Response paradox

I know it.

What? What is it exactly that you know?

The way into illumination, I know the way there.

So, what? You just can't go there?

Oh no, I do, I know how to get there and I can.

Then? How come you just don't go towards it?

Because... I'm not ready for it, I think I still have to do many things before.

Are you saying illumination is dead?

No... I'm just saying I need a bit of chaos before balance.

But isn't everyone just looking for that? Complete, and total spiritual illumination?

Well, perhaps I'm not. Perhaps I just want to be happy

Isn't illumination part of the full happiness state?

Maybe.



[confessing half-lies half-truths half-lemonades 3/2... I hate decimal digits]
By I'm the penguin

Panic paradox

Sometimes you’re tired
Sometimes you’re annoyed
Sometimes you’re whatever…
But when the two first arise, there’s nothing worse than panicking. Enoguh with the panicking for now...
Because sometimes you just know panic won’t do it, it won’t solve it. And you know it can only make it worse. Instead, start doing what you’re supposed to do, and THEN complain and wish and hope they consider it for the next time.
We all have our panic attacks, (moi même included in LOTS maybe more than I would like to accept) But right now I’m not in it.
And I apologize for past panic-expansion contribution (and for future perhaps)
I’ve ranted, I’ve panicked and I’m not part of it right now (well, rant, we all love it and it’s inevitable)
So, know, the bothering thing, is I have to “panic” in order to avoid panic situations. What a paradox…

[Mrs. K i t e ]

About story telling and blogs

Doing a blog these days (which are the only days blogs have existed) is about a periodical posting of one's life, it is like a very unprivate diary, made for every single person in the world to see, in that instance we do make it kind of secret don't we? Blogs are meant to be a catch up into someone's life, but what if we don't know said person? Isn't it like reading a reality show, but this might actually answer your fan mail? Isn't blogging and v-blogging and whatever format of ita way to feed a huge voyeurism in us all? And believe me, I don't want it to sound dirty, and I know a million people would feel offended by that, but in a way I'm right.

Of course it has many advantages, all the connection, interactivity and international web-socializing, and they are just fine. But to me, maybe because I'm a story teller, a blog is more like a story of a character, a continuous, (almost) never ending story. And notice I say character because when a person is virtual, you do know it's there, but most of the time, unconsciously if you will, you don't realize it is truly a person, you just assume it is a character. In that way I think the internet has done wonders for the predicted to be doomed story telling.

And in that way this couldn't be really seen as a blog, because of many reasons. First we do update daily, which makes us very unusual, second, we don't share our private lives... or do we? I never told you here of the time I was on the street and so a crazy woman throwing rocks in the park, which could have made a wonderful story, but I didn't. You don't even know our real names, you don't even read us. We just tell stories and nonsense. But doesn't that tell you more about me than telling you about the time my cousin told me I would never succeed in life? I think story telling is much more about me than my life per se, if you know what I mean.

So perhaps we're not blogging directly, by telling you our stories, by becoming characters with recurring problems and e-mails you can send your stalkerish messages to. But, I think that we do blog, we become the narrators so you can make up the characters, so you can put the puzzle together, so you can see us. But of course that would requier lots of readers and time, which we have non. But I just wanted to go there, into the oh-you're-not-really-a-blog-you-never-speak-about-you issue. That remarked, I think we can go on with our complex over 290 pieces puzzle that could or not be named blog.


[indirectly blogging since 2008.... let's wait some years until that becomes some sort of real mile stone]
By I'm the penguin

Science makes you hate commercials.

Don’t tell me you haven’t seen a commercial in which bacteria are evil-pointed-teeth brown monsters, the size of the toilet with drug addict-like eyes….? And they’re conspiring against the house maid. The maid is so scared, but she gets the new bacteria-killer product… with O2 POWER!!!! (OMG… O2 is such a miracle!) As soon as this fantastic thing touches the evil bacteria, they kinda explode-disappear… (their eyes and legs too) leaving flowers and scent. And as they die, they make a gremlin “nooo!”
Or the soap that says “tears” grease…
It all changes when you know O2 is just oxygen (just? HAHA) and bacteria are prokaryotic cells with nothing but genetic material and ribosomes… and don’t forget the scary cilias or flagella. I mean, they definitely can’t have eyes, or legs, or conspiracy plans… poor poor bacteria, almost everyone is unicellular… How can you blame them?
What when you understand what soap actually does… emulsifies… pretty micelles..

You would think I think it loses the “magic” of tv..
But for me… there’s no greater magic, and pleasure… than knowing this…

[Mrs. K i t e ]
dear stalker, now you know I'm a nerd.... (ha, like if that was new...)

Chapter 12: Mousy Margaret

He was walking down the street, looking at the autumn leaves falling and the sorrow wind washing up the streets of that old summer joy, when the thought of why was Margaret missing hit him really hard in the back of the head, that and a ball. "Sorry sir!" was heard from a group of kids who were a few yards away, of course that wasn't an apologetic plea, it was more like a Could you pass over the ball? But he couldn't loose time in his regular ball-puncturing-child-yelling activities, so he just kicked the ball.

