The lights turn on, the crowd is silenced, the music echoes through the room, a tall boy in an ancient juggler suit comes to stage and the green and blue lights focus in him. The play starts. The juggler says some words, words written by an author long dead, words memorized by Ray Simmons, but neither Ray or Peter Penguin, the author, are talking now, it's just the juggler. He speaks of a foreign world to all of us, he depicts a forsaken kingdom existing in the world he came from, telling everyone in the theater how sad was the princess belonging to that kingdom. And neither Ray or Peter ever met this kingdom, or this princess, nor will they ever, but this is not about them, this is about the juggler from other world standing in front of everyone.
Then the juggler becomes the narrator, and the castle appears form a mist, at the same time some badly painted paper unrolls from the top of the stage, showing a poorly drawn castle by the art club. But little does this paper matters, the crowd is faced with a majestic castle from a magical kingdom. So it goes. And then a princess appears from one of the windows, for the story's sake, the crowd is able to hear from her seat in the far away castle. She says some words referring to what the crowd understands as depression due to existentialist over speeching. But back in Mergoonland, they don't know what existentialism is, so, it's not that. Peter Penguin was wrong.
And so the story goes as the people in their seats consider, a poor play with clique characters with a very unsubtle message of existence and meaning. They're all wrong, Mergooland had never seen such a brave knight or such a fierce dragon, the don't know what a clique of a knight is and they never intended their princess to be kidnapped for the liberty metaphor content. The people from Mergooland celebrate happy due to the fact that their precious order is now restored, the crowed is bored due to the predictableness on it all, and Peter Penguin is somewhere, six feet under ground, wondering how high must he have been to put his name on such play.
Mergooland's story of the happiest wedding ever is over, they will keep the rest private. The audience makes some forced clapping, the backcloth is closed and no one sees anytthing more. The school's drama teacher is ashamed of the outcome, not as badly as Peter Penguin. Some people not previously presented appear on stage, this people don't come from Mergooland. They are actors who dress as if they were people from that ancient kingdom, but they're not. Ray Simmons and his pals are all proud for their good job, they bow for over five minutes and think it all went well. Mergoolanders live happily ever after.
[this is (obviously)not part of the so called arc... It will come when it comes]
By I'm the penguin
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
In construction... not anymore
Because in my mind, simple but meaningful riffs come and remind me....
Feel My Bones....
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Feel My Bones....
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Friday, November 28, 2008
Just a mometum: inelastic meetings
Aiden was new in a school where we all had known each other since kindergarten, well that is kind of an exaggeration, almost no one knew me, and I didn’t know the name of at least the 5% of the school, but I had sure been seeing their faces for a while. He came from some not so snobbish city in California (which is possible). And that is almost all I could say about him, because describing him in a sentence or two would be futile, his story most be told.
Aiden was a little boy when he first found out broken bones heal in matter of weeks. Ever since then, he climbed trees every day and he threw himself to the ground, just for the fun of it. In his daredevil affairs he also found out confidence could heal, just like bones, maybe it had a tendency to break more and have life permanent scars, but it still healed. So at seven he said so long to shyness and entered the school plays and talked to kids in upper years. These innocent actions later became stealing the school mascot’s suit in home coming game to make impolite, so to say, body signals to the other team, along with some egg throwing. Another famous one was pouring twenty sacks of Corn starch into the school’s pool, and then running over water in front of everyone. The dude was kind of crazy.
And back to my story, it all started like many things around me start, with a ring. I went running to A. P Literature while reading about some guy named Carnot, apparently he was the first to notice water boiled with heat. He was not only a scientist but an idealist as well, which is not always the same. So I was minding my own business when Jock McStud runs into me and we collide, there was no inelasticity, or in other words I flew across the hall in opposite direction. Obviously I took the hard blow and hit the floor, along with my bag and many books. And for my surprise, this Jock guy stared at me with doubtive face and just said “Should I help you or something?” he was not from around here, at least local jerks have the decency to say sorry.
So I stood up fast and clean, ready to enter when this guy was cynic enough to introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Aiden, and kind of new here” he said, extending his hand as if I cared enough to shake it, which I anyways did. “I’m Greg” I said, ready for him not to care and just leave to his Appreciation of music I, then the weird part started. “Carnot? Really? Are you going trough scientific literature or something?” He asked, more intrigued than worried.
“Oh, no this is mine, as in not from the class” I gibberished, impressed by him knowing who Carnot was, it’s not like it figures in all textbooks with drawings. “Well, unless you’re taking class in the hallway we kind of should get in” he said looking at his watch, apparently we were already five minutes late, and he knew who Carnot was.
As he followed me to the classroom (because he had no idea where anything was) I asked him where he came from “California” he said, not a city, not a direction, just California. “So are you in any other A.P classes?” I asked, wanting to know how bad was my previous jock judgment.”Not many…” he said, which meant only this one… I guess some people are just good at literature and being jocks.
And after a few seconds of silence, “just the basic ones” he said, in a lower voice “you know… chemistry, geometry, those kinds of classes” he said. My expression couldn’t have been more amazed, I was getting really bad at this match-class-with-look game. “What? Don’t I look like your average nerd?” he said, obviously noticing my expression and making such an irony, comparing Michael Angelo’s David to Munch’s Scream, right in our humble Public School Jefferson’s south corridor.
Then the class began, he introduced himself to the whole class and again only said “California”, which sounded enough hot for most girls who started giggling, then he was asked what had he worked with, and gave him a copy of “A hundred years of solitude” which apparently he had read in the summer, for the second time. All and all he seemed like a nice guy, a weird combination of cool 90s Californian kid with Chicago nerd, but I would let tags for later, this one was complex.
.
[lateness due to quality obsession]
By I'm the penguin
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Stories told by it.
Today I’m going to talk about a guy.
I was I guess 10 years when the book came to me.
It was orange and white; it had an interesting title, at least for a 10 year old.
And it had a creature in the cover.
This creature called my attention. I had no idea what it was but I was damn sure it was similar to the creatures I imagined and I drew.
So it was when I met this guy.
Of shy aspect, and humble covers.
I read it in a blink.
Then she told me about how he loved this guy.
And I felt as if he was telling stories to me, in bed time, I read them and I imagined his voice.
I could remember his voice in that time, now I can’t.
And I remember the Cuendú. I have one as a pet… or is it me?
[Mrs. K i t e ]
I was I guess 10 years when the book came to me.
It was orange and white; it had an interesting title, at least for a 10 year old.
And it had a creature in the cover.
This creature called my attention. I had no idea what it was but I was damn sure it was similar to the creatures I imagined and I drew.
So it was when I met this guy.
Of shy aspect, and humble covers.
I read it in a blink.
Then she told me about how he loved this guy.
And I felt as if he was telling stories to me, in bed time, I read them and I imagined his voice.
I could remember his voice in that time, now I can’t.
And I remember the Cuendú. I have one as a pet… or is it me?
[Mrs. K i t e ]
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
N's first law: Wait for the push
“You know, all these physics laws seem to go beyond regular bodies in average conditions, it goes to a level where it rules people and stuff. Like a person won't move from their comfort zone unless they're struck by an outer force, or once you've gone wild you won't stop unless there is an outer body stopping you. Or as better put by Newton, inertia.”
“Wow, that’s deep” she said, staring confused
“I guess…”
“And I don’t need deep for my exam, just go over the formulas thank you” she said, with a make-worth-those-five-bucks-an-hour kind of look. And as we moved on into momentum and conservation of energy, I hold to the thought. But are we really inert, are we really always hopping for an outer force to drive us away from our pattern of inaction? Maybe not for all, but at least it is a law for me.
Perhaps she would never get it, partly because she simply couldn’t understand something as simple as F=ma, and because her life it’s just a rollercoaster of senseless, shallow, yet overwhelmingly events. But despite the fact she is learning a whole semester of physics, a day before the finals, I’m sure she wouldn’t trade it, objects in movement tend to remain like that, unless there’s an outer force to stop them. And nothing was stopping Jenna Goldberg, at least not until college. I’m also certain she didn’t chose me to teach her do to my tendency of moving, as my net fun energy equals zero, it is all potential.
And after a tedious week of tutoring half of my class in things that went as basic as to divide fractions, to something more complicated, square roots. The finals were over, which meant another prom I was not going, which also meant doing plans with my so called friends so we ended up doing nothing all summer long. And let’s not forget the parental insistence about attending band camp, both of them were in band in their high schools and they had the hopes I would have some sort of musical talent, I didn’t, but still, I got the geek genes. But as every year, after the bell rang announcing we were free, and until the bell rang again two months later, telling us the sweet freedom was over, I did nothing.
Maybe some part of me was always waiting for that external force, maybe my whole life had been about expecting an alive Schröringer’s cat, the bad news, such cat never existed. It was not like I didn’t love staying a Saturday night playing Halo with some crazy 30-year-old man from Singapore (online).
