele gesturi care păreau aproape filmice erau piruetele rare pe care le făcea, tot restul părând mai degrabă ca şi cum ar fi fost proiectat, diapozitiv cu diapozitiv. Muzica era din ce în ce mai viscerală, izbea în piept ca un piston supraturat, înneca ritmurile biologice ale corpului, bătăile inimii şi ale sângelui în tâmple, ordinea respiraţiei, poseda mulţimea în totalitate, iar noi doi eram în vârf, în centru, ne simţeam atacaţi direct... probabil la fel ca absolut toţi ceilalţi. Apoi ritualul luă sfârşit, brusc, atunci când el se opri în mijlocul unei piruete, pe vârfuri ca o coloană de fum de ţigară şi pălăria îi zbură de pe cap un fulg de cenuşă albă. Atunci s-a întâmplat – ea sări, drept în sus, mai sus decât îmi putusem închipui, şi o prinse. Ateriză drept în genunchi pe peticul de iarbă zdrobită din jurul ei, strângând-o la piept şi apărând-o cu tot corpul de mâinile alungite ca să i-o smulgă. Totul nu dură mai mult de câteva secunde, mâinile se opriră, luate sub control de un nou ritm, de următorul cântec, ca şi cum şi-ar fi dat seama deja că pălăria era a ei, a ei, care încă nu se mişca de jos, cu degetele albite de efort.

Apoi m-am trezit, se lăsase seara şi în cameră era deja destul de frig. Strângeam pălăria la piept, adormisem pe recameul maroniu gândindu-mă la ea. Nu fusese un simplu vis, eram leoarcă şi îmi ţiuiau urechile. Mai târziu când am vrut să vorbesc cu fata din vecini ca să-mi distrag atenţia, să ies din propria mea minte puţin, am constatat că eram şi cumplit de răguşit, ca şi cum aş fi ţipat şi cântat toată noaptea. Atunci nu cântam niciodată, decât pe stradă, între străini care simţeam că nu mă pot lua la răspundere, îmi era prea ruşine să cânt acasă. Experienţa fusese atât de intensă încât m-a bântuit cu săptămânile, zi şi noapte, fragmentată, îmbogăţită treptat cu scene care nu făcuseră parte din primul vis dar care îmi relevau detalii şi impresii suplimentare. Mă comportam deja faţă de vis ca şi cum ar fi fost o amintire pe care o răsuceam pe toate feţele, un fel de cub rubic al cărui fiecare pătrat avea o altă culoare şi pe care încercam să mi-l imprim definitiv în conştiinţă. Cu timpul am devenit sigur de adevărul său, mult mai mult decât oricare poveste spusă de Magdalena.

Începusem s-o privesc şi pe Magdalena altfel. Pe undeva simţeam probabil că ea e mai mult decât reală, devenise un personaj, începeam să văd în fiecare gest al ei o istorie, scene biografice care se legau toate de momentul de răscruce al concertului. Pălăria îşi avea deja o explicaţie în mintea mea, dar de-acum ea părea mai mult un fel de cheie de lectură a cărţii care era Magdalena. Multe alte capitole ale vieţii ei, legate de pălărie desigur, au început să mi se năzărească pe măsură ce trecea timpul, ca de la sine. Sigur, ea nu devenea niciodată „neobişnuită” pentru mine, erau doar mici momente, mai speciale, care îmi stârneau curiozitatea, pe care încercam să mi le explic, aşa cum un copil încearcă să-şi explice anumite comportamente ale adulţilor, sensul lor imediat scăpându-i printre degete din lipsă de experienţă şi de înţelegere.