He wasn't very sure about what could he do with this intelligence, she would probably be now in Tuxon for all he knew. "You know? For being a best-selling author you do go around the same problem quiet a lot" said Henry, out of nowhere, for no on was there. "What do you mean by no one? I mean seriously, in this entire novel I have done like nothing really, it should be awarded the most successful novel of the year by the Plotless Award organization" he as now just standing, talking to the air in a loud voice, then he just silenced. Come freaking on, do you really think you can silence me? I may be a character, but even I can say this story is crap. He thought, but then he went back to what he was doing previously, which was thinking about Margaret and the reason she had gone, the nature of her departure, the nature of her continous leaving, and his nature of perpetual inaction.

"The inaction wouldn't be so intense if only you could think of something decent..." he was interrupted by his Singing in the rain techno version ringtone. "Hello" he heard from the other side, he hadn't even looked at the number, it was an unknown one. "Geez, finally, some sort of mystery" said Henry, confusing the person in the phone. "Excuse me, but is this Peter Caroll?" asked the voice. "Well, I suppose that's my brother, who's phone this used to be. You see, he got a bit of a problem with the service so he just gave it to me, so then someone called him to ask him out, and well I answered, and I and Margaret--the girl calling-- kind of talked for a while and then we went out. Then some more coincidiential circumstances got us into seriously dating, yeet being wrapped in some sort of lameo mystery designed by a retiring writer who just wants to finish his contract with some crappy publishing house which is closing this year." he finally said, expecting the person at the other side would hang up by now. "So you do can contact me with him?" asked the voice, as if it had listened to nothing of the nonsense. "Well, yea I guess" he said with a bit of dissapointment "I don't know his number by memory but I can call you back right away"then the voice made some sort of beef "no, that won't do, please don't tell him I called. I will call you later" said the voice, making no sense. "Well, this really makes it, are you really using the stranger calling getting me into another conflict idea again? And I bet this will be related at the end with Margaret and her secret reason to leave the city right?" Henry asked to the air, for the voice had already hang up

When he finished to scribble the number of the stranger in a napkin "Sure, because I always carry a napkin..." he had gotten from the coffee shop in the way, he walked to the next avenue and called a cab. "Where are you heading?" asked the taxi driver "You're white to avoid political incorrectness? Or is it just irnony?" asked Henry, again speaking nonsense, to which the taxi driver just stared at him "Between the Second and Fuller" Henry finally said. "I'm not ever going to get out of here am I? I mean, I will be bound to repeat this cheap plot over and over again, finding outMargaret was tangled with drug dealers who shipped the cocaine in curtains. I mean, I do give you that it gives kind of a plot twist given that she will give misleading clues, but I'm really never getting out of this created drama I call life right?"

"No,I think not" said the taxi driver. "Excuse me?" said Henry, frightened by the comment. "I think those are not the streets sir, I mean Second and Fuller are not paralells" said the taxi driver. "Sure..whatever" said Henry

And, back...

I was almost gone when I remembered it.
It’s that sort of thing you’re always almost-forgetting.
Each time you get in the car, you’re about to leave, and it says “Hey” in your head
And you go back.
And sometimes you can’t be late enough… when it calls you.
And makes you be even later…

But you go back.
You go back and get it.
No matter how late it is.
No matter where you are or how you’ve been.
You go back for it, and you get it, and you feel satisfied.

And sometimes, oh, how you wish you hadn’t gone back.

[Mrs. K i t e ]

Cyclic time

"I have no time" he said, as if that was some sort of excuse not to be here. He says it as if someone could ever posses time and he just turns away saying he lacks something his ancestors imagined. Time is not something that you can touch or put into a NMR scan to find out what it is. He says he has no time because it is that part of the night when something more important in his priority list is upcoming, and he must be ready. But I'm more pissed about the fact that he uses something as unreal as time as an excuse, than the fact that I'm at the bottom of his list. Damned priorities, damned lack of confidence.

I think of ending it all and then the beginning comes and bites me in the ass. I have been wanting to send him away, to finally put an end to this, more than one time I have packed his things in one big brown box and be about to run away. But I haven't, not once. And today, as I am back, putting his many various papers in the box I find a pink envelope. I have moved his papers so many times, yet I hadn't seen that envelope in months. He gave it to me the third month, of whatever it is we have, there he wrote the most melancholic and and romantic of letters, I gave it back because "This shouldn't get more complicated, keep this, give it to your wife." I said, people often say that time makes you wiser, didn't occur to me.

Of course I had read the pink envelope with a scented paper and meticulous handwriting, and as any other person, I loved the fact that it read wonders about me and how necessary I was. But that letter also meant that it was real, that that which we had been sharing for a time was no longer a hidden magical place, it was crude and solid adultery. I didn't and still don't feel guilty, it was his decision, it was his decision to lie and scape from a life he didn't want. And that was his problem, at least until the feeling of need was reciprocate, from then on it was all a downfall.

