She's my heroin

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

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

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

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?"