La un moment dat, pe nesimţite, Magdalena a început să mă însoţească în cealaltă cameră tot mai des, părea că doreşte să se refamiliarizeze cu toate obiectele păstrate acolo, îi plăcea din nou să se înconjoare cu ele şi să-mi povestească despre unele dintre ele pentru prima oară, chiar şi fără s-o întreb. Eu o urmăream, atent la mult mai mult decât îşi imagina ea – eram mereu cu un ochi pe locul unde ştiam că e pălăria. O lăsasem exact acolo unde o descoperisem, nu doream sub nici un chip să se ştie că aflasem de ea. Încercam mereu să-i distrag atenţia când simţeam că se apropie cu privirile de ascunziş, când simţeam că povestea reală ar putea interveni şi mi-ar putea sfărma propriul scenariu legat de ea, probabil mult mai des decât ar fi fost cazul, dar din fericire Magdalena nu era deloc suspicioasă. La un moment dat n-am mai suportat să fac pe agentul secret, m-a cuprins un fel de panică şi am rugat-o să înceapă să-mi scrie un jurnal, să-mi scrie acele amintiri care i se învolburau în minte. Am convins-o că îmi doream să le am la îndemână oricând şi pentru totdeauna, şi am fost sincer fericit că reuşisem să-mi izolez camera secretă, punând foile albe între spaţiul ei şi prezenţa Magdalenei. Şi în acelaşi moment, când am sărutat-o pe obraz, am simţit gustul unei mari tristeţi. Am ştiut că o întristasem pe Magdalena. Şi am mai ştiut că nu simţise asta pentru prima dată, dimpotrivă, că redeschisesem o rană veche. [...]

Virtual agoraphobia

2009-10-09T13:27:00.004+03:00

Methinks man has a poignant talent which he shares with no other known life-form. The ability to limit himself, to demean himself in comparison to... well, mostly anything. One aspect of this talent is his innability to cope with freedom. Given the vast planes of the Internet to hunt on for happyness and entertainment, for comfort and challenge, what does one do? create a few bookmarks, haunt a few sites, bury himself in social networking (scourge of the 21st Century) and one find himself staring blankly at the blank mirror-screen when his RSS feeds yeald no new content. It is exceedingly hard to stray from the beaten path, is it not? Courage, imagination, attention, intuition, all of these seem trunkated the second information becomes available instantly. We need queries in order to produce answers, curiosity is no longer an issue. Either that, or I have suceeded all to well to dumb myself down.

Supermarket stand-up comedy

2008-10-27T13:12:00.001+02:00

Step right up
Step right up
Step right up
Everyone's a winner, bargains galore
That's right, you too can be the proud owner
Of the quality goes in before the name goes on
One-tenth of a dollar
One-tenth of a dollar
We got service after sales
You need perfume? we got perfume
How 'bout an engagement ring?
Something for the little lady
Something for the little lady
Something for the little lady, hmm
Three for a dollar
We got a year-end clearance, we got a white sale
And a smoke-damaged furniture
You can drive it away today
Act now, act now
And receive as our gift, our gift to you
They come in all colors, one size fits all
No muss, no fuss, no spills
You're tired of kitchen drudgery
Everything must go
Going out of business
Going out of business
Going out of business sale
Fifty percent off original retail price
Skip the middle man
Don't settle for less
How do we do it?
How do we do it?
Volume, volume, turn up the volume
Now you've heard it advertised, don't hesitate
Don't be caught with your drawers down
Don't be caught with your drawers down
You can step right up, step right up

That's right, it filets, it chops
It dices, slices, never stops
Lasts a lifetime, mows your lawn
And it mows your lawn
And it picks up the kids from school
It gets rid of unwanted facial hair
It gets rid of embarrassing age spots
It delivers a pizza
And it lengthens, and it strengthens
And it finds that slipper that's been at large
Under the chaise longe for several weeks
And it plays a mean Rhythm Master
It makes excuses for unwanted lipstick on your collar
And it's only a dollar, step right up
It's only a dollar, step right up