He was a salesman and I worked in a lab, there was no way we could have known each other, seriously, no way. Until Katie quit because she got pregnant, and so someone had to manage the suppliers. I had always been in management, never a good position, so it was no surprise the boss picked me for the job. The man in charge of providing the lab with plastic wraps for the packages got retired, he was a very old man who came every 23th of the month. Katie's child and retired Mr. Kirk didn't plan it, but because of these people I got into this mess, I have always pointed them as the accuseables for all of this, whatever it is.

He was charming, he never wore a ring. I was naive and thought he was just a very good salesman. Many women have that instinct, to know when they are being wooed, to know if the guy is a approaching in any way, I don't. But in this story I was not the lamb, nor he is the lion, there was no bloodshed. I was aware he was into me when he started having lame excuses about coming to the lab, I knew how it all operated, how stupid of him saying he thought he might be useful. So stupid of me letting him do it.

The first time he bought me dinner he was straight forward, he was married, no kids though. By then I was already in, in a sinking ship, but already in. I never asked him for him to abandon his wife, I never though it would be of any use, I didn't want to be the cliqued bloody mistress who wants to marry the already married bloody husband. Then things went by its natural course, non of my few friends knew he was married, no one has actually seen him. I bet he has never told any of his classy friends, or his classy wife who he buys a new bracelet of fantasy jewelry every time he feels guilty, which is when he stays at night.

After giving him back the letter in the pink envelop we stopped seeing each other for weeks, I was trying to let him go, to get rid of the complexity, it was simple homotopy. I had to get him out of my system to go on. But then ghosts from the past returned, my father was found dead in the backyard of his house back in his little town. He had done so much wrong to me, yet I couldn't help but to cry, and feel screwed up, because every decision in my life seemed like a way of burring me deeper into that hole of self pity. So I went back to his arms, I damn my weakness.

Time hadn't effect on me in this matter, as any other person I do grow old, I have to pay the taxes every April and I drink champagne ever January; but time was not linear, it was just some cycle. I always ended up in the same self destructive ways, time was not something I had, was not something I could take from the future to replace a lost past. Time was just a dimension, one of the nine I couldn't see, yet, supposedly is there.

And now I take and rip this pink envelop, because it belongs to the past, a time that has gotten out of his hands just like me. I close the brown box take my keys and head off. I want to escape, I want to proggress, to step forward and move on. I want to move on, but that's for people who can have time, not idiots stacked in a cycle with the promise of an ending.

[a little different from the normal material, yet familiar]
By I'm the penguin

The noon of the season

“Should I be concerned about the things you hate the most? I shouldn’t. And what if that which you hate the most is me? Should I be concerned about it? I shouldn’t. This makes no sense, I want to be concerned and I don’t even know you.”
“You don’t.”
“You answers. I hate them, always so vague, so complementary to my questions, a simple negative, a denial. So perfect, so lame.”
“You’re now insulting me with poetry?”
“I am.”
“You are.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not.”
“Wanna see?”
“No.”
And she left. Once again. It’s difficult to remember something else than fights.
I keep wondering when are the good times coming?
The part when is the other way. Me not remembering the fights.
Is it possible to go back?

Dr. Noon

[Mrs. K i t e ]

He-who-breaks-pasts

For today's story I will speak about he-who-breaks-pasts. He broke my past in a way that no one would want their past to be broken, and that is because honestly nobody would want their whole life (lie) be torn apart by one single person. But it was also relieving, I was no longer chained to that lie (life) that made me feel so sorry and bad about myself, it was like a ballchain. But well, let's just say it was a mixture of feelings, or a roller coaster of emotions if you look for the cheesiness in this text.

So, he came into my life like everything new comes, he just appeared one day there. I had previous knowledge of his arrival, I knew what he could do, but in no moment did I consider he would have such an impact in it all. The first time I saw him, he was climbing down the stair, and I was sitted next to some friends. I remember it clearly, he was running down when he took a look at the room, and with all probabilities against it, he looked at me. And our eyes met for less than a second, but that was enough to know what was coming, or at least something deep and fearful in me told me it was happening. I always preffered to listen to that voice, but this was different.

The days passed by and this stranger was still around but I hadn't even crossed paths with him, not a word, not a glance. Looking back I kind of feel like a stalker, trying all day long to think of a way to pass next to him, to find a way to know something about him. It was all so useless, and in the process pieces of me were breaking, but I wasn't aware fo it, until the damage was done. You see, my past was constituted by all these little things that I held so dear, but where fragile for my entire life (lie) was built on hopes that someday I would fit in.

He didn't even notice me, obviously, and I think I didn't really wanted him to. He destroied me from the inside without even a word, without wanting to try or even knowing, we just made eye contact. But his skills of putting my world upside down were not his truly, they were in me, they were not infantil curiosity, they were something more complex. And as in anything complex, it was twisted, dark and confusing. It was me being a common Tereza looking for that meaning, looking for that someone with the secret password to the secret society I knew I had always belonged. And I thought he was Tomas, holding a password in the form of a book. I was just a weak, desperate Tereza.

