Would you sacrifice your life for a point of view?
My psychological dynamics guiding me to a rather uncertain significance.
My gross impropriety persisting, evading from itself while the editing fades out in people’s faces.
I’m the evil nigger Mr Julius Eastman would say,
I assume that’s time to give the adieu interessant.
I’m an urban rat, I’ve been told.
When walking the very same concrete pavement day after day after year after square after skips after shit on the trash.
When keeping away from people crossing my way, I’ve been so long on this road.
It’s been one of those days. Rhythmic claps mark my pace.
Rat can’t find no food, it is in an industrial area. Rat almost ran out by a train. I take comfort in the electric charge coming from the rails.
It makes me feel something good at least, at last. Claps claps claps everywhere.
I make no resistance and though I know food and warmth in winter will come plenty, it’s the uncertainty that keeps me going.
Dancing with the claps, clapping my way, far up.
I’m still brainstorming to shake the quiet in my existence. It never bothered me, this quiet. But now it’s boring me to death.
Don’t want to be bored, it’s worst than dead. There’s nothing with being dead really, simply because when you’re dead you’re not being. It’s a clear status. There’s no happy or sad or bored dead. There’s just dead.
This is an interesting idea. I’m at the library describing what i see, since I can’t draw good enough. It’s all of us here closed in our worlds/minds but sharing the same air, space and landscape.
There’s a guy sit in the same table as me. He practices arabic writings. I don’t think he has full domain of it since he struggles to copy the complicated curls and whirls of the language. What for many is a daily basis tool, for him is a dedicated development of a skill.
Others read newspapers, some play with chewing gums in their mouths while picking a decoration book. A man with his head on the hands look perplexed in desbelief at his book.
Others don’t seem concentrated at all and simply glance about with contemplative eyes to the space. Phones ring. Attendant runs to reply in unhearible whispering words before hanging up.
But this shouldn’t be a plain description of what I see. There should be something more. There should be reflexions of life in a world where we’re all together and alone at the same time. There should be ideas to comfort me and others, to legitimate my way of thinking, to kick my insecurities motherfucking ass!!! I guess there shouldn’t be space for insecurities in first place. That’s an invented condition to control and submit to repression.
CONTROL SUBMIT two of my unfavorite words. So repetitively used to the point of watered/drained significance. It’s so powerful that’s meaningless. Its presence so overwhelming and omnipresent that one don’t seem to know a world without it.
I sleep and dribble to control!!!!
I fart and shit at the same time to it!!!!!
But that just gets me back to where I was. Apathy as a horrible state to be. I’d rather be controlled than bored because at least I’d have something to go against. But if I’m already controlled and apathetic there should still be a struggle as the guy’s resiliently working in the arabic writings. A struggle to go out there and fight against or maybe to stop and walk to another direction. Another landscapes right? Today’s the library, tomorrow an empty park or my own toilet.
It doesn’t have to be conflictual because I don’t mind the quiet really. But I’m not dead yet.
I don’t deserve to live.
I should be removed from society and be eaten by fleas.
I should be chopped up in pieces and my eyes left open to glass stare and scare little kids in the street.
I don’t mind kids, I just think they spend too much paper. But they don’t deserve to be scared away by a dead opened eye. They will have the chance when they contradict their parents and unlucky end up deep in the woods.
But me, I don’t deserve their glass staring eyes either. But I’m veil. I should be bitten to death by bees and have my eyes turned into propolis.
That would be nature’s backlash. That would be the backlash of my nature.
the toilet is clean, the garden is wide and beautiful, the smoke of a past barbecue is still in the air, the ‘compost’ board in the little lump in the ground, molly the blue sheep stays put next to it to give any required information.
All set. All ready. Inspiration lurks tickling my imagination long tied up by frustration or is it boredom? I see that garden, that pots in the kitchen, the black and white cat walking with grace around the flowers, why bored?
I hear voices from the neighbour. They complain, eat and laugh at the same time. I am silent, not hungry but have no reason to cry, this reasons have been so pungent that i seem to have finally transcended them, turning it into deliberated grins.
Eventually in this ocean of coincidences and bizarre accidents I receive some replies, not passive, not polite.
today I thought about the weightlifters.
maybe because I thought about how heavy I feel.
I could barely drag myself out of bed.
today I thought about the weightlifters.
would they be strong enough to lift me?
would they feel like winners?
would they have made it?
today I thought how prolific and productive I could be,
I’m heavy instead and heavier and heavier
dumped in a weightlifters training room corner.
It rained yesterday. It was hot and I could feel that familiar smell of my childhood afternoons.
When my ball used to roll away from my hands to your garden.
You never returned them to me and I never asked them back.
I was happy just to stare your red hair as you walked away between giggles with my yellow and blue ball trapped in you fat, strawberry scented hands.
My mum used to go to yours. I would stand still in a corner with this pain in my belly, my eyes heavy and numb trying not to see you.
I felt as if I was in your heart-shaped cup stirred with your gaze.
That same gaze from when I saw you in the pool. Your hair waving through the water, your heart cup floating away from your hands.
Your mum rushed to your rescue but it was too late.
I had already escaped in your little cup, with your gaze in my belly.
They were mischievous insomniacs and parlayed into sick, funny stories,
it became a distraction, with that horrid sense of love affair,
she was a shark woman, unsmiling, really interesting and real.
As hard as a frozen snowball, a cassette flew into my chest,
there was a story about robots in it, that could neatly illustrate,
we looked nervously at each other as if getting banned.
I can tell you, the silence was defeating, colorful.
I couldn’t believe in her amorality, she couldn’t believe in my disgusting cynicism.
At that moment, she ate my unconventional beauty.
july, 07 2008
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Today i noticed my neighbours had moved, i never really met them but for some reason it made me wonder who they were, their favorite fruits, their reasons to cry or smile, their “whys”. The children used to shout “helloooo” at me, i always shouted back “helloo” stumbling at their wood tiny bikes locked in the fence…i wonder where they moved and who their new neighbours are, who the little girls are shouting hello to…
well, people always go, and i’ve seen them going quite a lot, or maybe i am the one who always go…
i felt stingy when i passed by their door and didn’t see the pepper plants outside, i turned extremely sensitive, and started to remember microscopic glances of their presence, the smell of their food, their dense voices closed behind their doors, what did they speak about while i was in my room suffering of headache or scratching my records or crying like a penguin who’s lost his egg for the 80 degrees below icy ground…
well hope they’re well and hope i’ll be, when i make my move.
………………………………………………………………………….
Snow lives in my stomach
it covers the peak of the mountain i’m yelling from
can you hear it?
it carries the anguish that has always pushed me to the top and back, as long as an orgasm
as brief as the glimpse of joy i feel everytime the world wakes me up,
as asfixiating as when people’s eyes lay on me,
as resilient as when a car hits my flesh when i crossed the street without looking,
you eat my shout,
you make me have that feeling of transcending into smoke again,
of abandoning myself from the bottom for you to catch me on the top,
whenever i’m alone with you all rest seems so cliche
april 04, 2008