'Cause it forges your signature.
If not completely satisfied
Mail back unused portion of product
For complete refund of price of purchase
Step right up
Please allow thirty days for delivery
Don't be fooled by cheap imitations
You can live in it, live in it
Laugh in it, love in it
Swim in it, sleep in it
Live in it, swim in it
Laugh in it, love in it
Removes embarrassing stains from contour sheets
That's right
And it entertains visiting relatives
It turns a sandwich into a banquet
Tired of being the life of the party?
Change your shorts
Change your life
Change your life
Change into a nine-year-old Hindu boy
Get rid of your wife
And it walks your dog, and it doubles on sax
Doubles on sax, you can jump back Jack
See you later alligator
See you later alligator
And it steals your car
It gets rid of your gambling debts, it quits smoking
It's a friend, and it's a companion
And it's the only product you will ever need
Follow these easy assembly instructions
It never needs ironing
Well it takes weights off hips, bust
Thighs, chin, midriff
Gives you dandruff, and it finds you a job
It is a job
And it strips the phone company free
Take ten for five exchange
And it gives you denture breath
And you know it's a friend, and it's a companion
And it gets rid of your traveler's checks
It's new, it's improved, it's old-fashioned
Well it takes care of business
Never needs winding
Never needs winding
Never needs winding
Gets rid of blackheads, the heartbreak of psoriasis
Christ, you don't know the meaning of heartbreak, buddy
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon
'Cause it's effective, it's defective
It creates household odors
It disinfects, it sanitizes for your protection
It gives you an erection
It wins the election
Why put up with painful corns any longer?
It's a redeemable coupon, no obligation
No salesman will visit your home
We got a jackpot, jackpot, jackpot
Prizes, prizes, prizes, all work guaranteed
How do we do it
How do we do it
How do we do it
How do we do it
We need your business
We're going out of business
We'll give you the business
Get on the business
End of our going-out-of-business sale
Receive our free brochure, free brochure
Read the easy-to-follow assembly instructions
Batteries not included
Send before midnight tomorrow, terms available
Step right up
Step right up
Step right up
You got it buddy: the large print giveth
And the small print taketh away
Step right up
You can step right up
You can step right up
C'mon step right up
(Get away from me kid, you bother me...)
Step right up, step right up, step right up
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon
Step right up
You can step right up
C'mon and step right up
C'mon and step right up

2008-04-15T22:35:00.002+03:00

Animals don't have a choice.
If they're not happy with their place in the world... too bad.
They have to live the life they've been given.
Humans, on the other hand, don't have to.
We have a choice.
If you don't like your place in the world, you can get off anytime you want.
Suicide. That's right.

You don't like the way your life's going,
you don't like the way you are in the world,
anything around you, you can check out anytime you like.
Animals aren't allowed that thought
and believe me, if they were, they would use it.
There'd be a lot of dogs and cats, owned by assholes
that live in high-rises, diving out the windows.
Zebras... if they even had remotely that thought
would take a look at themselves and go, "What the F*#K!"
Black & white in a green & brown world... this blows.
I'm just gonna jump in the river....
I don't have a thumb to work a gun or hold a knife
or even open a jar of pills.
I'm just gonna dive into the next lion's mouth.
Why even bother?"
Now, monkeys have the opposable thumb
so they could kinda do it the exact same way we do.
Now, there's a bunch of people that say,
"Oh, it's against the law".
Well, it's only against the law if you do a crappy job and get caught.
Other people say, "Oh, we should save them".
Yeah, well you know what?
Not everybody wants to be saved.
Not everybody should be saved.
And who are we to force our will upon them?
I mean, isn't that one of the joys about being a human?
Freedom of choice?
Now, it's not all bad.
Now, I'm not saying "Kill yourself".
But if you're gonna be an idiot and do it anyway,
it's no sweat off of my back.
There's a lot of good that could come from it.
A little bit of bad thrown in.

Some of the things:
A job will open...
An apartment will become available...
There'll be more air for me...
They say there's two girls for every guy - if you're a man, there'll be four chicks for me...
There'll be more Ketel One vodka for me...
There'll be one less idiot in line at the bank who gets up to the window without their F*#King slips filled out...
I won't ever have to go to the store to buy my favorite Salt & Vinegar Chips and have the clerk point at you and say, "They bought the last bag"....
You won't help change the McDonald's sign to a Hundred Billion Served...
You'll never get AIDS...
You won't have to worry about calories ever...
No more, "Hey, does this make me look fat?"...
There'll be one less polluting human...
You won't have to recycle... There'll be one less car on the road...
There'll be more Ring Dings for me...
Fifty or so chickens' lives will be spared...
Your fingers won't ever get red from eating pistachios...
You won't be forced to visit your Grandparents on Sundays anymore...
No more church...
You'll be saying, "Hey, World - Kiss My A$$!"...
No more wet dreams about Supermodels...
No more Barry Manilow... Not for a few years anyway...
Wondering "Am I a loser?" will be a thing of the past...
Say good-bye to crappy Xmas presents from Aunts and Uncles...
You won't have to suffer through a Motley Crue reunion...
F*#K flossing and brushing...
You'll never lose sleep over a pregnancy scare...
Adios, Acne...
Worrying whether you fit in or not won't be on your brain...
See ya later, homework...
You'll never have to sit through another movie brought to you by the creators of South Park...
School's out forever....
No more paying bills...
You won't have to do chores...