But this story doesn't end with a life in the country side, it ends in blank. He just went back to wherever he came form, not knowing about me, or about him breaking me. He just left. I'm not saying I broke apart because of his departure, or because he was never coming back, he wasn't all that important. What was important was the symbol he incarnated, he was part of a secret society which was the only one where I could ever fit in, I didn't know anything about it, but I knew I would recognize the sign when I saw it. My whole slef ached to belong to said secret society, but I was just so clueless and far a way, and lost.

I'm still waiting for the invitation letter (the last one didn't come when I was 11)




[Tereza and Tomas are people who had the disgrace to be born characters who are doomed to repeat their whole drama over and over again. But aren't we all? (father:Milan Kundera) ]
By I'm the penguin

MEME thing... It seems Mr. Penguin is not a common name... so I chose that other silly Alias

looks like tmo shadow 2 (hey I didn't say the alias was common m'kay?)

needs to learn a lot in the defense department (just when one thinks masks can be worn as shields)

kewl. Stephanie says: i have dreams about him o_O. Mr.Penguin says: ... Mr.Penguin says: hmm k. Stephanie says: im gunna cry bcuz hes so BEAUTIFUL ...(geez we were just talking about Ronald McDonald, chicks are crazy)

does not want Holland's Euro 2008 campaign to be remembered just for the pretty football.(he also wants the hooligan outrage to be carved in the expecator's minds)

hates breathing warm air videos, video clips & video blogs (why can't you just write? is you're grammer teth bath?)

asks for residents' feedback on budget (okay, maybe "asks" is an understatement when you're threatening with making a plane turbine come from the future and crash everyone's homes [obscure Donnie Darko reference])

likes Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it). (who doesn't love a movie told by a guy without four theet who missed to say Uncle Ben used to know Vader until the end of the thing)

eats a bite of a muffin during a break in his practice session on Rod Laver Arena (he needs all those calories from chocalate gloriousness)

wears a gold ring round his finger. (it is the one ring... to rule them all!)

was arrested Friday morning on charges of driving under the influence. (in my diffence, it was euphoria, not the cheap vodka they say it was)

The not knowing

“When everything was there, there was only one thing missing. It was like, if I had everything I liked, everything I ever wished for… except one thing. And it was that one thing which specially disturbed me, which caused everything (and I mean EVERYHING) to become less important, and even a banal expectation of happiness, which in the end wasn’t. How could this ONE thing be so important, that the rest of it, didn’t work without it? Why did it change my world? Why couldn’t I be happy? Was having a part better than having almost everything? I couldn’t now.”
“So little by little, all this everything became useless, because I couldn’t have the one thing, the one thing which I wanted the most. And I asked myself: Would I be happier if I had ONLY that thing? I couldn’t give myself an honest answer, but I did the best I could. The answer was yes. “
“I continuously felt as an spoiled child, who wants something SO VERY MUCH. And is such an strong desire, that the you you thing you where, is not you anymore. And perhaps I was, just like an spoiled child. But what could one do?, when there’s nothing but expect.”
“I didn’t even tried to get the thing. If I tried, there were only two options: success or fail. Success was what I wanted, so desperately wanted. But fail, fail was something that I couldn’t bear, couldn’t even thing. Was the fear of failing greater than the desire to succeed? Maybe. I wouldn’t say they were greater, but the consequences of one were definitely worse. I’d rather live in the not knowing.”
“A fail, kills the hope completely, but the rather-not-knowing does too. This wasn’t a problem, since I didn’t think of the second one… At the time.”

GOOGLE VERB MEME
Kite: (didn’t actually used Kite.. soooo.. you know.. I don’t want to feed the stalkers everywhere.)
"… needs some prayer power-she's so uncomfortable." (ok.....)
"…looks like a snob." (haha...)
"…says 8 months ago, danke schön." (8 months ago?...)
"…WANTS TO HELP JACK" (who's jack?...)
"…Does Olivia A Favor" (olivia? omg, i knew I wasn't good at people's names, but this has gone too far...)
"…hates Britney Spears." (true.)
"…asks Frank for help with Rafe." (weird..)
"…likes vivid, bold, energetic colours and inspirations of national costumes in her outfits." (like brown right?)
"…eats her shoe."(how did you know?!)
"…wears a Rochas iridescent blue-flower ruffle dress specially designed by Theyskens."(because I know who Theyskens is.. (are?))
"…was arrested for helping Paul escape." (sounds fun)
"…Loves Her Camera" (I don't even have one.... they owe me one... but I will love it..)


[Mrs. K i t e ]
Do your's....

Quantic possibilities

Previously in [insert name for this story] Greg and Aiden went to a place and made stuff for more conclusive summaries read the whole thing.

