Monday, December 11, 2006

Thé au Logis

So what are two lost souls to do on a Saturday night when most of everywhere reeks with the foul stench of routine and the prospect of walking into yet again the same old place within which you always walk seems as appealing as old instant coffee on the morning after drinking a little too much. Before you get caught in that very specific analogy, let's assume for a second that this past weekend was indeed that Saturday night and I was indeed one of said lost souls. As we were aimlessly wandering the deserted streets in search of a place to sit down and quench our thirst for entertainment (and liquor), we pass by an especially unsavory part of a well-known (yet nevertheless, unsavory in its own regard) street in this here little city that I nowadays call home. Far from the hordes of drunken tourists and scantly-clad ladies of reputably dubious manners and equally reputable promiscuity, there stands a little Bistro hidden below street level away from the prying eyes of said tourists and aforementioned ladies.

This little gem by the name of Le Thé au Logis touts itself as a restaurant, art gallery and tea house in one. To say that it got me at 'art gallery' is maybe an understatement, the fact that they also have quite a nice selection of liquor at very acceptable prices as well as live jazz on Saturday evenings (and what do you know, this was indeed a Saturday evening) meant that this was by now a done deal. I will not mention the fact that I've been passing next to this place for quite a while now and I've always been finding it closed (or what I now understand to be their 'permanently closed'-look). Before we could decide whether to continue with our aimless wandering, we found ourselves descending the small steps leading up to the entrance.

Once inside we were greeted by a warm and dimly-lit atmosphere, punctuated by a deep sound of a bass guitar, the funky chords of an electric guitar and the soft notes of a piano. Other than the band, that seemed rather oblivious to our presence, the place was deserted. This was surreal yet very fitting of everything. After exploring our initial surroundings from the entrance, to the bar, to the coat hanger in the back of the hall to the walls lined with paintings and back to the bar, someone eventually popped out of some swing-doors that seemed to lead to a brightly-lit kitchen. After asking if they were open and if we could grab something to eat, we were reassured that they were indeed open, and if we would just take a seat he will bring us our menus. So we took a seat and the menus were handed to us by the same boy that popped out of the kitchen. After enjoying some more of the jazz and making our choices (Smoked Salmon in Chardonnay for me, clam chowder and dim-sum for my friend, and a platter of sushi as an entrée) our waiter jotted down our order on a piece of paper, handed it off to the kitchen staff and, to our amazement, grabbed a guitar and joined the band. This was too good.

A little while later, a man in what looked like a chef's outfit (a real chef's outfit, not the one with the puffy hat from the cartoons) came out with our food. I must say, for a Caucasian chef, he makes a mean dim-sum. To their credit, my friend did spot more of the kitchen crew that were indeed of eastern descent, so we could reassuringly approach the sushi platter with all our ignorant-westerner hearts.

Midway through our meal another customer did step in, which momentarily ruined the 'we have this place to ourselves'-attitude that we were enjoying so far. It didn't last long, as he soon became part of the décor and we continued our meal and conversation to the pleasant tunes of the 2 guitars, the piano and the drums (where did those come from all of a sudden?).

Once finished, we did not feel at all full (as one should feel at the end of a good meal) and we parted the place knowing that we didn't waste another Saturday.

Well done Thé au Logis for providing an oasis of culinary bliss with a hint of much needed but severely lacking relaxing ambiance in the jungle that is Montreal's Crescent Street.

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Wednesday, August 16, 2006

something lost

Four GlassesThe person in the mirror is looking me in the eye and I’m wondering who that person is. Who is staring back at me from beyond that shiny surface on my wall? Will reality again cover this barren land I roam, like the warm blanket of snow that has kept me safe all this time? One, two, three, four— four – I spot four glasses for me to warm my spirit and quench my thirst for unconscious introspection.

One, two, three, four, one by one, down they go.

It will keep this going for a little longer and stimulate the circulation of impulsive ideas from my neurons to yours.

Going back to the beginning, back to when we were mere children basking in the little utopian universe we have created, we fondly remember the rosy and carefree existence that we used to lead. Not a thing was wrong in the WHOOOLE world. It was simple. It was innocent. It was the Garden of Eden before god spoiled it with his little clay toys.

Wine BerriesBut even fruit in the Garden of Eden don’t last forever. Eventually, drunk on their own happiness, they drown in their blissful glass of wine, floating to the surface, motionless, plucked from their green stems, gently begging for help in ripples that dissipate as they grow bigger and farther away.

But not even the looming foreshadowing in a glass of wine could stop a wandering mind from wandering through the corridors of imagination. And wandering it did...

Traversing vast and varied terrain, it attempted to explore as far and as much as it could. From the old and classic reflections of a dry vodka martini, to the new and exciting aromas of a Red White and Hpnotiq Blue.

Martini Red White and Hpnotiq Blue

As time went by and experiences accumulated, an unconscious race to the next exciting thing began to burn in the inner-most furnaces of our restless wandering mind. Little by little, it discovered that a sparkly crystal glass at a nicely set table just didn’t cut it anymore. It needed more. It was hungry.

Candle-lit tables lined with empty glasses ready to be filled with such delicacies as anticipation, yearning, excitement and delight were, by now, very apropos.
Of course, the humble dry martini of yesteryear always had its honourable place on one of these tables. It became a signature, a custom almost, something that is an essential part of the experience. You arrive, you take your seats, you order a glass, as simple as that.


But like all good meals it must all eventually come to an end. Well, perhaps not really an end, but more like desert. And what better drink to serve for desert than a warm and encouraging glass of Blueberry Tea. We of course start with the 'little-bitter' amaretto to set the mood. The initial sting is then softened by the sweet but nevertheless potent Grand Marnier. Finally, to warm up our spirits and reassure us we mix it all in a nice glass of steaming hot tea.

More changes ahead, but that's for the entry.


Isn’t that better?

Tuesday, August 8, 2006

confused rhetorical tropes

To want to speak and be muted in your tracks – to want to scream and be silenced by your cries of despair. To want to lie with words of truth that hide behind dark curtains of deceit. To walk the path of the righteous in reverse – backtracking your steps to cover your footmarks in the cold snow of honesty.
It’s a labyrinth with only one way out – the same one that put you in. What will it be? Facing the minotaur in a battle for your heart or a futile attempt to fly away into the sun only to end up having your brittle wings melt and drown in the endless sea of tears?
The impossible reality that you dream of is nothing more than a hazy mirage invoked by a series of mirrors and shadows intertwined together to form your vision of life.

And sometimes I don’t know if agreeing with me is more infuriating than complete apathy. Things like “you’re right” or “you’re entitled to your opinion” are the worst of insults and there is a little razor blade cutting a little wrist in my brain each time you chose to use this tactic. I want some real, vibrant, blinding pain for a change. I want to feel the burn of the flame on my fingers or the dagger in my heart telling me that I’m not dreaming this badly scripted movie which you insist on making me live through.