You won't be able to run over toads with the lawnmower though...
You'll also miss McDonald's French Fries...
Bugs Bunny...
The amazing electrifying feeling that surges through your body when you kiss someone for the first time...
You won't be able to watch the letterbox director's cut of Jaws...
Candy...
Living above ground...
Pudding crust...
You'll miss the rush of getting your first apartment...
Getting to the point in your life where you can tell your parents to
"F*#K Off! I gotta make my own mistakes, you did"...
You'll miss sex - you'll miss thinking about it, looking for it,
sex by yourself, sex with a partner, sex with multiple partners...
No more summer nights that seem to go on forever...
Roller coasters....
Naming your kid the name you always wanted...
Making a difference in the world...
You'll miss the experience and pleasure of Hallucinogenics...
Watching your neighbor's wife change clothes with her blinds open...
A lifetime of masturbating...
Watching your favorite team sweep the series...
Music, you will definitely miss music...
Trying to sneak into your house drunk - three hours past your curfew...
You'll miss the blaze and glory of the 4th of July fireworks...
The taste of Captain Crunch...
If you're a boy, you'll miss the feeling the first time you reach up a girl's shirt...
If you're a girl, the feeling the first time you reach down a boy's pants...
You'll miss your favorite coat...
Waffles with whipped cream and strawberries...
Beating your friends at video games...
You won't be around to see what shape and color the new marshmallow in Lucky Charms will be...
You'll miss the feeling you get when reminiscing about your first love - thirty years after the fact...
The joy of giving and receiving at Christmas...
Skinny dipping...
Getting stoned, reading Green Eggs & Ham, and eating like a horse that got loose in the grain bin...
Flying cars...

Hey, you were born, finish what you started!

Yoda haiku

2008-03-08T11:27:00.002+02:00

According to God
And Satan
Humanity is.

Attention Alice!

2008-02-21T16:26:00.004+02:00

"The palace of power is a labyrinth of interconnecting rooms", Max once said to his sleepy child. She imagined it into being, walked towards it, half-dreaming half-awake. "It's windowless" Max said, "and there is no visible door. Your first task is to find out how to get in. When you've solved that riddle, when you come as a supplicant into the first anteroom of power, you will find in it a man with the head of a jackal, who will try to chase you out again. If you stay he will try to gobble you up. If you can trick your way past him, you will enter a second room, guarded this time by a man with the head of a rabid dog, and in the room after that you'll face a man with the head of a hungry bear, and so on. In the last room but one there's a man with the head of a fox. This man will not try to keep you away from the last room, in which the man of true power sits. Rather, he will try to convince you that you are already in that room and that he himself is that man."

"If you succeed in seeing through the fox man's tricks, and if you get past him, you will find yourself in the room of power. The room of power is unimpressive and in it the man of power faces you across an empty desk. He looks small, insignificant, fearful; for now that you have penetrated his defenses he must give you your heart's desire. That's the rule. But on the way out the fox man, the bear man, the dog man and the jackal man are no longer there. Instead, the rooms are full of half-human flying monsters, winged men with the heads of birds, eagle-men and vulture-men, men-gannets and hawk-men. They swoop down and rip at your treasure. Each of them claws back a little piece of it. How much of it will you manage to bring out of the house of power? You beat at them, you shield the treasure with your body. They rake at your back with gleaming blue-white claws. And when you've made it and are outside again, squinting painfully in the bright light and clutching your poor, torn remnant, you must persuade the skeptical crowd - the envious, impotent crowd! - that you have returned with everything you wanted. If you don't, you'll be marked as a failure forever."

"Such is the nature of power" he told her as slipped towards sleep, "and these are the questions it asks. The man who chooses to enter its halls does well to escape with his life. The answer to the question of power, by the way" he added as an afterthought, "is this: do not enter as a supplicant. Come with meat and a sword. Give the first guardian the meat he craves, for he is always hungry, and cut off his head while he eats: pof! Then offer the severed head to the guardian in the next room, and when he begins to devour it, behead him too. Baf! Et ainsi de suite. When the man of power agrees to grant your demands, however, you must not cut off his head. Be sure you don't. The decapitation of rulers is an extreme measure, hardly ever required, never recommended. Make sure, instead, that you ask not only for what you want but for a sack of meat as well. With the fresh meat supply you will lure the bird-men to their doom. Off with their heads! Snick-snack! Chop-chop until you're free. Freedom is not a tea party, India. Freedom is a war."

