Monday, March 28, 2016
My shadows are all on the wall. They're shadows of past loves and past companions. Of past dreams and past hopes. Of past loves. Past friends, past loves. Passed loves.
No one to lend a tissue. Or a shoulder. Or a dagger. To wipe away the drool and sob. To stop the pain of living. The knife of life, the slow unending impercetible decay of the soul. And the same. Always the same. Always only the same.
Don't complain. Don't let me hear that. He's already out the door and he's off the map. He's out of here. He got what he came here to get. He got what I gave him. Got them and gone.
How much do I want to throw that woman into a well and bury her face below a big pile of hard reddened rocks? Squash that ugly head. Make it hurt.
Make her gone.
But hey, it did the trick. Who's the winner? He talked well and dressed well. Talked honestly and took a big boulder of pretend truth and lies, shoved it up his nose and slowly chewed it; mouth open so I could see his bleeding teeth and his rotting brain oozing down his nostrils. He chewed me up and I let him touch the sole of my glass slippers. They encased pink toes held on his palm. And gently loved the soles of my toes with his mind. And fucked me over with his back. He turned away. Shrugged. Looked at me again. He took a plane and smoked a cigarette. Kissed a blonde in California.
There's a thorn in my heart. Someone placed a rose near my heart. And with it my heart grew to double its size. And then he plucked the thorn out, gave my rose to someone more deserving. I haven't stopped bleeding. Not for a nano part of a second. For centuries now. On this long winding road I walk alone and cry alone and laugh alone at my insanity. I pray alone to dark walls in this cave that won't let my prayer escape to God. He's looking for me. I know it, he cried my name. I heard it on the whisper in the echo of the bats. Crying my name - crying for his lost child. The cave walls thick, the blood gushing. My heart bleeding with the burden heavy. Power fading. Light extinguishing. The dog dying. The cat lying. The girl crying. The stupid stupid animal.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The things that made me are so dear.
The things that made me I want near.
The things I want, they run so deep.
And so I walk instead of sleep.
The things that made me are the sun
The parents, roofs and games of one
The games in twos and fives and tens
The games of childhood, games of dens.
The only things we'll have are here
The things we want when skies are clear
Are things we never wanna face
And keep our shields always in grace
Friday, December 3, 2010
I couldn’t have been more than 6 years old. My grandmother and I were in the backyard on a cold autumn afternoon. It was foggy and our chained dog was enthusiastically wagging its tail around her arthritic leg joints as she dragged them into the garage. In the old dark room, smell of moist wood and dog hair, she fetched some large nails and a hammer. I followed her onto the patio where she nailed a piece of wood to something else, I can’t quite remember what. I was puzzled and amazed and asked her why she knew how to do that. “Men are the ones who do that. Where did you learn?” She had been divorced from my grandfather for a little less than 6 years. She smiled, walked away and as I was following her, she said, as if speaking to no one in particular - “Need teaches you”.
She always had a very lively nature and an innocent, almost unprovoked smile, like a child's, whenever she did mundane things. She’d sing as she was preparing our food and warming up the pigs’ winter broth. She’d cut up garden salad and mix it with mais flower for the ducks and change blankets on top of a box where a hen was hatching her eggs and my grandmother would sing in a low and prolongued voice. They were songs I never recognized, except for the Christmas carols I’d join in on. She’d talk to our animals and I’d love my time just following her around, like a 2 week old duckling.
... how when you grow up people are always telling you that you’re weird for doing this and weird for doing that. You realize it and you tone it down. You watch others. You learn. You don’t wipe your nose with your sleeve. You don’t just get up from the table as soon as you’re done. You don’t hold the fork in your right hand. You definitely don’t listen to the vast majority of your natural instincts.
But when you grow up, people tend to stop telling you what not to do and start waiting for you to be unusual. Being regular is alright, but being special...
So I was pretty messed up considering all my life I’ve felt like the outsider.
Of course you go through phases and you visit some places where people appreciate your weirdness more than in others. And sometimes it’s absolutely splendid to showcase your weirdness. Take being kind. I don’t know if I had too many bible lessons or my grandmother was too much of a grandmother, but I remember often being the sucker who just wanted things to be fair. Fair to the bone, fair to the last drop, fair to the last rule of the game.
When I was about 8, I had a fight with the 2 other girls I would often play with after school. We had decided on game rules for chasing each other around and, as far as I can remember, they had broken those rules. I remember I took it so hard that I immediately left, went to the other side of the playground and started making little crosses. Little Jesus crosses, from small twigs and long grass files instead of string. Some minutes later, when the girls joined me, I lectured them, almost crying, gasping from despair and pure outrage. I remember speaking while looking at my hands as they were working and I can see it so clearly now how my eyes became watery and I had to stop. I just wanted them to understand that the principle had been violated. I was lecturing them in the most passionate of ways about the necessity of being fair. And then I handed each of them one of the crosses and I didn’t keep one for myself.
I don’t think I’m kind. Not in the way in which most people think kindness is meant. I don’t feel the need to help those who fuck up. I don’t want to work more for someone who didn’t do their job. And I don’t wanna forgive someone who drunk drove into a pole. Of course I’d help someone on a hospital bed, but not more than an average homo sapiens would.
When you see an old lady on the street, in such places as crowded and uncaring, nasty old Bucharest, and she’s begging or selling unspectacular flowers for close to nothing, you want to help. But it’s not kindness that makes you want to help her. Don’t flatter yourself, as I am not flattering myself. It’s a sense of fairness that drives us. If you think that’s kindness, you’re probably compensating for some other shitty thing you did that day.