What’s more hilarious in its own melancholically tragic kind of way, is your inability to comprehend my contorted way of backwards communication or respond to it in kind. The level at which I can barely bring myself to utter half a sentence containing anything at all at best marginally resembling direct communication is one that is so buried underneath so much innuendo and other equally colourful (yet most probably inept and misused) rhetorical tropes that I, myself, lose track of what little information I was trying to convey in the first place.

But alas, I am preaching to deaf ears. My disciples have all left me when there was no more water to turn into wine. In Vino Veritas and we’re all just a bunch of drunken liars. Where are all those hours and minutes and days and months and years that we pretended to be happy? Like auburn autumn leaves carried off by the winds of change, I suppose…

Happy travelling, wherever those winds may take you my dear reader. I will drink a glass for your health and light a candle in your memory. May your spirit burn strong and bright and may it light your path towards whatever it is you seek.

Monday, May 2, 2005

a play of 3 acts

The curtains open and the play begins.

Act 1

It was a rainy day yesterday. The streets are still wet and the air is fresh. Wandering around this grid of concrete is only fitting for setting the mood of what is to follow. The large mass of vegetation in the middle of this brick forest is supposed to calm the soul and alleviate the stress of urban lifestyle. Instead what it accomplishes is to remind the average pedestrian on its narrow asphalt trails that there is really nowhere to run. You may have your little coral and castle in your aquarium, but around you are still glass walls. Right next to this little oasis is one of few collections of art. Unfortunately for the art, it has to sit through hordes of visitors that lack the patience or interest to have a decent conversation with it. Instead it whores itself in an oblique
pretense of culture that at times reflects the nature of its owners a little more than they would like to.
img_6402.jpg img_6405.jpg

Following was an exploration of culinary delights. The decadence of what used to be the centre of glamour shows right away in the once marvelous underground station turned restaurant and home to sub-par sea-food under the guise of haute-cuisine. The red-white checkerboard table-cloths were a nice touch. Showing once again that no matter how deep underground you try to hide, you can always feel like you’re at a picnic table unpacking food from your saran wrapping.

The highlight, good albeit short, was polluting the body and mind with alcoholic beverages at an establishment that is named after the famous communist newspaper ‘Pravda’. This place, of course, reflects what the Bolsheviks tried to accomplish perfectly. It serves very good caviar and their wide selection of martinis and high-class vodkas are what every hard working factory worker and farmer should aim for! Well done Pravda!

Act 2

As if foreshadowing what is to come, the day started with a cloudy sky and pouring rain. Fittingly, after an incessant and unsuccessful search for the most necessary component of a complete breakfast (coffee so strong that it pumps your blood pressure through the roof and fills your bladder faster than you can spot a bathroom), the hollow space that once used to house thousands of people, made itself visible. The ‘don’t cheapen this site’ and collection of confused/disappointed observers/gawkers made for an interesting commentary of the impact it has on society.

This is a picture of a Mamiya C99 TLR camera. It is special because it does not exist. I’m sure you don’t believe me so I invite you to go ahead and try digging up information about this model. It sits there looking at you as much as you are looking at it. The only difference is: it is safe. I am not.

Later that night the rain was pouring still. Fighting your way through hordes of people and doormen has a certain sense of accomplishment. Once passed that initial obstacle, the circus was to begin. Music, alcohol, people, lights, movement, sweat, tremors, stage, smoke… in short, everything one would wish for in an otherwise rainy night. I never imagined how easy it is to go from one state of mind to another and in such a short amount of time. A short glimpse is all it took. Unfortunately alcohol was not served anymore at that late hour, so my double shot of jack did not come when it was most needed. With a rushing mind it is better to let the body just continue what it was doing. Can’t do anything rash or you might regret it later.

Sometimes when the question is not asked, your mind does not bother answering it, so you end up living in this utopia of bliss where there is no need for an answer because there was never need for the question. But then the answer is forced upon you. You come to realize what you have been postponing and ignoring since the start. You just hoped it was nothing. Nothing… but then in one instant you realize you do care. It does affect you. So how do you react to that? You make the best of it. It is never anybody’s fault. There is no one to blame. So the best thing to do is to communicate the situation. Communication is always better than lack of thereof. So that happened here as well. That was the highpoint of communication that was reached. The most sincere and direct way. Now back to the play, the third and final act is next, and the crescendo has already passed. What follows is just a gradual decline.

Act 3

Started with beautiful weather, sunny day and blue skies, in contrast to the general mood the ‘lack of sleep’ has set for the day.
A mask such as this Welder’s mask in the Museum of Modern art reflects the state of mind one had to be in today.

In everything you looked at, the only thing you could see was the inside of your mind reflecting back like in a mirror split in hundreds of little pieces of all shapes and sizes.

Our good friend Marcel’s Bicycle Wheel was a poignant reminder of how things move constantly, but essentially remain rooted in the same place.

The clouds finally covered the otherwise beautiful sky of this morning, obstructing the sun, only leaving few rays to shine through.

Close curtain


A change of setting and atmosphere is near. In addition to keeping your mind off of things, it also provides with new perspectives. Sitting still and knowing for a fact that nothing will be moving or talking around you for as long as you sit can be a blessing as much as it can be a curse. It is however a natural progression of this here play. You can leave the theater now, go back to your families and sleep tightly in your beds with the reassuring thought that it was only a stage act. Adieu mes amies.

Friday, March 12, 2004


Lost everything. Black shades. Don’t know. I overdose on lack of information. I crawl to my former home – only to find the door locked. Trapped. Dark. Alone. Impossibility in the face of loss makes for a grim friend and a dangerous enemy. Forced smiles. Betrayal. Knowledge. Waiting. Disappearing. Pity.
A dark beginning – leading to no end. Paper, Plastic, Tears, Fingers.
A sad smile. A touch of denial. Lies. Paranoia. Deceit. CONTACT. Departure, disappearing impossibility while blinks of letters stream in the wrong direction. Knowledge. Ignorance is bliss on any other day but not in this lifetime. Lost. Faith – hope – white – light. Shadows.
Ugly secrets. Denial. Mistakes. Fall and get up. And fall again. Black and white smudges on a transparent piece of paper. Games with no rules, and rules for everyone to follow. Dark emotions. Wishes of disaster. Hurt the ones you love, and love the ones you hurt. Pain. Distasteful passion. Dispassionate feelings. Colorful mask of a transparent gaze.
Broken words or sentences in the insensibility of my sense of the words. Slipping into childish games without the knowledge of how to play them I never played anything. Screaming has become so passé, so I won’t do that. Try more smiles. Melancholy is really not helping or helped ever since ages ago I forgot how to do it. I forgot the meaning. I think it’s bad. It all is reduced to simple negative and positive concepts. Every word. Nothing in between. Where are all those shades of gray I used to be able to observe everywhere. I guess I fell in a hole or another, broken bridges dangling in the air over the echoing abyss.
Dreamt again tonight.
I thought dreams would be a pleasant change from the everyday blackness of sleep.
They’re not. It’s not about nightmares. It wasn’t a nightmare (but maybe it should have been?)
The heat must be messing with my head. I wake up sweating, I dream of nice things only to wake up sweating and realize they never happen. In a sense, I wake up to the nightmare.