Blowtorch

2007-11-12T09:18:00.001+02:00

"Frank settled down in the Valley,
and he hung his wild years on a
nail that he drove through his
wife's forehead.

He sold used office furniture out
there on San Fernando Road and
assumed a $30,000 loan at
15 1/4 % and put a down payment
on a little two bedroom place.

His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash
Made good bloody-marys, kept her mouth
shut most of the time, had a little Chihuahua
named Carlos that had some kind of skin
disease and was totally blind.

They had a thoroughly modern kitchen;
self-cleaning oven (the whole bit)
Frank drove a little sedan.
They were so happy.

One night Frank was on his way home
from work, stopped at the liquor store,
picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouth’s.
Drank 'em in the car on his way to the
Shell station; he got a gallon of gas in a can.

Drove home, doused everything in
the house, torched it.
Parked across the street laughing,
watching it burn, all Halloween
orange and chimney red.

Frank put on a top forty station,
got on the Hollywood Freeway
headed North.

Never could stand that dog."

Couldn't have put it better myself. No, really, I couldn't.
Picture by ~mtrutledge on DeviantArt.

TPH

She's my heroin

2007-11-10T17:28:00.000+02:00

Therapy by derision

I find myself being dragged away from this persona to a more chivalrous one, day by day. It is not the first time it has happened, and by all means, it doesn't take much to make me shift and abandon different characters and views. However I feel I like this particular incarnation enough to allow it some sort of self-defense.

I came up with myself when I needed to cope with things in a spectacular way. There looms the possibility of me not having to do this anymore, the lure of a more tender emotion seems to be sneaking up on me. And it got me thinking - why should I activate different modules of myself with every other feeling that seems important enough to require emotional spring cleaning? If every time a bell chirped in my hat I'd suddenly turn to see it I'd probably just be stretched on some floor somewhere with my eyes long lost in permanent vertigo. And still, I seem to be doing exactly this on some level. I'm my own book of tricks.

Why would I suddenly write such a mushy post? Get over yourselves. I don't live in a conflict area and most ideas I have are stretched so thin they barely manage to link things together. Blogs inevitably fall in pits of personal confession, pathetic in nature and cozy for all those who wish to put off writing their own posts. I wish this was an exorcism.

TPH

The pros and cons of tanks

2007-11-07T22:38:00.000+02:00

To have a tank - the dream of the founder of Virgin (the record-label, the legend, the myth) and by having it, knowing that it is yours to drive around in at any given moment is synonymous with security, control and "zazz".

To have a tank, in the most biblical of ways - the dream of a fellow harlequin, mostly charming, always full of presence - and to be able to run anyone down in it, at any given moment, becoming one with the motorized armored vehicle and feeling the bones crunch under your treaded soles, a certain gentleness involved - synonymous with the M.O. of any self-respecting sociopath bent on making the world a better place, even by self-sacrifice.

What else is there to hope for? Get a tank - paint it pink, make an impression, run everyone down in it, beginning with your best friend (he/she would go out with an orgasmic yelp, no doubt) and always avoiding those you despise most - the subtlety of knowing they know you could make guacamole out of them with the expense of nothing else than gasoline is punishment enough and it turns you in a sort of makeshift Batman.

This was me trying to empathize with my friend's dream. I would much prefer (much like Jesus) to have others blame themselves to the extent they'd jump in front of her tank, when she gets it. Such a creative partnership would indeed be our big show together...

TPH

Grin Reaper

2007-10-25T14:17:00.000+03:00

It appears exactly when you'd think it's gone forever. It stretches from orifice to orifice on the horizontal and on the vertical, a leviathan of a cross cracking the head in four, like a knife drawing on a lemon. And then the chasm widens and sound comes out, cackling, snorting, bellowing, howling, contagious and infectious, bringing forth unrelenting deconstruction of all things serious, front row with popcorn, while at the same time underlining with many lines the very thing it mocks, much like a thong, all this somewhere in the vividly painted backdrop.

Cheese, Whiskey, Watch the Birdie (rough translation), etc - words that cut slits in peoples' faces like charm, magic words which bring the apocalypse of straight faces everywhere.

Serendipity

2007-05-28T23:19:00.000+03:00

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.

2007-05-27T02:18:00.000+03:00

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

2007-05-12T10:11:00.000+03:00

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.