It’s just that some part of me wanted to be that guy, that guy who skips class just to lay in the grass one more hour talking about nothing, I wanted to be that guy who is always invited to the Barbies’ birthdays, I wanted to be that cool guy who had lots of drunk stories. But instead I was me. But something in me (perhaps sissiness) always believed in that external force, that uncertainty about dead cats, I need a delta in my U.
And that is precisely where Hayden comes along. I know that this kind of stories usually lead to nerd kid meeting some hot chick that for some reason was interested in him, all which leads to a whole new world of possibilities, but sorry, I'm not that much of a clique.
[to be continued, this is going to be kind of a large story...so get ready for an arch]
By I'm the penguin
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Music to...
I believe kite's feelings towards music have been obvious across the fields.
But she was listening to the one who'll be listened, and she thought about lots of things.
Music to sing
Music to say
Music to kill fascism
Music to live
Music to eternity
Music to love
to miss
to expect
to inspire
to hate
to feel nostalgic
to ride
to shower
to remember
to doubt.
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
this will go one once I don't have bodyguards...
But she was listening to the one who'll be listened, and she thought about lots of things.
Music to sing
Music to say
Music to kill fascism
Music to live
Music to eternity
Music to love
to miss
to expect
to inspire
to hate
to feel nostalgic
to ride
to shower
to remember
to doubt.
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
this will go one once I don't have bodyguards...
Monday, November 24, 2008
Not the same old sandwich
Kids these days... a good old peanut butter jelly just won't do...
By I'm the penguin
Sunday, November 23, 2008
An ephemeral forever
Can you see it?
See what?
It is dancing, dancing with the air.
Quick moves, as if it was scared, but constant.
Sure.
Flows, gently.
Warm light.
They’re the same thing, moving with the same rhythm as a magic synchrony.
And no one notices.
But they don’t need to.
It doesn’t matter.
An ephemeral forever.
That may be forgotten.
But that won’t.
[Mrs. K i t e ]
that might be the problem... the lack of ....
See what?
It is dancing, dancing with the air.
Quick moves, as if it was scared, but constant.
Sure.
Flows, gently.
Warm light.
They’re the same thing, moving with the same rhythm as a magic synchrony.
And no one notices.
But they don’t need to.
It doesn’t matter.
An ephemeral forever.
That may be forgotten.
But that won’t.
[Mrs. K i t e ]
that might be the problem... the lack of ....
He just wants to
He hates it, he hates how people call him all they long, he hates how he can't be all lonely and melancholic in a dark room, he hates how they often call to say nice things. And it's not because he's the depressive type, or because he hates the people per se, is far more complex than that, or more simple, depends on how you see it. He just wants some time alone so he can pity himself, so he can whine to himself about how miserable his life is, to complain to the universe why is he so unfortunate. But of course he needs to be alone, for his life is perfect.
He lacks nothing, and of course he could have more, even God would like another universe every now and then. He has a supportive family and joyous friends, his job is the most exciting one since they stopped considering sky-diving a job. He earns a nice amount of money and his girlfriend is lovely. Yet he wants to feel the drama and the tragedy, he just does.
And so, with such a perfect pack of people around him and wonderful circumstances how could he be so cynical as to say "I simply don't like it, any of it". Because he sometimes wishes his mother was an alcoholic and his dad had left them, so then he could join some gang in his adolescence and then become an addict, so he could climb from all that crap and become a wounded writer, you know, the Pulitzer-material kind f writers. But his dream was not to be a writer, it never was, he just wanted a harder life.
By now you may think he is crazy, and you're in all you're right, he is. But something that most be known is that he considers happiness doesn't come with success or a beautiful family, a nice pair of JimmyChoo's or a hot Lexus. All those things are the preview, they re the things you make so when you're old and worthless you can brag about your youth. But true happiness comes when at the end of the day, past the money and relationships, past your success or underachivements in life, at the end what matters is that you like who you are, and if for that you have to feel a little more miserable, go ahead.
By I'm the penguin
He lacks nothing, and of course he could have more, even God would like another universe every now and then. He has a supportive family and joyous friends, his job is the most exciting one since they stopped considering sky-diving a job. He earns a nice amount of money and his girlfriend is lovely. Yet he wants to feel the drama and the tragedy, he just does.
And so, with such a perfect pack of people around him and wonderful circumstances how could he be so cynical as to say "I simply don't like it, any of it". Because he sometimes wishes his mother was an alcoholic and his dad had left them, so then he could join some gang in his adolescence and then become an addict, so he could climb from all that crap and become a wounded writer, you know, the Pulitzer-material kind f writers. But his dream was not to be a writer, it never was, he just wanted a harder life.
By now you may think he is crazy, and you're in all you're right, he is. But something that most be known is that he considers happiness doesn't come with success or a beautiful family, a nice pair of JimmyChoo's or a hot Lexus. All those things are the preview, they re the things you make so when you're old and worthless you can brag about your youth. But true happiness comes when at the end of the day, past the money and relationships, past your success or underachivements in life, at the end what matters is that you like who you are, and if for that you have to feel a little more miserable, go ahead.
By I'm the penguin
Friday, November 21, 2008
It exists, it doesn't
What's happening right now.
This is a game.
It is not.
But it is better if it is.
This will be published somehow by that superior cyberspace superior being.
While the expectation is or isn’t met.
The faded desire.
The senseless daydream
The perhaps unwanted result.
A crooked game, for a crooked heart.
Dream Expected
Freudian Expectation
Post un-met expectations depression
Credits
So cats live, cats die, or we never know… There are actually three options
[Mrs. K i t e ]
This is a game.
It is not.
But it is better if it is.
This will be published somehow by that superior cyberspace superior being.
While the expectation is or isn’t met.
The faded desire.
The senseless daydream
The perhaps unwanted result.
A crooked game, for a crooked heart.
Dream Expected
Freudian Expectation
Post un-met expectations depression
Credits
So cats live, cats die, or we never know… There are actually three options
[Mrs. K i t e ]
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Derril Woplley
And Derril Woplley writes essays, containing information that is classified as many types of essays, all but true ones. He also makes applications like crazy, he is doing 10 hours a week of extra curricular activities and he is looking for scholarships all over the place, even in the local store (after all the old lady from the Winston Cheese store always liked him). He hardly sleeps and he is always thinking of what should he do next. Yes, Derril Woplley is senior.
He has dreams and hopes, or at least he has been told so. He is expecting to go to a good college, so he can be a top student, get into a multinational, earn half a million dollars a year and be happy, or so it goes. He knows he has to do all these things to be happy, he knows he will be happy once he buys his first BMW, he fantasies about how merry will his life become once he has a huge flat of his own, he is sure he will be happy. So he is certain that by following this tremendously hard process, he will be happy, because that is what they have all promised him.
And Derril has no time to wonder about this, but what if he is not happy with his first BMW? What if a gold-digger super model can't make him as happy as he plans to be? What if all these things he is doing are just part of a life plan made by someone who is not him? You can ask him and he would say that he has wanted that his entire life, but Derril can't remember when he decided to go to law school because he likes it, or even feels appealed to it.
And if Derril gave more thought to it, he would notice he hasn't made any of those important choices by his own will. Studying junior high and high school just seamed the obvious step to follow, and then applying for the colleges that are spotted as the best. And in his entire life he has never made a true choice, that is because his path is already made, isn't it obvious he is meant to end up with his shinny red BMW? What will be of Derril when he's out of college? Will he go to the best law firm in his city and begin as an intern and climb his way into being an associate? And will that be his decision? or has it been plotted since the moment he bought his first inhale of oxygen?
But mostly, will Derril realize any of this on time? Or will he die thinking his life was magnificence? It doesn't matter, because the master minds behind the Derril-Woplley project plotted the whole thing that way, they don't care how he feels, they don't mind if he works his but off to achieve nothing, yet they don't want him to think about any of this. But anything goes as long as Derril keeps buying that red BMW, as long as everything inside his lovely flat has a pricey tag on it. The masters are tolerant as long as the cow can be milked to dead.
By I'm the penguin
He has dreams and hopes, or at least he has been told so. He is expecting to go to a good college, so he can be a top student, get into a multinational, earn half a million dollars a year and be happy, or so it goes. He knows he has to do all these things to be happy, he knows he will be happy once he buys his first BMW, he fantasies about how merry will his life become once he has a huge flat of his own, he is sure he will be happy. So he is certain that by following this tremendously hard process, he will be happy, because that is what they have all promised him.
And Derril has no time to wonder about this, but what if he is not happy with his first BMW? What if a gold-digger super model can't make him as happy as he plans to be? What if all these things he is doing are just part of a life plan made by someone who is not him? You can ask him and he would say that he has wanted that his entire life, but Derril can't remember when he decided to go to law school because he likes it, or even feels appealed to it.