Sunday, February 8, 2004


Sirens, bright halogen illuminations, lighting my face with dark red and sickly bright blue, casting alternating shadows over my features while blinding my eyes with emergency. The dry scent of concrete as it hits my cheek and drags onto the jaw to leave a matte scar over my face - grass. Fresh after the rain, black earth stains my face. Waterdrops wash my hair, as flowers are trampled under my limbs. Glimmer of light. Too bright. Shut my eyes, breathe dust, claw my way through the mud helplessly. A hundred questions go through my mind. The smell of rain comes to my nostrils by way of a slight breeze that washes over my face, drying the mud and providing my lungs with much needed oxygen. I fall, hands over each other, still dark, legs limp and sore.

I turn on my back - Sand. Wet, cold, salty. Strong scent burns my nostrils with salted power. I make another attempt at lifting my eyelids. I cry. Hundreds of shades of purple and orange are reflected in a mirror of water until the horizon. Each little crumple in the eternal sea throws back a piece of the sun at my eyes. A treasure of gold and silver, in a chest covered with a cloudy velvet in shades of purple and orange I never even knew existed. The divine display gives my senses the willpower to climb on my feet and stand up. Water washes wet sand over the scarred skin that sustains my stance. It washes away the pain, and simultaneously increases it with a stinging sensation caused by the salted seawater. As the wind brushes the hair from my eyes and dries the tears on my cheeks, I take a deep breath and explore my surroundings with a slow yet sober gaze. Overwhelmed with joy, I let myself fall into the water, letting my body float, letting the waves carry it away. I succumb to a long sleep which is only interrupted by the stings of salt washing, curing, my wounds.

A long and uninterrupted sleep ends abruptly with the question - AM I DEAD?
The answer doesn't come. Instead, I struggle to keep afloat. Waves, water, wind, foam, noise. I try to resurface. Instead, I sink. Vulgar movements of my hands and legs serve only to draw me deeper, suffocating, burning; my mouth and lungs swallow salty hell. Cough, loose more air in the process - what did I do to deserve this? A thousands thoughts rush to my mind, none of which I can remember the next second - my paradise ends with terror.

As I lift my upper torso, my forehead is dripping with sweat. I use my hands to hold my body straight. No water, just sweat, no sea, just fabric. All is dark except for the window letting in a vague moonlight in a dark and starless sky.
I guess it was all a dream, and so, I shut my eyes - never to open them again, for as they say, the least one can ask for, is to die in his sleep...

Saturday, February 7, 2004

a diary

So today I thought of starting a diary, and immediately rip it to pieces in a fit of rage - paper flying everywhere. I would write in it… I would write all the happy thoughts, that I never had and never will. It will be my memoirs which I leave behind. Paper everywhere – rough lines drawn throughout the pages, through the pages, the pressure of the fountain pen rupturing through the delicate material of the fine paper. Smooth lines. All my thoughts… on paper… it would have been a masterpiece. My life’s work. Torn. Some pages are smudged with stains of various alcoholic drinks – the pages that stayed whole, protected somehow by a magickal force. And others – pages missing - evidence removed from the scene of the crime - pages smudged with tears. Salt. Dry. It was supposed to be a happy diary. But the happy parts were just empty pages. It is a pleasure to read. I know you’ll like it. The last page is smudged with blood. My little diary is a stain collection. And so I was writing, and so I was thinking and so I was ripping to pieces, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always with PASSION. And – a key, it has a little key – if you close it no one can read your mind. But no one knows where the key is. I hid it well, I melted it, I made it into a mirror. Now my diary’s key is a little mirror that reflects the possibility of finding out what I ripped to pieces.

And as I see myself reflected in those eyes, I see a single tear forming in the corner of my own. And the tear reflects a tear that reflects the eyes which are the mirror of the key of my diary that I ripped to pieces. Did you know that pages can speak? They speak in a soft voice that thunders in your ears louder than the mightiest thunderstorm in the summer night. I know what they say but I don’t know what they want. I hear what they’re saying but don’t see what they mean. All I can do is listen and write about it in my future diary that I ripped to pieces before I even started it. Such is life - full of wonders and miracles and events to be told in pages locked by an empty keyhole waiting to be opened by a key that was melted into a mirror. Let me wipe that for you. Sometimes mirrors get fingerprints on them. Sometimes I need to wipe your tears. Sometimes it becomes blurry - maybe because of the fingerprints on the metal key, or because of the tears in your eyes or because of smudged stains on the delicate paper.

And as I let the ripped pieces of paper fall in the wind, I stay solemn – eyes closed, heart opened, mind locked with a mirror as always. This page was the happiest one yet. This page I will fold and place in a safe place. This page will be the first to be ripped to pieces – or no. Better. I will burn this one in the fireplace while spending my time looking at the flames reflecting in the little mirror of my soul. But it isn’t a mirror. It is just a transparent glass. The flames don’t reflect in the glass – rather, the soul is burning. Transparent… so easy to say, yet when it comes to looking through – all you see is a mirror, reflecting yourself. All you see is the flames, dimming to embers as life slips away from my soul. The last page is smudged with blood. The last page is smudged with blood. The last page is black. It has been passed through the fire – but was not consumed, just blackened, and now blood. This is my diary, ripped to pieces, locked, empty. This is my diary – a collection of thoughts which will only be known to one. And that one is god and I am an atheist – in this diary, in this life, in these words – I still believe - you don’t exist, I still think - you never will.