2007-05-07T11:44:00.000+03:00

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?"

Late night laugh

2007-04-30T01:31:00.000+03:00

Not many laughs to be had lately, I must say, with pronounced disdain and distress. And not enough tear-worthy events either. I was just pondering the mechanisms by which extreme sadness can be turned into trouser-wetting humor by a mere effort of will. However, as John the Revelator would put it, that which is merely warm shall be spit out of the mouth of God.

Not to be asking for a lightning-bolt jolt back to reality or purgatory, depending on the mood, but wouldn't a tobacco-spittin', six-shooter blastin', saloon-door kickin' deity have made any sane man quiver with hysteria in a rational world?

And further more, based on the assumption that paradontosis is an affliction common especially to older people, and the biblical fact that we have been created in the image of God, I say, shouldn't it be understandable that this respective deity should very much enjoy the presence of some warm and neutral-tasting food in his mouth rather than a hot or icy fluid that could easily cause jolts of universal pain?

Well, ranting has it's own pace. May it be be gentle and graceful. And if you have nothing nice to say, at least try to make it interesting.

Old McDonald

2007-04-18T15:01:00.000+03:00

No, I haven't taken my spots off yet. Here, enjoy this. It might kill you with laughter, have someone with you at all times to deliver the final blow.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4Y4keqTV6w

Smile, it's going to get worse

2007-04-16T03:19:00.000+03:00

Fine day today in Germany. Hot weather and blooming trees, delicious wurst and liters upon liters of ale.

A game of tension lays waste to patience, tiresome tale in a hale of words, no results. It's like doing cartwheels in space - just not spectacular, just cold and pointless. This feeling, frozen from liquid state into a perfect mirror of absurdity, placed in front of me. I write these words at night, knowing that in the morning, the rejuvenated masks that I try so very hard to make my own, will probably be able to cover my face again, will silence my bells. Prepubescent dillemas still haunt. We have these thoughts that won't converge, we try so hard to make words merge and there's no end to our attempts, as jesters mock our weathered hands. Nothing said, nothing gained, no peace lost or muscle strained, I lay relaxed and upside down, bells shimmering around my crown.

Doctors and cards

2007-04-12T17:02:00.000+03:00

Step right up folks, step right up and get your own personal diagnostic! Whatever you want, whatever fate and skill drop in your lap! A couple of cracked jacks sir, terribly sorry, you will have trouble with gender identity as a side-effect, but your voice will definitely improve. Wrapped up king mister, we'll fit you with a nice comfy long-sleeve shirt with original western-style buckles. Lodging for free, you won't get a softer deal anywhere. Madam, I'm sorry to tell you you've got a little joker coming. Bet you didn't expect that. There're ways to deal with him though (no pun intended). Your tens are acting up, take these pills and you'll just sleep it off...

Shuffle the deck, move'em around, there's plenty for eveyone, as long as there's still a free bed to play in. If you're really, really lucky, you get to draw three cards of the same kind and bet them over and over again. Unfortunately friends, we're playing black-jack, so the queen is not a good card to pull a hattrick with... Tough luck kid, we did everything we could.

It's times like these that I'd switch over the fence to my tuxedo-wearing amigos in mostly dellusional illusion land. Have them teach me a thing or two about that dissapearing act - I can pull it off with a couple of aces, but I can't make the dealer go up in smoke. And that's exactly what needs to be done. No fun here, just bitter attempts at cartwheels. Even harlequins feel angry at times. A system where clowns can become doctors and perform their daily routines on helpless, pale and wide-eyed mimes is a circus not even fools can bear.

I love you dear friend, you're an ace up my sleeve at all times. Get well soon.

Image courtesy of ~angel-blue on dA.

Sour grapes

2007-04-11T20:11:00.000+03:00

Pretty rants is all I seem to be able to churn out of my bells today. So here goes - courtesy of "DmanLT21" - this pretty picture of a blockhead shape finding it hard to keep cool makes me think of my own desperate attempts at ingnoring the fetish qualities of the iPod. (with the iPod Shuffle I think they're finally getting the idea - make it rounder and then it'll have parts everyone can enjoy. Oh, by the way, they actually made a vibrator - there, I went and spoiled the subtlety of the entire previous wordplay - that shakes and stirs to music from an iPod... perhaps I should have selected a picture illustrating just that...) It may be pretty strong headed, it might come from a family that I personally have only mistrust for, it might be pompous and sometimes even flourescent pink, U2 might even have a signature model, but it's also slick, fragile, shiny, with perfect proportions, elephant memory and remarcable stamina. For all that I don't like, my mind has an unbeatable argument - pretty. There. I feel like a Gilmore girl without the witty dialogue.