And if Derril gave more thought to it, he would notice he hasn't made any of those important choices by his own will. Studying junior high and high school just seamed the obvious step to follow, and then applying for the colleges that are spotted as the best. And in his entire life he has never made a true choice, that is because his path is already made, isn't it obvious he is meant to end up with his shinny red BMW? What will be of Derril when he's out of college? Will he go to the best law firm in his city and begin as an intern and climb his way into being an associate? And will that be his decision? or has it been plotted since the moment he bought his first inhale of oxygen?
But mostly, will Derril realize any of this on time? Or will he die thinking his life was magnificence? It doesn't matter, because the master minds behind the Derril-Woplley project plotted the whole thing that way, they don't care how he feels, they don't mind if he works his but off to achieve nothing, yet they don't want him to think about any of this. But anything goes as long as Derril keeps buying that red BMW, as long as everything inside his lovely flat has a pricey tag on it. The masters are tolerant as long as the cow can be milked to dead.
By I'm the penguin
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Expectations
Let me explain a little bit about the trouble world in a women’s head… This might be a sin, but who cares… let’s say this is kinda important for Friday’s post… yeah… you may know lots of these, but still I thought it would be important to emphasize some.
I don’t want to make this TOO general either but oh well.. so I used “On” instead of We (change it if you feel confused)
2. On are always expecting something. As in always.
3. On have a whole plan (not actually a plan but a detailed imaginary story) of how things should happen.
5. These “plans”/expectations are never met (but on hope one day they will)
7. On know the day those things happen they won’t really happen the way we thought they would.
11. On don’t like surprises. Maybe on do, but not really. On rather know.
13. On create complex love stories from songs.
17. On listen to these songs while sleeping, and imagine on can someday hear that same song with a different meaning.
19. On think we know it all.
23. On say we are less shy than on actually are, (so imagine that….)
29. On can be really vulnerable towards unmet expectations EVEN if on knew they wouldn’t happen from the beginning (aka. When on say “on know it’s not happening” on don’t truly believe it.... donc.. N° 5 is crap)
[Mrs. K i t e ]
the kite is listening to the old playlist... it's a crazy, crazy world... since trova, sanz, and unforgettable songs were... lets say a little forgotten
I don’t want to make this TOO general either but oh well.. so I used “On” instead of We (change it if you feel confused)
2. On are always expecting something. As in always.
3. On have a whole plan (not actually a plan but a detailed imaginary story) of how things should happen.
5. These “plans”/expectations are never met (but on hope one day they will)
7. On know the day those things happen they won’t really happen the way we thought they would.
11. On don’t like surprises. Maybe on do, but not really. On rather know.
13. On create complex love stories from songs.
17. On listen to these songs while sleeping, and imagine on can someday hear that same song with a different meaning.
19. On think we know it all.
23. On say we are less shy than on actually are, (so imagine that….)
29. On can be really vulnerable towards unmet expectations EVEN if on knew they wouldn’t happen from the beginning (aka. When on say “on know it’s not happening” on don’t truly believe it.... donc.. N° 5 is crap)
[Mrs. K i t e ]
the kite is listening to the old playlist... it's a crazy, crazy world... since trova, sanz, and unforgettable songs were... lets say a little forgotten
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Subersive critisism
"So... how do you think it was?" (Please tell me you liked it...)
"It was OK, I mean it is your first movie, it must've been so hard..." (Thanks god it's over)
"What was your favorite part?" (Why aren't you praising me? It was freaking awesome!)
"Well, definitely the part where the old lady starts yelling is good, nice camera" (If only I could remember more... perhaps I shouldn't have slept at the ending...)
"Yeah, I used lots of camera effects on that one, but tell me did you understood the whole meaning behind the story?" (Cut the crap and tell me how awesome I am, I worked for weeks into putting the whole life and death theme)
"It was really well played I think, of course it could have been a little bit more subtle"(excuse me, behind which story? the whole thing was like a philosophy recital)
"How so?"- (You didn't really like it did you?)
"I don't know, I just kind of feel it, maybe I'm wrong"-(Heck no!)
By I'm the penguin
"It was OK, I mean it is your first movie, it must've been so hard..." (Thanks god it's over)
"What was your favorite part?" (Why aren't you praising me? It was freaking awesome!)
"Well, definitely the part where the old lady starts yelling is good, nice camera" (If only I could remember more... perhaps I shouldn't have slept at the ending...)
"Yeah, I used lots of camera effects on that one, but tell me did you understood the whole meaning behind the story?" (Cut the crap and tell me how awesome I am, I worked for weeks into putting the whole life and death theme)
"It was really well played I think, of course it could have been a little bit more subtle"(excuse me, behind which story? the whole thing was like a philosophy recital)
"How so?"- (You didn't really like it did you?)
"I don't know, I just kind of feel it, maybe I'm wrong"-(Heck no!)
By I'm the penguin
Monday, November 17, 2008
Mood swings
Wait… you WHAT?????!
I… I….
I NOTHING!
QUE ESTABAS PENSANDO?
Je, je,,.. je ne suis pas sûr…
Unbelievable!
Sorry…
WHAT?
Sorry.
I hope you’ll think it twice next time.
I will.
Actually… I won’t, I’m just telling him that so he can shut his mouth, I’m so tired, no wait. Not tired.. just annoyed. I’ll bet he’ll think twice next time. Oh wait again, there will be no next time, I’m done waiting. I just need enough courage to go over my bedroom and take the suitcase. I’ve packed. And in the next 20 seconds I will know. I will know if I’m actually taking the suitcase this time, or if it will be to much and I’ll have to unpack. Again.
I don’t want to unpack. I don’t want to sleep in the street. I want freedom. I want money.
5…
Wait.
3…
Oh crap..
2…
1…
I’ll start unpacking.
[Mrs. K i t e ]
I… I….
I NOTHING!
QUE ESTABAS PENSANDO?
Je, je,,.. je ne suis pas sûr…
Unbelievable!
Sorry…
WHAT?
Sorry.
I hope you’ll think it twice next time.
I will.
Actually… I won’t, I’m just telling him that so he can shut his mouth, I’m so tired, no wait. Not tired.. just annoyed. I’ll bet he’ll think twice next time. Oh wait again, there will be no next time, I’m done waiting. I just need enough courage to go over my bedroom and take the suitcase. I’ve packed. And in the next 20 seconds I will know. I will know if I’m actually taking the suitcase this time, or if it will be to much and I’ll have to unpack. Again.
I don’t want to unpack. I don’t want to sleep in the street. I want freedom. I want money.
5…
Wait.
3…
Oh crap..
2…
1…
I’ll start unpacking.
[Mrs. K i t e ]
Sunday, November 16, 2008
All these things we've done
We are great animals, we've constructed and inhabited, we've talked and sent letters. Now we're just heading towards better.[we're so getting sued by the murderers...]
By I'm the penguin
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The Rise and Fall during mass destruction rage
Lets say mine's a move poster. From a movie based on an unknown novel, a movie whose release date has changed at least 11 times.
[Mrs. K i t e ]
[Mrs. K i t e ]
Friday, November 14, 2008
My novel
I have always thought life is unreal, it is written so poorly that the writer was obviously just typing. So I have always, as well, thought that we, people, see our "lives" as art. And I don't mean we all live such beautiful and meaningful existences that each should be call art, I mean that I feel that everyone thinks their lives as if it was an art piece, a movie, a novel, a poem or a paint (in some cases a videogame). So I mean in a you're-so-selfcentred-you-actually-think-your-life-is-movie-material kind of way, rather than everyone's life's art, because let's be honest, not even the half of the population bare interesting existences.
So for me there's those who see their lives as a movie, which are the big majority, seeing themselves in situations that others see, seeing their little events in life be a climax for that part of the life-long movie. There are others that see themselves as in a novel, a pretty decadent realism I may say for such cases. I've known of some that see their life as paintings, but those are far to complex to explain in this humble post. So what if you're just a cameo in that movie you've thought for so long you're the leading character?
Surely the story changes as you decide to, or maybe you change as the writer decides so, but who's the writer? yourself? sure? Who ever the writer is something is true, the worse thing you can do is to become a cameo in your own story, but you can't really decide that, for your just an extra in Rosie's movie (Rosie is the woman who past next to you in the grocery shop this weekend, she thought you were an employee and asked you where the fruit was). So which story is yours? To be honest I don't know, but then again, neither do you.
Looking into myself, I think I would say I live my life as if it was a novel, a novel with several characters, written in first person, and yet containing a narrator who's not the character. Mine would be a novel hard and tedious to read, filled with ramblings and questions that are wither unanswerable or just plainly stupid. But I know it is not a classic novel, or even one, I know it is not the magic realism I wish it were, I know it's not a non-fiction bestseller. Mine is a screenplay of a circus, even if I look way classier to be circus material, even if I don't feet with the carnival vibe. I know this because in no other place would a character with so many faces and masks would be seen as normal, not that I'm seen as normal, but I don't stand out. No novel would allow a half jew half gypsy playing the violin, make fun of the government while telling a story. That's not decadent realism.