Friday, March 21, 2003

something happy

So I really wanted to write something happy, I really did. I tried my hardest, and as hard as I'd try, the worse it would get. And after each phrase I am tempted to press the backspace once more, advancing one word and retracting by two. Repetitivity has a way of repeating itself in an endless loop of repeating itself in an endless loop. A dot marks the spot where the sentence ends and a new one begins so in a way it marks the beginning of the end. Commas are more graceful. And just because you can write doesn’t mean you can write. It is very easy to make lines on a paper, not so easy to make nice ones. Words shaped into ideas are nothing but ideas put into words - but each sentence is a thought. Writing without thinking will not result in any useful amount of information aside from the one delivered in your text. Listening to music while you write doesn't affect your writing so you shouldn't do it because you may end up writing meaningful notes about subjects. Reading books is useful because you can later repeat what your read, in your own words and your opinion will be based on others' who most certainly know better than you about your opinion because they read about it in a book. Knowledge is power. Power isn't the ability to control but rather to achieve results without being controlling. Grammatics are but a suggestion when you're writing for yourself. Spelling is important because if you spell right, the bad grammar becomes transparent. Of course this being said, bad grammar will evidence itself in a blink of an eye no matter how good your spelling is. Logical fallacies are fun when used in the right way. Illogical fallacies however have a way of only existing in the imaginary world of word-games. Chemicals tend to generate squiggly lines which get straightened when diluted by water. Washed out paper is hard to write on. Dissolving ideas into concepts only further advances the fading color of the ink. Stains tend to cross through paper if the ink is still wet and the paper is absorbing enough. Typing text avoids this problem, but it creates a new one by necessitating both hands to type instead of only one to write. Rubbing your eye won't make it stay open or avoid drying.

Thursday, June 27, 2002


Shivers... a warm summer night after the rain. It is not so warm anymore. A slight breeze that carries with it just enough moisture to prevent my nostrils from bleeding with dryness. Again shivers... they warm my body up. Too tired to fall asleep, too intoxicated with coffee to be awake. Lazy eyelids mechanically drown and resurface, slowly, instinctively, for lack of anything better to do. A distorted moon, only hours ago perceived through a doubleteinted window, is replaced with the violent reflection of neon brightness. Again shivers. A quick look towards the air conditioning switch reveals a distinct lack of willpower, mixed with apathy as to the idea of turning it on. Maybe if I was suffering, but I'm not - that will come later, when I'll try to sleep.

Oh the sleep - virtually impossible to achieve in a place with perfect conditions (solitude, temperature, moisture), yet at the same time impossibly unbearable in a place where it was meant to happen. 5 tiny engines, designed to drill in my head and placed right next to it, which are omnipresent and perpetually-mobile - powered by love. Then there's the heat, generated by 3 and a half air heating devices (depending on if you count the fan or not - it moves the air that its engine helps to heat). This air being artificially heated, is also of a very dry nature, devoiding the whole environment of any moisture and thus serving to efficiently dry your nostrils to the point of bleeding (dry blood). Assuming it's a nice and breezy day, and the net on the window decides to let some refreshing air in, it also lets a myriad of sound effects filter in. These include any number of: baby cries, mothers screaming at said babies, lawn mowers (in quadraphonic stereo surround, since there are lawns to be mowed on the rear-left, rear-right, front-left, and front-right of our house), vacuum cleaners (slightly overpowering the sound of the aforementioned 5 tiny engines). Then there's the occasional neighbour who decides to put a high-torque engine against some metal object to produce a sound similar to what a chainsaw against a metal electricity pole might sound. And if I was foolish enough to leave my door open, hoping that some of the cool air that rests in the rest of the house might decide to drop by where I sleep, I am only confronted with 4 speakers and 2 subwoofers-worth of gangsta-rap, courtesy of my beloved brother - can you feel the love?
Such is a small part of what my rant about sleep might sound. I'm afraid to continue, since if I do so, I risk sounding like I'm complaining about not getting enough of it. And I'm not, I'm really not, I get plenty of sleep... the only problem is, it's not quality sleep. I seldom reach an REM state, and have very few dreams. No wonder that when I eventually DO have a dream, it is so dramatic and devastating, encompassing every suppressed memory and emotion preceding it, that I wake up sweating, and immediately turn on the 5 little engines in hopes of forgetting it with a little torment-power.
Shiver shiver... it just warms you up inside...up your spinal chord, and into your brain, gives you nice feeling and you shiver again.

the shivers are here.

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

Redirected Appearance

In every person, I see the beginning of the end, and every time, you turn away, I long a little more for the time when you'll come facing back. And I keep reminding myself, that one has to face multiple directions during the course of their existence. If it weren't so, we would be all like carriage horses, only facing the way they are going, and unable to look to their sides because their masters put covers over their eyes. Regardless, I still am distressed by the brief disappearance, or more likely, redirected appearance, that you give on a silver platter to all the surroundings. And I often wonder, is that silver platter shinier than mine? And then I digress, playing with the idea of whether or not the surroundings maybe deserve an equally shiny platter, or maybe even shinier. Who am I to decide? Maybe just one of the collection of surroundings that deserve said appearance, be it more or less, or, for that matter, none whatsoever.
What is more distressing however, is the inconsistency of it all. Why does someone appear more at some arbitrary point in time, yet less at another? Do they lose or gain value as time passes on? Does the same happen to me? It is interesting to compare the distress caused by incertitude, with the one caused by certainty. For, if I ignore it, it becomes blissful (as the phrase goes), yet if I don't, I may see something that I shouldn't. And if I am unable to do either, the fact that I am unable to control these appearances only causes more suffering to an already tortured mind.

As a temporary solution, I seek to achieve a constant amount of vision, while keeping said vision on a balanced level which on one hand, won't devoid me of appearance, yet on the other, won't supply too much of it to for it to become unwanted. But, you ask, what is the point of a limited amount of appearance? And I answer: while it is indeed limited, it has the advantage of being constant. This consistency creates a desensitization effect, which in turn serves to "ready" the terrain for increased amounts of appearance. Now, as you periodically increase the dosage, the subject won't be likely to repel it, for it is already desensitized to it, and much like addicts, has developed a certain tolerance. Also much like addicts, we hope the subject also developed a dependency.

With all the scientific facts out of the way, I could now continue my plight for appearance. I see that maybe you are not sure yourself of the amounts of appearance you accord to different surroundings, and sometimes even have difficulty deciding. As this isn't bad in itself, it goes for a neutrality effect which, depending the side of the glass you're looking from, could be either full or empty. What follows is the amount of appearance each of the individuals that gets it really wants. Do they want more than they are given, or do they want less? If they want more (and are doing something about it), is it in your power to notice this, and, as the case may be, act accordingly? It comes down to attention-to-detail skills, as well as to reading people's unconscious/involuntary reactions. Much like the skilled poker player, it is important in this case to notice the facial expressions, body language and speech patterns as well as tone, of the person whom you're appearing to. As most people are not the skilled poker player that you read about in the books and see in the movies, it is not impossible to notice what someone is saying, what they mean, and if the two match. Usually, if they don't match, the person has an ulterior motive for saying what you are hearing. What’s interesting about this fact, is that they may be saying one thing and thinking another involuntarily, because this is the way they were taught (read: trained by their environment) to do. Of course, there is also the other case, when the person consciously controls their actions, and depending on their skill-level, will make it harder for you to detect what they are trying to achieve. Usually, if what they says matches what you read from them, it could mean two things: either they have no interest in the outcome of the appearance, OR, they are unable to make a distinction between the two different forms of expression (i.e. they always act/say what they thinks, not because they chooses to, but because they don't know any other way), I would call this case: naive or innocent. Not in an ill meaning way (I appreciate innocence just as much as the next person), but in more of an observational way.