So I took a complete cup, and in my decision to be cool and drink for the first time, I stood up and saw all the bottles, with all the brands and all the half empty sodas. I was truly clueless about what should one do. But then CIA Steven came into rescue, took the cup “Gosh, this freshmen, they don’t even know how to pour a drink. I’m telling you, each year they make them dumber” he said, actually thinking I was a freshman, when in fact I was a junior, and he a sophomore, but it was all about not tagging that night.

So after he gave me the cup with less than 3/4 of the content, I sipped. Maybe it was because my first experience with alcohol was when my grandpa gave me eggnog and hours later I puked, or it was the fact that it was a solution with more ethanol than carbonated water; but regardless of the reason, I spat. It just felt like a deep hit of bitterness and antibacterial, with a hint of lemon. The unavoidable reaction was laughter from the others, that damned peer pressure, not even Pascal could have imagined its power.

So, in a turning of events, an act of boldness, and perhaps stupidity—okay, very certainly stupidity—I tried to drink more, with long and bitter mouthfuls, I held my breath and prayed there wasn’t instant liver damage. At the end three guys were staring kind of impressed, I was feeling sick already, and the cup was empty. I didn’t spat, but I was two mental please don’t puke away from showing everyone my lunch.

“Woah!, and here was I thinking you were just another pathetic freshman” said Steven, perhaps not seeing my disgust face please don’t puke, “You had me fooled with the not drinking act” he said, thinking I was cool, I was please don’t puke. “I mean, seriously, someone who doesn’t drink couldn’t have had a whole cup of tequila with lime soda in one shot” please don’t puke. It really didn’t help that I had memorized all consequences in short and long term of alcohol for biology class or something, the point was that I was feeling kind of dizzy. Please don’t puke.

“I think I’ll go to the rest room” I said, with the little air left in my throat. So I ran to the restroom and without even closing the door I reached the toilet and put my head inside. While I was there thinking about life and how sanitary was this, when I pitied myself about puking with one single drink, I was seriously not made for this. Then, when I was done emptying my whole self, I heard the door slam closed, maybe people weren’t up for such a show. I stood up and went to the mirror, it was dark and I couldn’t really see myself, yet I stared at it, while trying to wash my hands.

Just when I was about to open the door I heard some yelling, they weren’t OMG-this-party-is-so-great screams, they were I’m-freaking-pissed yelling. So for some reason my instincts triggered to open the door instead of hiding, or just doing anything, Darwin would have been so disappointed. And in front of me was a girl yelling something like “Even you drama fairies are pigs!” and then doing something like slapping or pushing or something the guy in front of her. But I couldn’t really bet on any of that, I had just seen this morning’s food along with my dignity flushing down the toilet.

“The problem is that I’m a guy right? Seriously I can fix that for you” said the drama-fairy who is a pig. Then the room went silent as if that was one of those Oh-no-he-didn’t moments. It was in fact, since the girl came back fast and said—now this I remember well for the events to proceed—“I do dig guys, just real ones” she said, with a bitchy attitude that was another oh-no-she-didn’t moment. And then, just to prove her point, or sent by God/Newton’s ghost/A parallel universe, she turned around saw me, grabbed me by the jaws and approached her lips to mine.

I still had the puke taste in my mouth, the whole room was watching, tomorrow she wouldn’t remember or want to remember anything, probably the drama fairy was gonna beat the hell crap out of me, yet, it was the greatest moment in my life. No that was selfish, that was the greatest moment in all human history, it would be spoken of for centuries and… two seconds later it was over.

She turned around again and walked straight to the door and left, along with my pituitary hormones, mixed with testosterone and a bit of estrogen, commonly known as heart. The whole thing had happened in slow motion, yet was so fast. In matter of seconds the party went back to the inaudible noise and chaos. After such an event the whole universe must have been going into Entropy faster.

“Dude what the hell was that?” asked Aiden, who had appeared out of nowhere. “Do you know that girl?” he said, again something I couldn’t answer “I just expected you to talk to a few people, but I got to recognize, you’re a fast dog bro” said Aiden, laughing, hard. I knew he kind of meant it in a funny way, but it was right then I couldn’t tell a dead thread form a joke. Then Steven, who had probably wished for that same event happening to him for years, came along.

“Who is that?” I asked. Then, as if I had asked him if Santa wasn’t real he shook his head in sympathy. “She’s Amy Lowry, but she’s a lost cause dude, don’t even get excited” he said, turning into the dragon guarding my princess’ castle. I had read too much fairy tales. “What? Why?” I asked, in confusion. He was wrong, she loved me she really did, or she could… maybe. “I’m sorry dude. She’s this really hot pink-haired girl who makes us guys think she’s available. But she isn’t, you see, like two summers ago she went to some weird music camp, and there were a lot of people from the school, yet almost no one knew her. The point is that one night she was caught making out with her roommate, who happened to be a girl” he said, terminating all my sudden illusions of romantic sunsets. Alcohol made me so common.