[what's your format?]
By I'm the penguin
So for me there's those who see their lives as a movie, which are the big majority, seeing themselves in situations that others see, seeing their little events in life be a climax for that part of the life-long movie. There are others that see themselves as in a novel, a pretty decadent realism I may say for such cases. I've known of some that see their life as paintings, but those are far to complex to explain in this humble post. So what if you're just a cameo in that movie you've thought for so long you're the leading character?
Surely the story changes as you decide to, or maybe you change as the writer decides so, but who's the writer? yourself? sure? Who ever the writer is something is true, the worse thing you can do is to become a cameo in your own story, but you can't really decide that, for your just an extra in Rosie's movie (Rosie is the woman who past next to you in the grocery shop this weekend, she thought you were an employee and asked you where the fruit was). So which story is yours? To be honest I don't know, but then again, neither do you.
Looking into myself, I think I would say I live my life as if it was a novel, a novel with several characters, written in first person, and yet containing a narrator who's not the character. Mine would be a novel hard and tedious to read, filled with ramblings and questions that are wither unanswerable or just plainly stupid. But I know it is not a classic novel, or even one, I know it is not the magic realism I wish it were, I know it's not a non-fiction bestseller. Mine is a screenplay of a circus, even if I look way classier to be circus material, even if I don't feet with the carnival vibe. I know this because in no other place would a character with so many faces and masks would be seen as normal, not that I'm seen as normal, but I don't stand out. No novel would allow a half jew half gypsy playing the violin, make fun of the government while telling a story. That's not decadent realism.
[what's your format?]
By I'm the penguin
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Something Personal
This day, I said is soundtrackly... So I thought about this, don't try to figure out whose song is it... It's an aspect of me. So, I did the translation, but it is not mine, not the best translation though, so.... if you want to listen to the actuall thing.. link in the signature.
Because there are stars that shine but you can’t see.
And there are places which I never knew.
I will get naked of all this stupidity which is there from bearing this costume.
You just come with what you have, and I’ll take a rag soul, a paper soul.
Show me again, how to see the sunset, and maybe after all this shadows it turns out all right.
The noon smiles at us again as it splashes us with silver seas and the scent of that flower which floats in the air.
The magic of the sunset, spills as we walk, and fills the sky with that intense blue of the sky someone stole.
Those huge seas, whose soul killed a couple animals.
There goes my universe and the universe of everyone who speaks.
I consider evil as something ours, something personal.
And I ask, if up there would clouds look the same.
This is to know if you think of me while I think of you.
[Mrs. K i t e]
algo personal
Because there are stars that shine but you can’t see.
And there are places which I never knew.
I will get naked of all this stupidity which is there from bearing this costume.
You just come with what you have, and I’ll take a rag soul, a paper soul.
Show me again, how to see the sunset, and maybe after all this shadows it turns out all right.
The noon smiles at us again as it splashes us with silver seas and the scent of that flower which floats in the air.
The magic of the sunset, spills as we walk, and fills the sky with that intense blue of the sky someone stole.
Those huge seas, whose soul killed a couple animals.
There goes my universe and the universe of everyone who speaks.
I consider evil as something ours, something personal.
And I ask, if up there would clouds look the same.
This is to know if you think of me while I think of you.
[Mrs. K i t e]
algo personal
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Jenny the Student
Love your crooked neighbor with all your crooked heart, once said some man called W.H. Auden, I believe. Understanding the meaning is not the hard part, you get we're flawed, and that you have to appreciate people for who they are and all that crap, or at least I believe it means so. The hard part, the part that this Auden guy doesn't say is how to, maybe it's a secret of his, or maybe it's just a universal common knowledge thing, however, for me it is an entire mystery, even if I try. So I just follow my ways.
Mine are those of a hunter, a faceless hunter with no need for food, just glut, or lust. I wake up today and next to me is a girl I believe I have never seen, then I remember. She's still asleep as I see her, her soft face in peace and her body describing curves that cannot be defined as any other thing than art. And so I play this game, to try to find out who she is, just by looking at her, at all of her. By her eye bags I can say she's a student, they're not as huge as to say pre-med, but something worth staying up late. Her toned thighs tell me she goes regularly to the gym, yet she's not a personal trainer. And her breasts, well... they tell me she doesn't beleive in plastic surgery, even if it's so cheap this days...
She wakes up and is hypnotized again by this damned charm of mine, I say I have an important thing by noon and I have to go. She asks for my number, and normally I wouldn't have done this, I would have told her it was stolen, I would have said I'm changeing it soon, I would have said any other thing that didn't contain the word "sure". So I write those digits in a little paper and then I'm amused, of how much of a symbol we have given to a couple of digits in a piece of stained napkin. Glorified paper, that's what we all rely on.
Then, before we go and after she has taken some coffee, she tries to make some small talk. As I was curious about what she studied, I let her procide, tell her about my job, or at least part of it, tell her my goals and dreams, college chicks always fall for goals and dreams. And so she finally tells me, after being surprised I knew she was a student, that she is taking a major in Anthropology, apparently she's smart, or so it goes.
So she finally leaves and so I have the rest of the day, to do that important thing, or lie in the couch watching movies, whatever goes with the day the most. The daytime goes on and then the tedious part ends and so I can go hunting again. I try a new place, maybe the usual spots have the usual crowd, and I'm not up for the usual crowd. Then I see something that dazzles my eyes, it's shiny, I have to have it. I approach, I do some small talk, I am charming, I even have to be sweet. The fish bites.
I come back home as a proud provider, even if there's no family to feed. She looks tall, dark skinned and has inviting hips, which is all I care about at the moment. The night has it's climax... a few times, and then we all go to sleep. It is kind of surprising that I wake up all alone, they usually stay. So I go and fix myself some coffee and look at the mail, while I try to remember her name, or at least her face; or any of the faces or names this week. Anyway, life goes on.
Then something unusual happens, my phone rings.
"Hi?" says the shy voice
"Yes?" I answer, in a very neutral tone
"Oh, hi, it's me. This is kind of awkward, but we met a couple of days ago and I was wondering if we could get coffee some time or something" it is the Anthropologist.
"Sorry, I'm really embarrassed" I lie "who are you?"I do it again
"Oh, sorry, right, I guess you meet people all the time. I'm Jenny, the student" she says, disappointed, they all expect you to remember them, to know from the moment you answer.
"Right, sure, Jenny the student. The thing is that I'm kind of busy today, you know how jobs can be" I say, without the very least intention of being convincing
"Sure, I mean it can be any other day, this week or something" she says, I know it is taking a lot of her to say this, she didn't seemed like the kind of girl who calls back
"Yea... this week won't work for me" I say, giving the exact time of silence to make it my complete answer, and then the right amount of seconds to make it an awkward silence
"Well, that's fine, thanks. Bye" She says, taking the message. Then, when she's about to hang up
"Wait, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been so busy lately. How does next week work for you?" I ask, giving her hope, expecting her to bite, expecting her to just fall for it.
"Ok, I'll see, so next week"
"Next week"
"bye"
I'm still not very sure of why I told her next week, I really doubt it was my subcouncious who had fell for her and was trying to make things right, that doesn't happen, this is not a chickflic. Maybe I just wanted her to get he hopes up, just for the fun of it. So whatever the reason i sat a date for doesn't concern me much. I still won't go.
After Monday arrives and I have to go back to the unexciting world of advertising, I do the usual, I keep up with work, I go to meetings, I meet with some people, I meet with my assistant, I meet with my assistant. And the routine that had been followed for years was now again interrupted on Thursday, when Jenny the student decided to call and set a day for the appointment. And after we set Saturday as the day we can both work it out I freak. I go out of myself and get astonished at the fact that: I considered going.
Not only did I considered going, but i thought about it all friday. All friday when I should have been hooking up with some red hair girl named Candy in the back of my car, when I should have been hunting and lusting by brains out. I was thinking about non-believer-in-plastic-surgery-calling-people-to-ruin-their-Fridays Jenny, the student. And the thought of it, the thought of a perhaps, the thought of a possible future was not as disgusting as considering how out of me that was. Yet I thought about the Anthropologist.
It is saturday noon, I'm blushed, my heart rate is up the ceiling, I'm sweating and the phone rings. It must be her.
"Hi there!"
"Hello?"
"oh, excuse me, is this Brian's phone?"
"Let me ask him" says the woman's voice "yes it is his cellphone, but his kind of busy right now, we are" she said, laughing
"Oh, sorry, well"she was interrupted
"Do you want to give him a message or something?"
"No, I j..."
And I'm still blushed, my whole body is, my heart rate is still high and I sweat some more, then I come.
And I don't know why I do this, I don't know why i still do this to me, to all Jenny the students. I think it helps, it helps filling the void. It helps my crooked heart, or at least I like to think so. I try to maintain this strong face that covers and empty body. And there's where I don't understand this guy W.H., because I have this crooked heart, and I'm so messed up, and I keep messing up, even if there was nothing I would like more than loving my crooked neighbor with this swollen, rotten, crooked heart.