And as you well see, it is almost impossible for me to attribute an act of redirection of appearance as something just 'out of the blue', there always has to be something to cause it, and as such, a potential threat, or advantage, depending (again) from which side of the glass you're looking at it. As for myself, I look from the side that's filled with liquor, because that's the only one that would make an empty glass look half full, and a bad situation seem a little better (at least until the end of the night, when you find yourself spilling you guts out to Mr. Toilet)

Wednesday, May 15, 2002

2 Days

Again, only 2 days later, I return to the keyboard. What has changed? I could bore with the facts, but what difference do facts make anymore. The growing incertitude and imminent failure casts a dark shadow on my otherwise tranquil state of mind. I wouldn't say it has any effect, but, having it always there, in the back of my head, tickling the deepest insides of my conscience, doesn't make for a very reassuring time. And the eternal struggle between willpower and guilt still reigns my motivation, rendering it almost completely useless and just strong enough not to let me fall into a long and uninterrupted period of comatose slumber.
But onto merrier things, it rained today, 10 days into the month of May, the clouds decided to spill their tears onto our dry hair. To no avail I tried to explain the serene wonders of rainfall and the romanticized view of raindrops on your window. I guess after one too many rains, it becomes an abominable wet curse rather than a refreshing spring shower. I'll take rain over wind any day of the week. I think wind is what makes any type of weather even worse than what it is. I'm not talking about a cold and pleasant breeze, I'm talking about wind. The type that makes a sunny winter morning into a snowstorm, or a hot summer afternoon into a dry, stir-fry oven.
And like wind, a thousand thoughts pass through my mind, and only the worst, the most boring and the least appealing manage to escape from my lips. Maybe if I was one to talk to myself, I would say smarter things, but then again, that would be rather redundant seeing as I somehow ended up having a pretty developed (or at least so I hope) internal narrative.
Then I manage once again to pick up the discussion of cause and effect, thinking that maybe one bad thing leads to a good one, which wouldn't have been accomplished without the occurrence of the first one. Then this leads to the question of value. Was it worth sacrificing the first thing in order to obtain the second? Wouldn't the consequence of the bad one's inexistence have been more favorable compared to the second's imminent appearance? Then I solve this existential dilemma by concluding that they are both of the same value, and having done one or the other would have made no difference what so ever in the stream of incidents that form one's life.

Monday, May 13, 2002


The neon lights are burning my eyes. Oh what I wouldn't give for a dimmed, possibly colored light instead of these abominable worms of fluorescent gas. It is bad enough the radiation is doing wonders on the way of destroying my retinas, I don't need even more irritation to the poor little white spheres which decorate the two empty holes in my skull. And if that weren't bad enough, I have about 10 other lights blazing in my eyes if I dare to glance out the windows. Those sickly orange colored lights, made so orange for god knows what reason (I'm sure there is one), maybe to annoy the hell out of anyone watching them. Ah.. but that is not all. I have, staring right in front of my face, a red-laser barcode scanner. With a little white writing on the bottom stating: "avoid exposure - laser light emitted from this aperture" - well THANKS!
Compared to all this, when morning comes and the sun rises (right in my face I might add), I am brought to tears at the sight of natural light. The joy of the UV light brightening up the streets with its blue-ish tint, and seeing those abominable orange incarnations of Satan itself one by one shutting their eyelids is beyond comprehension. That is why I sleep with the blinds open. It doesn't bother me anymore. I used to hate it. Now, I accept it. It is funny how one only appreciates what they have once they lost possession of it.
Added to this, someone was smart enough to tint my windows. This, as far as I can see, has no effect on light coming in from the outside, but it does turn the windows all around me into a sort of mirrors. This creates a reflection effect, but only of whatever is lit the brightest by the aforementioned neon lights. This would be everything that's bright colored and on top. It casts rather peculiar shadows on my reflection in the window, giving it a more defined chin and jaw, which I consider a very good thing. The jaw, for a man, is aesthetically pleasing by today's Hollywood standards. The more pronounced and defined the jaw (including the whole bone structure from the bottom of one ear, to the chin and to the bottom of the other ear) the better the person will appear. Of course, this is just a side note since this is not a text about physical aesthetics but rather about light.

These so called mirror-windows have another interesting property. Like most windows having contact with the outside in a cold country such as this, these prove to be thick and double windows (so as to withstand the cold temperature, wind, snow, rain, etc..). Since they are double, and as such distanced from each other by a centimeter or two (or so it seems), they reflect everything in them with a double reflection, slightly translated horizontally, which gives everything that is reflected a slightly wider reflection (horizontally). It was a little disconcerting at first, when I observed my head slightly 'fatter' than what I've come to recognize it. Then I noticed I had 4 nostrils and I understood the visual illusion.

With the last sparkle of intelligent conversation in my eyes, I breathe deeply, inhaling the cold mountain air making its way through the open window. I decide I've exhausted my writing abilities for the night, I should give my eyes a rest, and so, I take my hands down, and stop writing.

2 Years

And so, two years later, I find myself once again, in the deepest depths of madness. The book is ended, and I am left with a void filled only by thoughts which were meant to be forgotten. Chemicals help to make things make sense, as they always did.. but after prolonged abuse, like all good things, even chemicals come to an end. I developed a tolerance. I hate this weakness of the body. I am left with only the ability to whine and complain about the dark fate which was bestowed upon me. And even though I keep saying to myself that it's better than it used to be, I have the feeling it is comparable to the same melancholic madness which drove me to the pen two years ago.