“So what? You mean she’s gay?” I asked, later thinking if that was a political correct term. “Hey, you can’t jump into conclusions, maybe she was just…” said Aiden, probably wanting to cheer me up, he was so nice. “What? Experiment? Maybe, but ever since people talk about her and guys hit on her a lot. What happens is that she seduces them, gives them hope, just to later on crush them and storm out” said Steven, with such a feeling as if he was talking out of experience, which he wasn’t. “Maybe it’s just that she has had only bad guys” I said, trying not to extinguish the hope flame. “Nope, sorry, that’s what she does. She attracts you in and then kicks you in the balls and runs away” said Steven, being crudely honest, evaporating all the oxygen from my flame.

[yes this shall continue, i'll throw some links. Part one. Part two. Part three.]

By I'm the penguin

Curious story of the cow who lived

Sorry if I'm being pictury, but it's just my mood right now... So, you made me think about resoultions, so here they are (partially)

This is the story of a cow, which had anything in particular convenient for the farm. It was not bigger than the rest, and gave no better milk either. But, it had to die.

There’s another story, about a painting, which wanted to change colors.
IT wont let me post it...
There’s also the story about a girl and a boy.

There’s a story about an abandoned page-holder

And there’s the story of course, of the abandoned instrument.


[Mrs. K i t e ]

Sand storm

A dust storm, raging and flying. Making circles and going nowhere, filling every corner and path, revolving as a bundle of nerves, full of anguish and sand. This storm was as old as the wind, it was the music produced by the character’s magic, and it sometimes took the shape of innocent talc, others it was a constructive flour, but they were just shapes, its origin was always the one of dry lands and old distress.

And the wizard tried and tried, he was not an artist for his creations were not beautiful. He was not an architect because the outcome of his works was always unstable. He could only exteriorize that sand storm of twisted dreams and crooked stories. But what didn’t came out the way he wanted the most was the dying of the characters, numerous monsters and old kings, all fighting to come back into his day dreams or wicked writing. Every single one of them, fighting, struggling, bombarding and stalking, just to get out; but this was no act of freedom, they just wanted to rein the reality as well.

So the wizard thought day and night, what could he do, what would ever make such a storm and monsters to calm down? What on that unreal world or in his mundane life could pacify a storm as old and dry as his memory, or stop the monsters that hid under his bed and imagination. He had tried to enter the realm of fantasy, and kill one by one of those beasts, but said creatures overpowered him, he had become a prisoner of his own wicked and vicious imagination.

At all costs the wizard had to keep the monsters locked in his head, and the storm as calmed as he could, so he took some potions, potions that made him forget. Potions that made his soul feel numb, that made him smile, yet not feel merry. But it was all worth it as long as the six headed zombies and the old scary tyrants didn’t came out at night to whisper things.

Oh silly humans who think they can just call away their ghosts, the wizard didn’t last long in that numbing spell. Soon the storm found its way to blow harder and the characters to occupy his every thought. He was surrounded; there was nothing he could do. The monsters simply took his fortress and ravaged his defenses and violated his mind and forced him to take them to the other side. There was nothing more the wizard could do, so abused and vulnerable, the wizard let them in.

And so the music of the characters was heard again, the storm was raging and the pen was scratching. Paper was inked, monsters were released and the wizard boy could at last have a breath, although he knew the consequences. He couldn’t stop vomiting letter by letter, adjective by adjective each of the monsters who had stalked them, they were just flowing into the sea of sentences.

The ink was drying out and so was his sanity, his well being was flushing down the river of nonsense as well; they were draining his whole being. And moments before he thought it was the last breath he would make, a character long ago imagined appeared, one that was not along with the horde of monsters. This one was an actual good memory; it was a remnant of a forgotten smile. And with that he saw not only evil was produced in him that he could choose. And with the last breath of hope he scribbled one last sentence.

“Regardless of their efforts, they lived happily ever after.”

[who said I couldn't write happy endings?]

By I'm the penguin

Formidable

“It’s night in the city. Picture a glamorous New York from the 40’s. Take my hand. Dance. And sing with me… you are the one for me, for me, for me, formidable, you are my love very, very, very, veritable…”
“Everyone’s wearing nice hats.” You said almost convincing
“Just… Dance…” I laughed.
« See me, see me, see me, si minable, je ferais mieux d'aller choisir mon vocabulaire »
Turn. Turn. Turn.
“We’re just missing the band” you smiled again.
« How can I love you.»
“Play it again.”
“Ok.”
|◄◄
«You are the one for me, for me, for me, formidable, you are my love very, very, very, veritable…»
[Mrs. K i t e ]

Morning business

You wake up and look at the mirror, you're not getting any younger. Yet you wouldn't want to, you are young, you are beautiful and you wouldn't change a thing... maybe a few less pounds, going to the gym regularly and a more symmetrical face, nothing to worry about though. You go and have some breakfast and read the cereal box, apparently that is the only brand which offers more than 14 different vitamins and minerals, that one and the other dozens in the market. And while you go and dress you realize that there aren't many cartoonish-stamped T-shirts, there are no fun colors, just matching ones. But you think that is simply part of growing, growing old. And if morning wasn't difficult enough, you have those thoughts again.