Puppets and clowns

2007-04-11T09:53:00.000+03:00

It's pretty hard to find a funny drawing of a puppet these days. I browsed through pages upon pages of pictures, drawings, photos, 3d renderings and I have to say there's no color left in the puppets' cheeks anymore. No spring in their step, no guiding line of personality, no twinkle. The downfall of the puppet as it were.
We've gone from laughter to despair at their approach. Children see puppets as funny sketches of a person. People see puppets as reflections, for why else would they exploit this ridiculous gothic theme so much? And indeed, if you see a puppet and your subconscious goes "What have I become?!" you should probably watch "Child's play" again and again, for some inspiration.
Puppets usually come in two varieties: on one hand we have the hanging kin - you know, those dominated from way above by a posse of creepy individuals with serious passive-agressive disorders. On the other hand, as it were, we have those who need a hand up their (rather generous) behinds, as motor skill substitution. I'm not even going to try to make a joke about the weilders' profile this time. I do however wonder which of these two little friends scare adults more...
Where, I ask, lies freedom for a puppet? In the master's nimble fingers or by means of mocking one's own strings? Electric cables, bills, dues, relations, relatives, affairs, puppet strings for the perceptive, brutal fisting hands for the not-so-perceptive. It's no laughing matter, lest you break a string.

Dancing on the corpses' ashes

2007-04-10T10:01:00.000+03:00

As it is with most things, music inspires me to write this. People sometimes have feelings that they can't explain. Some of these people can easily find things in this reality to tie those feelings to, creating an artificial connection that reassures them of their sanity. Such is the case of a character highly distressed by the barbaric practice of clitorectomy that still goes on in certain parts of Africa, or of yet another character, Colombine for example - her spleen is triggered by the knowledge of women disappearing like slain dogs, by the tens and by the hundreds, somewhere at the border between Mexico and the United States. Further more, a neighbor here in the blogosphere keeps a very vivid and electrically charged account of the goings on in Iraq, ever since the war began. Very relevant, very strong - I suppose it can make great material for us wounded souls to find something to blame for our emo-ness, despite the very alive and first-person meat it has on it's virtual bones.
Where can one find the "funny" in all this. It's not the funny you'd laugh at out loud. It's the type of funny a fool has to point out first for the king to be able to chuckle. Picture, if you will, all the people with a rather large and colorful bell hat on their respective heads. These hats, with many a bell, can hardly wait to stretch a little tentacle and start ringing, one way or the other, to wherever insanity wreaks havoc in a most stimulating way. And so the tentacles fly all over the Earth - from individuals in Romania to Bangladesh, from people in America to the darkest deepest jungle in Africa (where the bell only dares venture, leaving the driving mind behind), from this clown in Romania to Iraq. And now, had you kept your mind focused, you see a web of these little arms, dangling away and ringing all over the planet, like microwave alarms. And out of nowhere comes this idea that we should do something as individuals. Pandemonium - each anchored fool with his/her colored hat starts yanking away, until we all, in pairs, crack our heads against each other. And the bells roar at first, then they lay silent until the bluebirds stop swirling around in a cartoon like fashion. Down here, we call this public uproar, collective action, Live8.

I refuse to formulate a moral to this exercise.

ML

2007-04-09T20:38:00.000+03:00

"I would die hanging in a waltz of puppets, strings tied around my neck in majestic ties, from the delicate fingers of the thin paper harlequin. I would gamble my love away on a misfortunate jest only to be reminded of the equal beat of this song, only to bathe in the musical loss that it is to me. I would drown in a pool made of mimes' hands around me, a singular audience to a mute choir of black and white stripes. I feel my lungs like wings on the inside, flapping in the air like those of a monochromous blue parrot."

A song made me feel this way about three or four days ago. It's not really dry yet, but it will be in a week or so, a gentle reminder of ridiculous enthusiasm. It doesn't take people to make one feel like a fool. It just takes a brain (albeit a slightly disfunctional one). Hence the name of this fresh blog.

Image courtesy of Cristiano Siqueira - www.crisvector.com