What has changed then? I grew older, and maybe wiser, but to what use? The dark and pale hobby of before, has been replaced with a fiery and vivid obsession. A lot more substance, a lot more doubt. In a way, it is good, because it means drive. But looking at it from the empty half of the glass, I see only failure. An inevitable sad end to a journey that has been going nowhere ever since the very first miserable day it started. All the omens are there - like before. The only difference is, the road has a lot more bumps. And where one would think bumps are undesirable in a road like this, one soon comes to realize, a flat and smooth road becomes boring and as such, devoid of any challenge, when compared to the other one. As of yet, all the bumps in this road have been acceptable, and easily ignored by helpfully hopeless spirit. This is where I would stick the good old 'ignorance is bliss' phrase, but seeing as ignorance is not really the term to be used here, I choose not to. A more preferable description would be 'blindness'. One sense obscures the other, and even though it is absurd to be unable to see because there is too much noise, this is exactly the case to which I'm referring to. One sense, having grown stronger than the other, obscures it and prevents it from performing its own function. Then again, that function in itself is of dubious nature, and I don't feel it is my place to judge its usefulness. Who knows, maybe it is meant to be obscured.
Two years later, who knows... perhaps my senses, are growing weaker. Perhaps more refined. The book ended, I need to get a new book. How can a new book ever replace the old? I've grown so accustomed to the old. Perhaps if it was the same author or if he wrote a sequel of which I wasn't aware of... perhaps. I need to look for a new book. I still have the old one with me. I have 3 more days to carry it around with me before I am forced to pay for not bringing it back on time. Small fee, but why all the trouble. I am almost anxious to be standing crouching on the library floor, next to the long stack of books of all colors and sizes and spending the time to pick one that will be to my liking. But enough about literature.
This situation, in which I find myself now, is, to be honest, rather new for me. It began with the shock of mathematics and a long night of spilling my guts out in the toilet of a cold bathroom with a finger stuck down my throat. Maybe it's not the most pleasant way to begin something new. But then again, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger. So... I survived. I once again picked up the daily routine of caffeine ingestion from two years ago. So why is it different now? For starters - I take the time and effort (well deserved effort) to brew my own cup of steamy black piece of heaven. I drink it in a ceramic cup, with sugar milk and everything else to my liking. Compared to the disgusting coffee-machine coffee in a plastic cup from two years ago, I would say this is a sort of a small victory. Furthermore, I don't have three or four pairs of omnipresent eyes watching every step I make. Granted, there is a camera constantly monitoring the general direction in which I stay, but that is far better than having actual human eyes, set on constantly evaluating the usefulness of my presence there.
I don't sleep.
Two years ago, I slept. I am not supposed to sleep. On a security camera placed some 10 meters or more away, having your eyes closed or having them open makes little difference, even less so to someone who has to watch 10 or so of these feeds, each on a little black and white screen. Therefore - I COULD sleep. I don't. Despite the increased monotonic nature of tonight as compared to nights of before, I find myself able to keep awake. I associate this with the decreased sense of obligation from my presence here, as opposed to the stress of being productive two years ago. Then, I could stress myself to sleep for the first 5 hours. Now, it is an even equilibrium of tranquility which keeps me just awake enough not to get fired.
And the most amusing part about this situation is - I have my friends to thank for it. Not the government, not the school, not even my own pathetic excuse for a set of research skills. I would say it was luck if I believed in it. But I guess since all that matters is being at the right place at the right time, I can safely credit them for this.
And so, where two years ago I had big plans for the end of the summer, I now find myself apathetic and bored. Seeing as the extent of my material aspirations didn't grow much beyond those of two years ago, and considering the fact that the impact of the emancipation of those said plans wasn't all that it was drawn out to be, I see no use in continuing that trend.
For lack of better things to do, I could however give in to the temptation and repeat my actions of then. I have a lot more time now to consider this though. Almost double the time as of two years ago. So it is hard to say what will eventually be the end of this. I guess that will be the subject for another text.

Passed the half of the time I have to be here. I don't know if that makes a difference anymore. When you have nothing to do and aren't really supposed to be doing something, time passes by slowly. When you have nothing to do but are supposed to be doing something which you are not, time passes by even slower. At least I am tranquil. I am blessed with solitude and very little responsibility. O the divine pleasure I take in this type of work as opposed to another. For now, it is a good retreat from the real world. Some interaction wouldn't have hurt, but, forced interaction is worse than no interaction at all. No. I'm lying. Forced interaction is better, but to the limit of giving you the possibility to choose the amount of interaction you have with those imposed upon you. I am not making any sense except to my own reason. It is like this: you are placed in a room, with an arbitrary number of other people. This is forced interaction. You see them, they see you, and they may even speak to you. The point of it being unpleasant, is when you are expected, no matter what, to answer back when addressed to. If it were up to you, a situation where you could pick and choose whom to respond, or to address would be the more desirable case. Maybe now it's clearer, maybe more confusing than it was before.
This is the point where I stretch, Yawn and finish this text only to begin another (I promise it will stop once I get a new book).

Friday, February 22, 2002

With a blank paper

With a blank paper,
and a single note.
A single thought
an empty mind
I sit and look,
And wonder why?

As the rain falls,
and I with it.
A single tear
drowns in a lake.
Forever dried,
Forever died.

Is this eternity?
Is it your destiny?
Have I forgotten why?
Have you remembered how?
Do I trust?
Do you think you must?

And in suspended animation,
like air in an ice cube
My thoughts remain frozen
focused on escaping.
Realizing once they are free
They shall cease to exist.

And I wash my face,
of what is not there.
And as my eyes reopen
it is still absent.
And I close them again,
until it is there.

And you smile insincerely
Let them believe you understand
Make it comfortable,
at the expense of truth
Make you comfortable,
at the expense of possibility

Are these times different?
Are the signs right?
Does it make a difference?
Would that make it right?
What is this apparition?
Is it out of your sight?

Sunday, January 20, 2002


Fate. I figure most believe in it. Cinema and literature haven’t helped in disproving its existence either. Yet subconsciously, very few people feel they are destined for something. Some may have the idea ingrained in their minds, if some odd circumstance of family-sponsored brainwashing came to be. But that is not fate. It is not the feeling that something was meant to be, without the explanation of why and when. That is why when the rare opportunity arises that one actually encounters fate; it is overwhelming, yet at the same time not overwhelming enough to cause you to pursue it. It may be very vague, in the respect that you have a general idea of what your destiny is, yet not clear enough about it as to pursue it further. It may also be very precise, but so obscured by the ordinary and routine around it, that you’ll overlook it out of instinct. It will tickle the back of your mind like a déjà-vu. And you’ll wonder, did this really happen before? Was I to follow my gut feeling, would it really be all it could?

And sometimes, fate strikes you right in the chest. When you least expect it, it’s sitting there smiling at you with a devilish grin. And if you were lucky enough to pick up on it before, or even during, you could handle it properly, knowing this is what was meant to be. This is the ideal case. There are less ideal as well. More… unfortunate cases .Where even when it hits you in the head, trying to tell you to pay attention, you look away, and even go to the extent of striking back. And you shouldn’t be to blame really. I mean, rare are the cases when one encounters their fate face-to-face. No one prepares you for it, no one tells you how to recognize it, what to do, what to say, how to ‘handle the situation’. Sure, there are plenty of sources you could look at for help, but none expects you to believe, or conceive for that matter, the full extend of fate. And for all you’re concerned, not even these lines should teach you any different.