By I'm the penguin
Mine are those of a hunter, a faceless hunter with no need for food, just glut, or lust. I wake up today and next to me is a girl I believe I have never seen, then I remember. She's still asleep as I see her, her soft face in peace and her body describing curves that cannot be defined as any other thing than art. And so I play this game, to try to find out who she is, just by looking at her, at all of her. By her eye bags I can say she's a student, they're not as huge as to say pre-med, but something worth staying up late. Her toned thighs tell me she goes regularly to the gym, yet she's not a personal trainer. And her breasts, well... they tell me she doesn't beleive in plastic surgery, even if it's so cheap this days...
She wakes up and is hypnotized again by this damned charm of mine, I say I have an important thing by noon and I have to go. She asks for my number, and normally I wouldn't have done this, I would have told her it was stolen, I would have said I'm changeing it soon, I would have said any other thing that didn't contain the word "sure". So I write those digits in a little paper and then I'm amused, of how much of a symbol we have given to a couple of digits in a piece of stained napkin. Glorified paper, that's what we all rely on.
Then, before we go and after she has taken some coffee, she tries to make some small talk. As I was curious about what she studied, I let her procide, tell her about my job, or at least part of it, tell her my goals and dreams, college chicks always fall for goals and dreams. And so she finally tells me, after being surprised I knew she was a student, that she is taking a major in Anthropology, apparently she's smart, or so it goes.
So she finally leaves and so I have the rest of the day, to do that important thing, or lie in the couch watching movies, whatever goes with the day the most. The daytime goes on and then the tedious part ends and so I can go hunting again. I try a new place, maybe the usual spots have the usual crowd, and I'm not up for the usual crowd. Then I see something that dazzles my eyes, it's shiny, I have to have it. I approach, I do some small talk, I am charming, I even have to be sweet. The fish bites.
I come back home as a proud provider, even if there's no family to feed. She looks tall, dark skinned and has inviting hips, which is all I care about at the moment. The night has it's climax... a few times, and then we all go to sleep. It is kind of surprising that I wake up all alone, they usually stay. So I go and fix myself some coffee and look at the mail, while I try to remember her name, or at least her face; or any of the faces or names this week. Anyway, life goes on.
Then something unusual happens, my phone rings.
"Hi?" says the shy voice
"Yes?" I answer, in a very neutral tone
"Oh, hi, it's me. This is kind of awkward, but we met a couple of days ago and I was wondering if we could get coffee some time or something" it is the Anthropologist.
"Sorry, I'm really embarrassed" I lie "who are you?"I do it again
"Oh, sorry, right, I guess you meet people all the time. I'm Jenny, the student" she says, disappointed, they all expect you to remember them, to know from the moment you answer.
"Right, sure, Jenny the student. The thing is that I'm kind of busy today, you know how jobs can be" I say, without the very least intention of being convincing
"Sure, I mean it can be any other day, this week or something" she says, I know it is taking a lot of her to say this, she didn't seemed like the kind of girl who calls back
"Yea... this week won't work for me" I say, giving the exact time of silence to make it my complete answer, and then the right amount of seconds to make it an awkward silence
"Well, that's fine, thanks. Bye" She says, taking the message. Then, when she's about to hang up
"Wait, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been so busy lately. How does next week work for you?" I ask, giving her hope, expecting her to bite, expecting her to just fall for it.
"Ok, I'll see, so next week"
"Next week"
"bye"
I'm still not very sure of why I told her next week, I really doubt it was my subcouncious who had fell for her and was trying to make things right, that doesn't happen, this is not a chickflic. Maybe I just wanted her to get he hopes up, just for the fun of it. So whatever the reason i sat a date for doesn't concern me much. I still won't go.
After Monday arrives and I have to go back to the unexciting world of advertising, I do the usual, I keep up with work, I go to meetings, I meet with some people, I meet with my assistant, I meet with my assistant. And the routine that had been followed for years was now again interrupted on Thursday, when Jenny the student decided to call and set a day for the appointment. And after we set Saturday as the day we can both work it out I freak. I go out of myself and get astonished at the fact that: I considered going.
Not only did I considered going, but i thought about it all friday. All friday when I should have been hooking up with some red hair girl named Candy in the back of my car, when I should have been hunting and lusting by brains out. I was thinking about non-believer-in-plastic-surgery-calling-people-to-ruin-their-Fridays Jenny, the student. And the thought of it, the thought of a perhaps, the thought of a possible future was not as disgusting as considering how out of me that was. Yet I thought about the Anthropologist.
It is saturday noon, I'm blushed, my heart rate is up the ceiling, I'm sweating and the phone rings. It must be her.
"Hi there!"
"Hello?"
"oh, excuse me, is this Brian's phone?"
"Let me ask him" says the woman's voice "yes it is his cellphone, but his kind of busy right now, we are" she said, laughing
"Oh, sorry, well"she was interrupted
"Do you want to give him a message or something?"
"No, I j..."
And I'm still blushed, my whole body is, my heart rate is still high and I sweat some more, then I come.
And I don't know why I do this, I don't know why i still do this to me, to all Jenny the students. I think it helps, it helps filling the void. It helps my crooked heart, or at least I like to think so. I try to maintain this strong face that covers and empty body. And there's where I don't understand this guy W.H., because I have this crooked heart, and I'm so messed up, and I keep messing up, even if there was nothing I would like more than loving my crooked neighbor with this swollen, rotten, crooked heart.
By I'm the penguin
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Ex animo
What hurt the most was this, that was happening to her, was so common.
She said it before leaving. It was painful, it was common.
She should feel special after all that had happen.
It didn’t even gave her a chance to feel special.
But not to forget, it happened to everyone.
Credo quia absurdum est.
So she thought about it.
And each second.
IT was absurd.
Each breath
Became
Even
More
Absurd
It was in a way
Too much to bare
So she left the keys inside
And she walked away as rain fell.
From the sky, it stroked the notebook.
It had doodles and dreams, filled with joy.
Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure to meet you all. She slammed the door.
She said it before leaving. It was painful, it was common.
She should feel special after all that had happen.
It didn’t even gave her a chance to feel special.
But not to forget, it happened to everyone.
Credo quia absurdum est.
So she thought about it.
And each second.
IT was absurd.
Each breath
Became
Even
More
Absurd
It was in a way
Too much to bare
So she left the keys inside
And she walked away as rain fell.
From the sky, it stroked the notebook.
It had doodles and dreams, filled with joy.
Goodbye, it’s been a pleasure to meet you all. She slammed the door.
Monday, November 10, 2008
First kiss(es)
It was here where we had our first kiss, and it's silly I remember, because it not only happen like fifteen years ago, but it was also an accident. He may not remember this, but we were ten, he was riding his bike while imagining he was riding some space ship or something, while I was walking through the bridge, imagining I was crossing a hanging old bridge in the middle of the jungle. I remember I saw him and I pictured him as my knight in shinny armor, well I was thinking more of my Indiana Jones, because that was what was hip back in the day, but you get the point.
And so he came with his horse to my aid, crossed the dangers with graceful agility, took me and helped me out of the bridge, and then we rode on his Indian horse named Mukunda. All this of course while he thought he was taking a space prisoner in his combat star ship. And call me cheesy, but that is one of the most romantic and cutest stories I have, maybe that is why people tell me I need to do more of that stuff.
Well, the point is that after that we were just hanging out in the corner of the bridge, looking at the water when he spotted a frog or one of those things only little boys love so much. So he bend over to catch it, and when he had it in his hands I was looking down to see whatever the abomination was, and it was so sudden, so quick that when he stood up quickly our lips met for a fraction of a second. And it's an story as old as time, girl is shocked, boy runs away disgusted. Now that I think about it, I believe that was way better than if he had held the frog above his head, and now the story would be different. So much things could have been different.
After that we grew up, puberty happens, boys started liking girls and girls started talking about boys, make up, bras and sex ed. But even if I say it like this, things don't really change, we were still little immature 13-year olds. I think we started liking each other more for inertia than really like, you see we had known each other forever, and we had been nice to each other always (except for the kiss and the frog episode). So it all came very natural when, according to Thomas Jefferson P.S 5º rules, he threw me a balled paper from his notebook (with the spiral paper thingies still on it) with a lovely horrendous handwriting Would you be my girlfriend?. And of course I said yes, and of course he was more timid and shy from that day on than ever in his life, and of course we spoke even less at the beginning, and of course it was well known in all the school we were boyfriend and girlfriend, you know the regular stuff.