The thoughts of what will happen in the future, the thoughts of uncertainty, the ultimate stress source of someone your age. And of course, as many other ones in your major you have it all planed out, you're going to get the best or second best internship, then get a job there and climb your way up to CEO, or whatever it is in top of everyone. In the way you will find someone who is convenient to your career, you will both agree not to have kids, or you'll persuade said person. Then you'll marry and reconsider the kids thing, grow old and rich. But you are not convinced, you didn't even made up your mind about eating cereal or scrambled eggs (there were no eggs at home).

Of course that all sounds great, but you are not sure that it will all work, you are not sure they will accept you in said internship, you don't know if you will have a bitchy boss who's heart you will end up winning and promote you like in the movies, for all you know you'll be staked in the same cubicle for years. And then there's the thing, what if you don't find someone convenient for your career, what if you don't find anyone at all? You think about marriage, but what if as far as you reach in commitment is casual booty calls? What if you end up with someone who took you as a rebound? That's the essence of uncertainty, what if?'s knowing that there's not a second chance.

And so you proceed to put your shoes and drink some coffee, you will need it.


[the post that was meant but wasn't]
By I'm the penguin

According to the plan

This comes as a two-parter so, part one: the thought.

Part One: According to the Plan
According to the plan…
…I was going on a trip for a while. Where nothing mattered but the new horizons and the rising sun as I went for the next adventure.

…Things where supposed to be slower. But they’re not.

…I was not supposed to love him. But....

Part One: Escapist-Rush

She first opened the drawers, and with no intention of being practical, and actually no intention at all of anything but leaving, she pulled everything from them, and threw all the clothes at a big red suitcase. While emptying these drawers, she found all her secrets, hidden beneath the clothes, and old photograph, an old diary, and some old letters. It was clearly an “old thing” she thought. As she saw the photograph one more time before putting it in the suitcase she remembered the moment. It was such a clear memory, stored in a time capsule. She could even remember the smell from that day.

Not knowing when he would arrive, she tried to be quick. She wouldn’t want to be found while performing her escape… that would be really embarrassing. The only actual thing she had planned was a goodbye note, which she had written two months ago, in her first escapist-rush. And now, it was just time to take it out from the diary, and leave it in a convenient spot. December 13, she opened the diary in that date, where she had saved the envelope. She left it by the pillow, and made her way out the door.


[Mrs. K i t e ]
[ I do remember, I'm not sure if it's finished, but if it isn't we sould continue it ensemble, don't you think?]

Red rain

The rain had brought not only water with it, but some red drops which seemed somehow like blood, but really weren't, everyone was amazed on how did they stained the grass, with a strong scarlet the whole town wondered whether this was a blessing from the sky or a curse of god

Mrs. Reynolds started packing all in her leather bags, "it’s the first sign made by the prophet, we will all perish" she said, as she put her cloths in a silly blue bag

And then, a young boy got out of his house, and started wetting himself with this unusual liquid, as he approached the others, they all stepped apart from him, but he didn't matter, he didn't said a word. People soon started jumping into conclusions "Its a poisonous rain" some dared to say, "It's a sign of the lord" said many others, "Probably it's just some cool rain" said this boy. But as usual not hearing a boy, who was looking the glass half full, was the smartest thing to do

"Haven't you thought that maybe it's a gift? are you that blind that maybe you haven't noticed what's right in front of you?" he said again "Just shut up, these are things you can't understand, you're too young" he heard, as many other times whenever he had made some sort of opinion of his own. "Yes, how could a red-blood rain be a gift? Do you even think of what you say?" asked a short woman sobbing for the eternal hell her kids would have to suffer when the judgment came

It was getting late, and everyone got into their houses, and prayed. The sky began to turn dark, it wasn't the blue-starred sky everyone knew, but a deep black one. But what could be done? That is what people do, they fear what they don't know, they fear what they know they can't control. And because of this they're full with fear of all sorts, hiding in their gods and sobs, trying to scare away the red clouds above their heads.

They thought they were prisoners of the night, when they were really prisoners of their mind. How to get rid of that that you don't know, how to exhale that air of freedom when all that you know it's being questioned in front of your eyes?

The inhabitants of this place had soon become hosts of complete desperation, roofs were being put all over the yards, the streets, and even some parks had a roof now. But none of their pathetic attempts could prevent the sky of being dark or the rain being red. And as if they couldn't remember the sky was there, they tried to go on with their lives, trying to pretend those roofs had been there since always.

They forgot the color blue, and they forgot the stars and the feeling of the wind. But that was life now, the way they were safe, the way they could survive, regardless if that could still be called living

Everything seemed to have change, into a grayer kind of life, kids ran on the streets no longer, teens hanged out in closed suffocating dull places, adults worked day or night, they couldn't tell them apart now. Even politics had been affected, the candidates offered no longer safety, but more spaces, no longer welfare, but surviving possibilities with such a life. And they got used to it eventually, little by little they stopped asking about the weather, about the sun, about the moon, people forgot there even was red rain but still they kept living that way, since the uncertainty of the outside was too much for them to bear.