How then, is one who encountered, recognized, and identified beyond a reasonable doubt their own fate, supposed to react to it? In most cases, they are not expected to react at all. Fate is supposed to affect you, not the other way around. But in most cases it requires some help. And by help, I don’t mean go out and buy a boat just because you somehow got the idea that you’re destined to be a navigator. I mean go with the flow. Recognize the signs, and use them to your advantage. Go with the flow without fear when the waters are furious, and float peacefully when they are calm. Don’t try to rush it, but not to deny it either. After all, if you believe in fate, there is no point in fighting it. If you don’t believe in it, then all this can’t possibly affect your free will and clear judgment, which is not bad either. And if you are as lucky as to believe your fate exists and has come true, then you shouldn’t be disappointed about dying either, since you knew all along where you were heading, and being stuck in a box underground or as ashes in an urn shouldn’t come as much of a surprise now, should it?

Wednesday, December 19, 2001


I’m the champ of drunk-writing. I may not be drunk, but I sure can write as if I am. Of course, having the trusty old glass of Mr. Jack by my side is as reassuring as it is inspiring. Some slow music helps as well, to go with the dimmed lamp and the comfortable leather seat. It’s all about atmosphere you see. Lying to your senses, deceiving your perception, and making it believe what you want it to. A whirlwind of subtle sensory overloads designed and directed towards creating the illusion that you’re comfortable. The soft shadows hide the unpleasant, the dim light lights what stands out. And if we find fault more often than virtue, the shadows will hide it, and if we find virtue more often than fault, the shadows will hide some of it. The end-result will be the accentuation of the protruding highlights of the pleasant, the smooth curves of the aesthetically attractive and the soothing reflection of the dimmed light.

The next part is conversation. I wish it was as it is supposed to be. The atmosphere helps, as does the liquor, but the words don’t flow quite as easily. It should depend on the individual, but since each has only one experience in this matter, that is, their own, it’s difficult to generalize. If you think of what to say, you’ll run out of things to say. If you don’t think of what to say, you’ll either be swept in the listening, or start thinking of things to say when everyone stops talking. Usually it’s a tango, with pairs talking to each other, once in a while stopping to bow to the other pairs, sometimes exchanging partners. However most often than not, it’s a one-sided conversation. I say what little I judged to be of interest to you, and you, wait for me to finish before saying what you found of interest, while trying to relate it to my words with a clever segue. Ideally, as the conversation goes, the lines of conversation become more and more entangled, until we are both talking about the same thing. This is an art, and like all art, it often gets better with added spirits and narcotics. At least that’s what it seems from the inside.

So the glass is half empty, and I managed to keep it above that limit for about 2 or 3 hours. As it is now, the music has turned slower, and the inspiration dwindled. I have found some mildly non-boring conversation, and the alcohol is finally taking its toll on my eyelids. I have more and more trouble concentrating on the words and the meaning. The goal has shifted towards filling some last words on the blank piece of paper before I go to sleep instead of getting into the spirit that drove me so far and come up with something worthwhile to read. It’s a bit sad really. This one could have really been something. A guide maybe. A review on society culture. Maybe even a crazy useless text on a website. But no, it must end with the usual self-conscious farce. I have done this one too many times and believe me when I say I am not proud of this. I’ll regret it later, yes I will. I know I will.

Friday, October 19, 2001

something tired

I'm tired. My head hurts. I sip hot tea to soothe my throat. I listen to weird rock music so as to not cause any more pain with repetitive techno beats. My bare feet touch the smooth carpet on the floor. The window is open and a chilling soft wind finds its way into my room. My eyelashes can barely stay open but the prospect of them shutting seems even more horrible than keeping them awake. My motion is slowed down to almost a still or my mind is rushing past my ability to move. I look sideways; follow a nervous miniature fly on the screen trying to feed on the radiation. I look up at the lamp and see dozens more like it, dead, on the bottom of the light. My hair falls on my forehead and into my eyes, obstructing my field of vision. I don't remove it. Another fly on the screen, or maybe it's the same one? I scratch the back of my head in a tired shrug. I take another sip of the tea, slowly letting it fall down my dry throat and heat my stomach. Within, it will dissolve two aspirins that I consumed before in an effort to alleviate the pain. I’ve shut the TV a while ago when the sound of indistinct infomercials finally reached the limit of being more annoying that the effort it would take to shut off the TV.

I check any ongoing conversations only to find the last one occurred 35 minutes ago and it wasn't very interesting. I wipe sweat from my forehead and in the process remove the hair from my eyes. I can now better see the dead fly on the bottom of the screen and the flickering cursor that awaits input. I wipe the bug with a motion of my finger and clean my finger on the side of my chair. The music stopped. I touch the back of my neck again in an unsuccessful attempt to give myself something resembling a massage. I stare some more into the void trying to get inspiration for my next words. I lean back on my black leather chair and throw my hands in the air and eventually behind my head. I stretch.
A third bug is making its way towards the top of my screen. My eyelashes slowly give way.

The pauses I make between writing each sentence turn longer and longer. For some unexplainable reason, The Girl From Ipanima starts playing. It seems like a much slower and sadder version of the song. Either that or it just seems that way now that I am almost falling asleep as I write. I take another sip of the strawberry and mandarin tea that is getting cold. It has a sour taste reminiscent of the citrus fruit in its origin. I added sugar but not enough to mask the intended taste. Finally I finish the tea, absorbing the lingering aftertaste it left in my mouth. The current song makes a thunder sound as it fades out into silence, and I find myself longing for rain. Another current of cold air brushes my bare feet as I get up, standing on a part of the floor which is not covered by the carpet and touching the cold slick parquet. I push on the power button and proceed to my bed; collapsing there without a thought in my mind, off to never-never-land, gone to rest my head on a soft and pleasant pillow.

Sunday, August 19, 2001

White Rose

My vision is hazy as my eyelashes slowly open to a pitch-dark, unknown, environment. A tremor passes through my bones even though I don't feel cold. In fact, my face is burning up, the mind is rushing, the eyes are moving rapidly from side to side trying to discern the different shades of black that surround me. I try to move my limbs but manage only to feel a tremendous burden that keeps pulling me down, which I must fight in order to move on. Despite this, I feel at the same time as if my body floats in a suffocating liquid. An invisible breeze of dry air throws my hair back. I fight the urge to fall to the ground and fall asleep forever. I attempt to move forward, as if in a dream, in decreased velocity with a hundred invisible hands pulling me back. My lungs grasp for oxygen, fighting as if for their lives to stay inside me.

As my vision slowly returns to me, I see a single white dot, blurred, in a distance. I try to advance towards it, and it feels like each step is another year off my life, each breath - another javelin in my chest. I reach my hand towards it, helplessly trying to reach it. No success. Again I try, pushing harder, and I am almost there. And again, I fail, falling to the invisible ground, kneeling before the vision in front of me. As I fight to get back on my feet, I see the rose opening its petals, and a pleasant perfume tickles my nostrils. The flower grows, and the more it grows, the prettier it becomes, out of my reach it still remains.