Then we got to speak more, then we got to go on a first date, which sucked because or mothers (who obviously knew all along) insisted on taking pictures of us, which was the most embarrassing thing that I have lived (that includes the prom night fiasco, which is another story). Then we went to the movies, and it was an action film, so there was not much talking, or any other activity that was not him staring doltishly at the screen. But the second date was kind of better, we walked his dogs in the park, but at least we got to talk. And then there were more dates but the one I like to remember the most (and like to think of as the first one) was a night out. We were 14 and were now allowed to get home by 8, so he insisted he had something awesome to show me, and I for one believed it was another drunk guy or something, but yet decided to follow him, just for the fun of it.
It was a huge surprise when I got to the park and didn't found a death body or a hobo, but instead our initials, surrounded by a heart carved in the concrete bench. I know it sounds really stupid and childish now, but well... we were stupid and childish. So then I was all blushed and feeling warm inside when we decided to take a walk. We both knew what was about to happen, we had been going out for a month or so, we were fourteen, we were fourteen and we were fourteen. That was going to be our first formal kiss.
So we just walked and bought some ice cream, kept walking until we got to this same bridge. We got nervous, we stopped talking, we even had nervous laughter without any jokes needed. Then (clever) I spilled some ice cream in my chin, he came close to clean it off with a napkin, and I thought he was doing a move. I bet you already know where this is going. So I think he is doing a move and as I have never believed that boys are the ones that HAVE TO give the first step and such, I approached to, and in an ungracious move our lips meet for the second time. We stay there for more than fractions of second, not because we really enjoy it, but because of confusion. The he backed off quickly, and in difference with the first time that had happened, he didn't ran away.
So, that is the story of my first kiss, the real one, and the propper one. And let me tell you neither of them was really great. And to be honest that was the story of our relationship, every step we took further looked more like an accident than romance. But looking back it was all good, at least how it should have been, then we got to highschool, took different paths and stopped talking to each other eventually, you know, the regular stuff.
[using foreign inspiration]
By I'm the penguin
And so he came with his horse to my aid, crossed the dangers with graceful agility, took me and helped me out of the bridge, and then we rode on his Indian horse named Mukunda. All this of course while he thought he was taking a space prisoner in his combat star ship. And call me cheesy, but that is one of the most romantic and cutest stories I have, maybe that is why people tell me I need to do more of that stuff.
Well, the point is that after that we were just hanging out in the corner of the bridge, looking at the water when he spotted a frog or one of those things only little boys love so much. So he bend over to catch it, and when he had it in his hands I was looking down to see whatever the abomination was, and it was so sudden, so quick that when he stood up quickly our lips met for a fraction of a second. And it's an story as old as time, girl is shocked, boy runs away disgusted. Now that I think about it, I believe that was way better than if he had held the frog above his head, and now the story would be different. So much things could have been different.
After that we grew up, puberty happens, boys started liking girls and girls started talking about boys, make up, bras and sex ed. But even if I say it like this, things don't really change, we were still little immature 13-year olds. I think we started liking each other more for inertia than really like, you see we had known each other forever, and we had been nice to each other always (except for the kiss and the frog episode). So it all came very natural when, according to Thomas Jefferson P.S 5º rules, he threw me a balled paper from his notebook (with the spiral paper thingies still on it) with a lovely horrendous handwriting Would you be my girlfriend?. And of course I said yes, and of course he was more timid and shy from that day on than ever in his life, and of course we spoke even less at the beginning, and of course it was well known in all the school we were boyfriend and girlfriend, you know the regular stuff.
Then we got to speak more, then we got to go on a first date, which sucked because or mothers (who obviously knew all along) insisted on taking pictures of us, which was the most embarrassing thing that I have lived (that includes the prom night fiasco, which is another story). Then we went to the movies, and it was an action film, so there was not much talking, or any other activity that was not him staring doltishly at the screen. But the second date was kind of better, we walked his dogs in the park, but at least we got to talk. And then there were more dates but the one I like to remember the most (and like to think of as the first one) was a night out. We were 14 and were now allowed to get home by 8, so he insisted he had something awesome to show me, and I for one believed it was another drunk guy or something, but yet decided to follow him, just for the fun of it.
It was a huge surprise when I got to the park and didn't found a death body or a hobo, but instead our initials, surrounded by a heart carved in the concrete bench. I know it sounds really stupid and childish now, but well... we were stupid and childish. So then I was all blushed and feeling warm inside when we decided to take a walk. We both knew what was about to happen, we had been going out for a month or so, we were fourteen, we were fourteen and we were fourteen. That was going to be our first formal kiss.
So we just walked and bought some ice cream, kept walking until we got to this same bridge. We got nervous, we stopped talking, we even had nervous laughter without any jokes needed. Then (clever) I spilled some ice cream in my chin, he came close to clean it off with a napkin, and I thought he was doing a move. I bet you already know where this is going. So I think he is doing a move and as I have never believed that boys are the ones that HAVE TO give the first step and such, I approached to, and in an ungracious move our lips meet for the second time. We stay there for more than fractions of second, not because we really enjoy it, but because of confusion. The he backed off quickly, and in difference with the first time that had happened, he didn't ran away.
So, that is the story of my first kiss, the real one, and the propper one. And let me tell you neither of them was really great. And to be honest that was the story of our relationship, every step we took further looked more like an accident than romance. But looking back it was all good, at least how it should have been, then we got to highschool, took different paths and stopped talking to each other eventually, you know, the regular stuff.
[using foreign inspiration]
By I'm the penguin
Sunday, November 9, 2008
I'm not a soldier
A kite sits and watches umbrellas fly,
And she thinks about penguins, squirrels, dogs, walruses, cats.
She stops a while and thinks about cats.
Cats and boxes.
And then she moves on,
She thinks about future alma mater
And she feels troubled
She thinks about hearts
And she thinks about bonds
And she loves both deeply.
The kite wants to be an umbrella for a while.
Fly like an umbrella and get high like a kite.
She wants to stop thinking about everything
She wants just to fly.
OK, maybe flying can wait.
She just wants to stop and listen to the background music.
Again.
That song.
With which she really feels related.
And she goes on,
A little further back,
And here’s the product…
Since Mrs. Kite is going back to basis, she thought penguins would like to watch it [ or use it as a wallpaper of course... xD]
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
And she thinks about penguins, squirrels, dogs, walruses, cats.
She stops a while and thinks about cats.
Cats and boxes.
And then she moves on,
She thinks about future alma mater
And she feels troubled
She thinks about hearts
And she thinks about bonds
And she loves both deeply.
The kite wants to be an umbrella for a while.
Fly like an umbrella and get high like a kite.
She wants to stop thinking about everything
She wants just to fly.
OK, maybe flying can wait.
She just wants to stop and listen to the background music.
Again.
That song.
With which she really feels related.
And she goes on,
A little further back,
And here’s the product…
Since Mrs. Kite is going back to basis, she thought penguins would like to watch it [ or use it as a wallpaper of course... xD]
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Lost girl
And she doesn't know it, but her mother hasn't stopped crying ever since she left, and his father keeps looking at the window every chance he's got, hoping for her to appear from the far. But it's just because they know she's not coming back, ever. They also know she is not coming back not because she doesn't love them, or because they didn't give her what she needed, she simply had to go. It was not a matter of wanting or choosing, she just had to.
Maybe no one will ever understand her, maybe her parents will always wonder why had she left so suddenly in the middle of the day, without saying the tinniest bit of her whereabouts. And not even she had planned to go, it just happen, not even an unsatisfied glance at dinner, or a complainful sigh at noon, no sign of her urge. But deep down, her parents always knew that would happen, always knew that that town was not a place for her daughter, that maybe she had gone and looked for better.
And if fact she did look for better, which was anywhere else, because despite everyone was lovely and good to her in that little village, she knew there were no hopes there. She couldn't live for a second longer in that place that murdered meaning, where her soul lost a drop of content every second she stood there sweeing, sweeping and swifting. She knew staying there meant to be one more ghost in that godforsaken place, she couldn't bare the broken ideals and the forgotten ambitions. And so she left, along with the spring, no one ever saw her again, for she was following a dream that came with the wind.
By I'm the penguin
Maybe no one will ever understand her, maybe her parents will always wonder why had she left so suddenly in the middle of the day, without saying the tinniest bit of her whereabouts. And not even she had planned to go, it just happen, not even an unsatisfied glance at dinner, or a complainful sigh at noon, no sign of her urge. But deep down, her parents always knew that would happen, always knew that that town was not a place for her daughter, that maybe she had gone and looked for better.
And if fact she did look for better, which was anywhere else, because despite everyone was lovely and good to her in that little village, she knew there were no hopes there. She couldn't live for a second longer in that place that murdered meaning, where her soul lost a drop of content every second she stood there sweeing, sweeping and swifting. She knew staying there meant to be one more ghost in that godforsaken place, she couldn't bare the broken ideals and the forgotten ambitions. And so she left, along with the spring, no one ever saw her again, for she was following a dream that came with the wind.
By I'm the penguin
Friday, November 7, 2008
I haven't lost control... have I?
Confusion in her eyes that says it all.
She's lost control.
And she's clinging to the nearest passer by,
She's lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I've lost control again,
And a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I've lost control again.
