089. Whitecrow hits shoe shine city

Mi-e dor de eul de mai demult, dar nu știu dacă mai am nevoie de ea. Retrospecțiile compulsive stârnite în seri când e frig pentru mai și cald pentru început de primăvară nu mi-au adus niciodată altceva decât imagini cu pisici alunecând pe garduri udate de ploaie.

Am senzația ca pierd secundele așa cum pierdeam baloanele de săpun când eram copil. Și că fluturii se opresc în pânze de păianjen, ce intră în pereți, în mese și în scaune, transformându-se în tapițerii. Mă enervează astfel de tatuaje metaforice și nostalgice.

Urăsc și cărțile de vizită și decupajele din reviste și paginile îndoite din mereu aceeași carte care nu mă lasă să dorm, să respir și să port alte haine decât ale ei. Haine umbrite de soare, impregnate cu nuanțele ca apa dintr-o baltă sub un amurg crăpat de soare roșu și împrăștiate ca nisipul claustrat în blocuri, dimineața la ora cinci.

Era o amărăciune adâncă, năucitoare, inexistent ca tine și ca mine. [...] Există râuri metafizice. Da, iubito, sigur că da. Vei fi stând acum îngrijindu-ți copilul, plângând la răstimpuri și aici s-a făcut din nou ziuă, cu un soare galben ce nu încălzește.

David Sylvian – Blackcrow hits shoe shine city

055. Old hope, made of rope, that held you tight as the chair legs broke

Once there was a lonely tree. At night-time, it burns, suffering spontaneous combustions because of the heat it lasted and carried throughout the day. Mornings were chilly, cool and vanillated, with eyes half-closed and minds half-gone, with mouth filled with cigarettes and pieces of clothing in flowerish patterns, coloured necklaces and sun-open Tiamats, kind hells in vermillion nuances that bloom into the most beautiful baby creature of blue the sky ever hoped to capture and tightly hold between its fingers. Noons were like hot toast in shiny windows that’d been forgotten wide open, with rays of sunlight blooming like fluid honey. Like warm milk and chocolate for children, like dancing yellow flowers in amber heads. Nights were striking with fury of dark watercolours, varying from the deep orange of grass below late eight thirty p.m. and the astute ubiquous blue of empty skies filling with stars.

Well nothing happens with the lonely tree, apart from its bursting into fire at late hours, crying out for rain when dawn approaches. It lingers for rivers and beats of clear winds, rhythms of small birds hiding behind curtains of leafs. It cries when the branches are broken and the smoke flies
high, but nothing really matters as it turns back to its senses in the morning and recollects bits and pieces of golden dust. Sometimes, bees die on its leafs and it eats their honey and sweet bodies. And sometimes, the lonely tree hunts bees for the sweetness of their wings. But that doesn’t make him a killer. No. We all are killers. And so is he.

Portugal the Man – Lovers in love

036. At early AMs and late PMs

Exitmusic – The Sea

It’s been a while since I’ve been up at this hour writing. Well I’m always up at this hour, but not writing. I think there’ve been months or maybe two years since I’ve been up writing at early a.ms. I’m thinking about dresses. Dresses and scalpels, scalpels singing chansons on dry skins, on shy skins, on afraid ones, drawing lines, curling lines, drawing other anxious scalpels, playfully decorating wrists and twists and ankles and ribbons on laces of blood vessels underneath the dry, shy, afraid skin. There are beautiful dresses. With or without lace, but lace makes them beautiful. Just the way skin makes blood so beautiful. And so blue.

024. Billy Jack.

Tare as vrea sa stiu ce-i cu poza asta, dar evident habar n-am. Dupa un espresso dublu lucrurile sunt la fel si e doar 4 P.M. Am vazut un caine mort in iarba; off topic. Ma exaspereaza cuvinte de genul preclude, prevalent, relegate, recluse, disparage, despondent. Sper sa moara si ele ca si catelul ala si sa le doara; off topic again. S-a nenorocit din nou carcasa de telefon si mi-am rupt blugii - de data asta fara sa vreau. Peste tot pe blog-uri, la news & asa-mai-departe sunt imagini ba cu Lady D, ba cu the freakin’ royal wedding. Ok, I wish you nothing but the best, dar deja, personal, m-am plictisit de nunta asta infinita si cu un imens impact emotional, psihic, intelectual si “morfologic” asupra publicului fanatic. Postarea asta devine din ce in ce mai interesanta. Vanilie si scortisoara.

021. Just a petite moment

017. Yes, today was fine.

Caught between letters, C++ and my best friend’s surprise birthday-party, looking for the perfect e-card and my happiness of seeing her happy, my mother’s stories about moments when laughing out loud was the only way and the uniqueness of her telling them, my leopard print blouse with a big black ribbon in the left shoulder, a mood of total ignorance and self-sufficiency for the rest of the day. Watching bloopers of myself would be fun – maybe. But there are none. This pic is too idiosyncratic for the given moment. I’m thirsty all the time.