Futility falls upon me. I punch the invisible ground, launch a mute scream into the dark air, and stumble forward with my remaining breath. Vision concentrated forward, on the object, all of everything passing beneath, and besides me unnoticed and uncared for. Only when it passes in front, I pay it attention to ultimately remove it from my way, like the obstacles that they are. And thousands of faceless figures pass by the rose in before me, going and leaving, all admiring it for a second, yet getting stung by its protective spikes. A single tear sheds down like a petal, not for the faceless victims of the spikes, but for the necessity of thereof. And those that have been stabbed countless times, are still more afraid than all others. Yet still they seek to reach as close they can.

And as the years pass, having passed through countless gardens of flowers, yet still the white rose is there, and all it needs is some water and protection, without its knowledge. Some help to grow without ever touching it, for it still has its spikes, and its prick sheds blood, blood that will feed it, until I am consumed, and only when it will be fully red, and myself fully consumed, will it see its true color, only then will it bow its head in sorrow. And its spikes will not sting me. My fingers will not bleed; only its petals will remain red, and forever marked with the infinite fate of the hands which would rather be consumed than see the flower die in vain.

Friday, August 17, 2001


I've been through stranger things, and although I've seen it happen before, from the opposite side, I never wanted, thought or am willing to admit that it's happening from this side. Maybe it's all an illusion I was made to believe by too much Hollywood exposure or literature, but I can't help it. Now, am I to blame? My peers? Maybe the other side? I don't know. I was taught to always blame myself. It was a form of humility. Whether good or not, I am not one to choose, but I know this, it sure isn't making me peaceful. Maybe some day I'll reach that, but for now I'm stuck with this, and don't get me wrong, I'm trying to make the best of it. Sure, it isn't what it could have been, but then again, there is not much chance for that seeing that the situation has been clearly painted on the wall for a while. Which, in itself, isn't bad since it saved me some trouble, but there is always that damned itch that keeps digging away at the back of your mind making you wake up at night.

And the same scenario keeps reoccurring before my closed eyes of that perfect couple that meets that certain someone from their past and learns something they shouldn't and all of a sudden they're not a perfect couple anymore. But then you compare it to the other image, of that person who hurried to leave the old-timer for the newtimer when they learned of the old-timer's true motives. It's those two conflicting but yet equal scenarios that keep digging at the back of your head, both representing fear, one of what might never happen, and the other of what could it become, one of unaccomplished hopes, the other of ruined accomplishments.

The first scenario prevails for now, since we are taught a whole apple of acceptable taste is better than half an apple with the taste you crave for. Of course it is better to have the half than rather a whole rotten one, but that is besides the point. When you really come to think about it, is not what you may or may not think, but what you want, and if what you want is different than what you think, you might just as well have to lie to yourself in order to accomplish that. As the movie goes, it all ends up in a good way, and if you're right, what you want will soon make you forget what you think, soon you'll learn to distance yourself from the past, and embrace the present, and seeing you never acted upon your thoughts, if the past ever comes back to hunt you, it won't be as bad since we tend to remember actions better than thoughts. And if you don't act, it never happened, you never thought it, you were never there, end of story, book closed, only the sweat at night remain.

Hidden Noises

Like a snake of ice you crawl in my veins,
I smile and wonder why do I care.
Sitting in my throne of forever being distant,
yet always closer than ever, I wonder why do I dare.

And like wind the soft scent of summer drifts away
giving way to autumn and what he has to say.
And I tell you always,
why this is not so,
and I tell you always
why you should be there.

Like a sleepwalker I try
to wake up from my dream,
surrender to the never
of a never-ending stream.

Heart beats like a rabbits'
being chased by starved dogs,
yet the mind is in a haze
as to why he should escape.

Seeing as a clear blue sky
is the cloudy afternoon,
of the midnight
of the sorrow
of the morning
and the moon.

And I still ponder
to the light of candles
and the sounds of thousand rivers
flowing from the bottom
of an endless cry.

Who is this upon my window,
is that you dried-up mosquito,
come to suck my sorrow dry,
or perhaps it is my conscience
like a cheerful butterfly?

Walk around and do not listen,
sit right there and hear me scream,
don't you dare confuse my pathway,
don't you try to steal my dream.
And then, a sudden, beaming light
of blue and green,
pulsating throughout my chamber,
reminding me of that same dream.

Spinning like a maddened siren,
flashing lightning and bolts of fire,
flying halos -
again I scream.

Sounds and whispers -
hidden noises;
footsteps, cries,
forbidden places,
wonder why I hear this hymn.

"Save us father, we have sinned!"
"Go away! Ungrateful children"
said he sporting his demonic grin.

But again the heartbeat lowered,
vision cleared and bloodstains wiped,
sounds will mute to say goodnight
and again starve for your presence,
die to see it slip away.

Monday, June 18, 2001

Before I go on

Before I go on, let me get me another beer....

Ok then, here goes:

Like a dove I fly
through the smog of my mind,
I walk but do not see where.
I see but don't hear what.
I want you
but am forced to draw back.
Help me
I don't know what I want.

If you see a cloud in the sky,
tell me and I'll ride it by...
ride it by your house
in a summer night of May.

And I take another sip,
of eternal paradise;
I want to go away
but cannot walk today.

And where is the smell
of a thousand roses
flying in the wind
of the desert sky.

Where are the nights
of the quiet sea,
waiting in the night for me?

All is dead
and long forgotten
but the sound
I still now hear.

Where are my long lost friends,
which I never wished to have?

And if ever you want me,
to guide you through the ashes,
know this thing -
I'm blind
and legless
and my hands are not with me.

Tell me why I've seen this much, -
of the sunset
in the mountains,
where are those rocky crosses
and wind-rivers of the north?

How will I ever understand
that which is not mine.

Wonder through my mind and try to see it -
for I don't know what you're looking for.

Nothing here is more prevalent
than my fucking dirty whore.

Where are you
my long lost child
of tomorrow nevermore,
why have you blessed me with your nightmare,
where are you when I want more?

And in the heat of night
I holler,
waking up to the sound of crickets,
asking no one why I'm born.

How is this an evolution?
How is this a darkened forest
of my mind
of nothing more?

Go ahead, and fuck my sister,
go ahead and kill my brother,
screw you now in your duleur. Who
are you to judge my madness?
Who are you to slam that door?

And in - the - end
I stop - and listen.
Wanting mother to come by...
in the end I stop and wake up,
where have I been my whole life?

But whatever I may have done -
I'll remember nothing more,
since I want only to sleep now
and if I was more awake
I'd dive in the quiet sea.
Slowly flowing through the air
waiting for your whisper more,
and I know I'll never get it
since it's always such a bore