And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again.
And how I'll never know just why or understand,
She said I've lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she'd die.
She said I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
Well I had to 'phone her friend to state my case,
And say she's lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I've lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control.
And she's clinging to the nearest passer by,
She's lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I've lost control again,
And a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I've lost control again.
And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again.
And how I'll never know just why or understand,
She said I've lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she'd die.
She said I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
Well I had to 'phone her friend to state my case,
And say she's lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I've lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
You know
Stop it, you're not fooling anyone, I know you know it, and nothing you can do will change it. I am a production of your imagination, it doesn't matter how hard you try to convince your self I am here, you know I am not. You knew from the second it all started that it was wrong, not wrong wrong, but that simply it was just not how it should. And it is not only me, for all you know, all this, all your family, friends and places you know are a product of your imagination or a dream.
You might not want to believe it, but it is not a matter of belief, it is a matter of knowing, and you do, deep down, deep and beneath those thoughts you never reach, beyond any conscience you have experienced, beyond yourself, you know this is not real, none of this. And what is real? well, I couldn't know, since I'm just telling you what your subconscious wants me to say, I know nothing outside your mind, because all you see is just that, your mind and thoughts.
You are probably wondering, how come if I'm part of you I'm trying to break the spell? Why am I telling you this so you notice you're in a dream and eventually wake up? Why to cease my existence if all I rely on is just you continuing to imagine? Well, it is simple, 1. I don't exist 2. You programed me to do this, there is no destiny, it is just a plotted game from your machiavellic mind, and 3. You need to break free from once and for all.
So it is up to you, you know this is all true, you know none of what you know is real, you know I am just a mere illusion, a ghost. You choose, to either live this bizarre fantasy or go on into what is real; but the thing is that these days one can't actually know what is real.
or what real is
By I'm the penguin
You might not want to believe it, but it is not a matter of belief, it is a matter of knowing, and you do, deep down, deep and beneath those thoughts you never reach, beyond any conscience you have experienced, beyond yourself, you know this is not real, none of this. And what is real? well, I couldn't know, since I'm just telling you what your subconscious wants me to say, I know nothing outside your mind, because all you see is just that, your mind and thoughts.
You are probably wondering, how come if I'm part of you I'm trying to break the spell? Why am I telling you this so you notice you're in a dream and eventually wake up? Why to cease my existence if all I rely on is just you continuing to imagine? Well, it is simple, 1. I don't exist 2. You programed me to do this, there is no destiny, it is just a plotted game from your machiavellic mind, and 3. You need to break free from once and for all.
So it is up to you, you know this is all true, you know none of what you know is real, you know I am just a mere illusion, a ghost. You choose, to either live this bizarre fantasy or go on into what is real; but the thing is that these days one can't actually know what is real.
or what real is
By I'm the penguin
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Was he?
When he was young,they told him he was almighty,
Then life began,
He was believed himself almighty.
He got a raw piece of meat, and he was still almighty.
And he sutured this piece of meat, that made him feel even more almighty.
One stitch, another stitch
A cut here, a cut there.
He was god.
He opened a chest, he cracked the bones.
He saw something moving.
They told him he was special
He was over god.
And he felt he was greater.
And he felt he was stronger.
But, was he?
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Then life began,
He was believed himself almighty.
He got a raw piece of meat, and he was still almighty.
And he sutured this piece of meat, that made him feel even more almighty.
One stitch, another stitch
A cut here, a cut there.
He was god.
He opened a chest, he cracked the bones.
He saw something moving.
They told him he was special
He was over god.
And he felt he was greater.
And he felt he was stronger.
But, was he?
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Insightful day
And the symphony begins, soft sound of running water in the back, the drums of cars in the street make a not so rhythmic companion, and then the birds start in the front. The wind carries the notes as the good director it is, with overlaps and interruptions, all well planned into the melodious noise it was to wake up. And so get up from bed, the floor is as cold as every morning, and it still creates the same fuzzy feeling from my toes to my head, even three years later when I should be used to it, and I like it. The apartment still smells to those beautiful daisies Fiona brought, they still have that silky texture and soothing smell I love so much about them. I walk to the bathroom and do the morning routine, as I continue to listen the street's orchestra.
After I tight the laces of my right shoe I walk to the door and begin the real day, the one where I know I will encounter something different, the one which I can't define just by feeling it every day, it changes, it recreates itself. And so I step out, the neighbor's dog has started to bark and in the apartment at the left they are preparing tea, for what I smell is green tea, but it could also be lemon. I call Tally who as always is very silent, sometimes I wonder if she really breaths all the time. So I put the leash on her necklace and proceed to take her out for the morning errands.
As we get out of the building, Mrs. Coy says hi, and as usual Tally barks back and I wave gently. She was using too much perfume, maybe she would be seeing someone important, or someone without the olfactory sense for that matter. In our way we go pass a bakery which smelled deliciously and had big ovens baking hundreds of cookies pretty loudly. As I walked by the lane, more noises from all sort of sources made incredible harmony in a chaotic way that I always thought only I could appreciate.
And as I'm about to cross the street someone talks to me "Hi Erick" he said, because it is a masculine voice. "Hi" I answer, still not remembering who it is. "you seem happy today son" said the man, Mr. Simmons. "Well sir, I try to maintain a good attitude overall, and how can you not? the day is beautiful." I said, with a smile in my face. "Well, the sky looks like it is going to rain and the streets are dirtier than ever, plus lately everything is just messed up" he said in some sort of whining babble. "Well I think it's just me and not being able to see that." I said, optimistically.
"Oh! sorry I didn't mean to say it that way... I mean I know you are, well... sorry" babbled Mr. Simmons. "Don't worry, have a nice day" I said, as Tally indicated me it was safe to cross the street, that or she was following a pigeon, whatever it was, she was wrong.
[this post announces the end of the egotistical series]
by I'm the penguin
After I tight the laces of my right shoe I walk to the door and begin the real day, the one where I know I will encounter something different, the one which I can't define just by feeling it every day, it changes, it recreates itself. And so I step out, the neighbor's dog has started to bark and in the apartment at the left they are preparing tea, for what I smell is green tea, but it could also be lemon. I call Tally who as always is very silent, sometimes I wonder if she really breaths all the time. So I put the leash on her necklace and proceed to take her out for the morning errands.
As we get out of the building, Mrs. Coy says hi, and as usual Tally barks back and I wave gently. She was using too much perfume, maybe she would be seeing someone important, or someone without the olfactory sense for that matter. In our way we go pass a bakery which smelled deliciously and had big ovens baking hundreds of cookies pretty loudly. As I walked by the lane, more noises from all sort of sources made incredible harmony in a chaotic way that I always thought only I could appreciate.
And as I'm about to cross the street someone talks to me "Hi Erick" he said, because it is a masculine voice. "Hi" I answer, still not remembering who it is. "you seem happy today son" said the man, Mr. Simmons. "Well sir, I try to maintain a good attitude overall, and how can you not? the day is beautiful." I said, with a smile in my face. "Well, the sky looks like it is going to rain and the streets are dirtier than ever, plus lately everything is just messed up" he said in some sort of whining babble. "Well I think it's just me and not being able to see that." I said, optimistically.
"Oh! sorry I didn't mean to say it that way... I mean I know you are, well... sorry" babbled Mr. Simmons. "Don't worry, have a nice day" I said, as Tally indicated me it was safe to cross the street, that or she was following a pigeon, whatever it was, she was wrong.
[this post announces the end of the egotistical series]
by I'm the penguin
Monday, November 3, 2008
Corresponds
“Why is it nightime?”
“Erm… you’ve lived, what? 14 years… and you still don’t know why is it night time? God, there really IS something wrong with the educational system.”
He gave a laughing sight. I knew he was joking.
“No, I mean… Why did you bring me here.. In night time.”
“Well, it’s part of the surprise. I don’t want to spoil anything.”
I was scared. My mom would be freaked out if she had any idea where I was. I was certainly not at Mindy’s house.
“How much longer?”
“Just a little bit longer, keep walking.”
“Jared, how old are you?”
“I’m 24” he assured
Ten years. It was a lot. I better not tell mom.
“Here we are.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“That’s the whole point.” You gave me one of your conspiracy looks. “Sit, I brought some covers.”
It was a place in the middle of the woods. It was really cold. It was surrounded by trees. I was scared. I mean, I had a humongous crush with the guy, but I didn’t know what to do.
“I brought some cookies, chocolate chip…” he said, “over there, in the basket.”
“What time is it?”
“I believe it’s like… 1 am…”
“So, what are we really doing here?” I asked, in a serious way.
I was scared, he was way old for me, but I loved him, and he had never said anything. He was just amazingly polite and nice, and one day he came up and said: I have something to tell you, I have a surprise.
“We are… we came here to look at the stars.”
I looked up, there where millions of stars over us. The city had killed them, but now, they had re-born over us, as we saw them for the first time. We laid down for a long time, I loved hearing you breathe.
“Well, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
“Yes?” My heart accelerated, I was so scared.
“Well… you’ve been… for me…. You’ve been, like my little sister.”
Little sister?
“Like someone I have fun with, I can trust, I can teach. We’ve shared lots of moments, and, well… you are very special for me… you truly are the little sister I never had.”
I was a little sister.
“And… well, remember I told you about the applications I made for the universities?”
“Of course.”
“I got in.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! Isn’t that great! I’m leaving, at the end of the month!”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I already have the dorm and everything… And I just wanted to tell you how important you are for me, and that I’ll miss you.”
He gave me a hug.
My heart stopped.
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
“Erm… you’ve lived, what? 14 years… and you still don’t know why is it night time? God, there really IS something wrong with the educational system.”
He gave a laughing sight. I knew he was joking.
“No, I mean… Why did you bring me here.. In night time.”
“Well, it’s part of the surprise. I don’t want to spoil anything.”
I was scared. My mom would be freaked out if she had any idea where I was. I was certainly not at Mindy’s house.
“How much longer?”
“Just a little bit longer, keep walking.”
“Jared, how old are you?”
“I’m 24” he assured
Ten years. It was a lot. I better not tell mom.
“Here we are.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“That’s the whole point.” You gave me one of your conspiracy looks. “Sit, I brought some covers.”
It was a place in the middle of the woods. It was really cold. It was surrounded by trees. I was scared. I mean, I had a humongous crush with the guy, but I didn’t know what to do.
“I brought some cookies, chocolate chip…” he said, “over there, in the basket.”
“What time is it?”
“I believe it’s like… 1 am…”
“So, what are we really doing here?” I asked, in a serious way.
I was scared, he was way old for me, but I loved him, and he had never said anything. He was just amazingly polite and nice, and one day he came up and said: I have something to tell you, I have a surprise.
“We are… we came here to look at the stars.”
I looked up, there where millions of stars over us. The city had killed them, but now, they had re-born over us, as we saw them for the first time. We laid down for a long time, I loved hearing you breathe.
“Well, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
“Yes?” My heart accelerated, I was so scared.
“Well… you’ve been… for me…. You’ve been, like my little sister.”
Little sister?
“Like someone I have fun with, I can trust, I can teach. We’ve shared lots of moments, and, well… you are very special for me… you truly are the little sister I never had.”
I was a little sister.
“And… well, remember I told you about the applications I made for the universities?”
“Of course.”
“I got in.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes! Isn’t that great! I’m leaving, at the end of the month!”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I already have the dorm and everything… And I just wanted to tell you how important you are for me, and that I’ll miss you.”
He gave me a hug.
My heart stopped.
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Tedious or charming?
Good or bad? sinner or saint? fun or boring?
How do you classify people?
Oscar Wilde said that people are not good or bad, they are either tedious or charming. But is it there a correct way to put people into some categorical?Is it right just to put a tag, or is it more a matter of social studying that of labeling people? Well, one thing is true, when we compare others, we certainly do tend to use adjectives.
And just to start with, I'm not him. And disregarding the fact that it is obvious due to the fact that our particles have a similar, yet different arrangement, as well as our cells; they, we are not the same. It is in fact a useful remark because, we do share some gens, so one could say that the whole appearance and genes wouldn't get on the way, but they do.
I have always believed that a person should never be judged by things they can't change, but for things they have chosen. Their actions, their ideology and their values, those are the things a person should be judged by. So, in judgment we are very, extremely different, while I appreciate tolerance and cultural diversity, he's more appealed by social selection and triumph of the the strongest. And to be honest I couldn't say either one is wrong, because at the end the ideologies seem very different but they all have a root in the same thought, social existence.
I could also say that he is active, he's a hunter in the most primal yet seductive of ways, and with a tad of experience he becomes a pro. In the other hand I am passive, observant in the most tedious and creepy of ways, and when out of my element I drown pretty easily. So you could say he is more adaptive, but then again the observing part is just a form of adaptation, so we're not that different, we follow the same light across the tunnel, we just take different sides of the rail.
In morals, I am peaceful, in the whole meaning, for I create no disruption, or anything at all. I treat everyone the same way (all bad, yet the same way), and have a strong feeling for justice. And he is much more aggressive in all ways, has no respect for other's idiosyncrasies and sees people in general as tools, elaborated and complex tools to unlock the gates of his goals. For the nature of my moral, I see his values as wrong and potentially excusable, but as I have previously stated, moral is subjective, we can't say bad or good. Maybe only tedious and charming, but then who is which?
I see many differences, but at the end they are all intangible and unimportant. And thing is that I couldn't be able to say he is right or wrong, or that I am better than he is in any way that is not practically proved. I couldn't say he is tedious or charming, or that I am. And there is where lies the difference, I won't be able to judge him entirely, ever, do to my moral, but he can with his, he does with his; and the fact that I state this, makes the whole difference, the fact that I analyze the pieces that due us apart, the fact that we think of people so differently that he can actually believe he is better than all of them given his reduced judgments makes us a different person, more than any other thing. And that is where lies the difference.
So I don't care, go ahead and say I'm not adaptable, say I don't belong, but I have one thing that nothing can take away from me. I am not him
[2am.whiskey.prep party.a handful of young subjects.an amateur psychiatrist.]
By I'm the penguin
How do you classify people?
Oscar Wilde said that people are not good or bad, they are either tedious or charming. But is it there a correct way to put people into some categorical?Is it right just to put a tag, or is it more a matter of social studying that of labeling people? Well, one thing is true, when we compare others, we certainly do tend to use adjectives.
And just to start with, I'm not him. And disregarding the fact that it is obvious due to the fact that our particles have a similar, yet different arrangement, as well as our cells; they, we are not the same. It is in fact a useful remark because, we do share some gens, so one could say that the whole appearance and genes wouldn't get on the way, but they do.
I have always believed that a person should never be judged by things they can't change, but for things they have chosen. Their actions, their ideology and their values, those are the things a person should be judged by. So, in judgment we are very, extremely different, while I appreciate tolerance and cultural diversity, he's more appealed by social selection and triumph of the the strongest. And to be honest I couldn't say either one is wrong, because at the end the ideologies seem very different but they all have a root in the same thought, social existence.
I could also say that he is active, he's a hunter in the most primal yet seductive of ways, and with a tad of experience he becomes a pro. In the other hand I am passive, observant in the most tedious and creepy of ways, and when out of my element I drown pretty easily. So you could say he is more adaptive, but then again the observing part is just a form of adaptation, so we're not that different, we follow the same light across the tunnel, we just take different sides of the rail.
In morals, I am peaceful, in the whole meaning, for I create no disruption, or anything at all. I treat everyone the same way (all bad, yet the same way), and have a strong feeling for justice. And he is much more aggressive in all ways, has no respect for other's idiosyncrasies and sees people in general as tools, elaborated and complex tools to unlock the gates of his goals. For the nature of my moral, I see his values as wrong and potentially excusable, but as I have previously stated, moral is subjective, we can't say bad or good. Maybe only tedious and charming, but then who is which?
I see many differences, but at the end they are all intangible and unimportant. And thing is that I couldn't be able to say he is right or wrong, or that I am better than he is in any way that is not practically proved. I couldn't say he is tedious or charming, or that I am. And there is where lies the difference, I won't be able to judge him entirely, ever, do to my moral, but he can with his, he does with his; and the fact that I state this, makes the whole difference, the fact that I analyze the pieces that due us apart, the fact that we think of people so differently that he can actually believe he is better than all of them given his reduced judgments makes us a different person, more than any other thing. And that is where lies the difference.
So I don't care, go ahead and say I'm not adaptable, say I don't belong, but I have one thing that nothing can take away from me. I am not him
[2am.whiskey.prep party.a handful of young subjects.an amateur psychiatrist.]
By I'm the penguin
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Hold it
Hold it.... hold it....
SNAP!
A fresh breeze came from the east
The wheat fields danced with the wind, making unrepeatable patterns of waves, and they where thousands of plants, moving as a single.
It reminded me of Van Gogh
Your hair had a hay color. And I thought about it, you hair was dancing too.
You didn’t smile, there was something painful in your eyes.
You sat down, and the wheat almost covered you completely.
I left.
As I walked away to the horizon I felt the wind calling me.
A soft whistle.
A clear voice.
Then, I saw it.
SNAP!
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
SNAP!
A fresh breeze came from the east
The wheat fields danced with the wind, making unrepeatable patterns of waves, and they where thousands of plants, moving as a single.
It reminded me of Van Gogh
Your hair had a hay color. And I thought about it, you hair was dancing too.
You didn’t smile, there was something painful in your eyes.
You sat down, and the wheat almost covered you completely.
I left.
As I walked away to the horizon I felt the wind calling me.
A soft whistle.
A clear voice.
Then, I saw it.
SNAP!
[ Mrs. K i t e ]
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