Mrs. Reynolds was no longer packing her things in ridiculous yellow bags, believers stopped preaching the message of world’s end and redemption, and the non-believers stopped looking for a reasonable answer. They all had just forgot, it had became just a silly old memory in process of deleting. All except Daniel, the boy who once tried to convince people that this might just be a gift. The boy that had not lost hope about the world.

The solitude had not just reached this people, but everything around them, there was a feeling that everything was old, everything was tired, yet Daniel kept being himself, the rest had become something else. They had become less human, no one even complained, and this was not something that took the place anywhere.

It was really hard for Daniel to find any more reason to go on, the whole world had gone insane, they didn't hear him as usual, but this time, they just simply didn't noticed his existence. They didn't only ignored him, they actually didn't see him

So, he decided to do something that could change the course of things, the only way we could get people to believe him was going outside, and showing the rest of the world to the people. So he went to one of the new city limits where a big wall had been risen, and he dug with his hands, fortunately the construction wasn't very deep and finally after digging all across the wall he could see it again.

That place which everyone had forgotten, and so he saw that the red rain had made everything different in the outside to, every plant had grown, and everything was beautiful. He called some people to show the wonders, but as they got near to the hole, they kept asking "Which hole kid? Which hole?". Tears shed from Daniel's eyes, as he knew they couldn't see the hole. Their blinded eyes couldn’t even see the remnants of freedom, all for their so very special safety.

[remember this? I do. Continue it (if you think it's not over)]
By I'm teh dsexyilc pguinen

When no one sees me... I mumble

When do you know a yes means yes, a no a no, a yes a no, or a no a yes?
When is the sigh predicted by the precedent sight?
What happens if all you can do is find a no?
This may seem senseless, but the thing is no’s are way more common than yeses, but yeses are way more common when you’re saying no’s.
So do it. And in the end a no might be a yes, and if the no is a no, there are no surprises.

Sometimes I get high, spin around a thousand times
Sometimes I lock myself behind open doors
Sometimes I tell you why all the silence
It’s just that sometimes I’m yours and at others I belong to the wind

When no one sees me
I can be or not be when no one’s see me
I put the world upside down
When no one sees me my skin knows no limits
When no one sees me
I can be or not be

I write to you from the dephts of my existence
From where the anxieties and the infinite essence arise
There are things so particularly yours that i don’t understand
And there are things so particular to me, but i don’t see them
I suppose i think i don’t have them
I don’t understand, the verses light up
In the darkness I can have you
I feel I don’t get it right
Don’t turn on the lights cause i’m baring
My soul and my body

A.Sanz

[Mrs. K i t e ]

It's not your fault

You think he's fine, he looks fine. He's been weird the last week, but you know that just like a lady, every new moon or so, he's not so much himself. And he looks like he's fine, with all his ups and downs, and you look at him and overall you think he's glad. He has a good life, with great friends and people as yourself. You rely on him, and you think, at least consider he relies on you. But he doesn't

And even if he seems complete underneath that crazy man suit, it's because that's not the core. You think he's fine because he makes you think so, you think he's fine because he tells you so. And to be honest, there's no way you could know, it's not something you're supposed to know, it's not something he expects you to know. So it's not your fault, yet he's lonely, and empty, and shattered. You can't help him because he's hiding, you can't reach him because he's away. He appears to be here, with all his ups and downs. But he's far away, sunk in the downs.

He is lonely and desperate for someone to be there, in that island of cold desperation, yet is not your fault, because you don't know, you have no way of knowing. And while this happens he knows he can come to you, he knows his loneliness could end, but he prefers to stay alone. Away, from you and all the others, away from himself, but it's not your fault, you had no way of knowing it.


[are we now into the minimalist posting? perhaps...]
By I'm the penguin

It starts

It started as it always does. The sleepy morning came ahead with the 12 numbers stuck in the head as the little two sticks kept running, and we wished they ran faster.
Some hellos some welcome-backs some old friends, some old strangers, the same old thing which you expect gracefully until you listen the custom ringtone at 6 o’clock.
But then, this isn’t the same as the other time, or the other time. Maybe it is only different because it has happened before, and before. Or maybe it is different because you already have things to plan, to worry about, to regret and to think about.
That’s the crapyness of the “new” old year for me.
It’s not really new you see.
New year is never new.

[Mrs. K i t e ]
uuu... when you're [ we 8-) ] are all-so-very famous--- 8-) I'll be able to say I saw that watercolor face to face... xD

Water colors

art /[ahrt]/n 1 [U] the use of drawings, painting etc to make beautiful things of course because all art is supposed to be beautiful, just ask the realists, they attempted all to be cute didn't they or to express ideas: Steve's studying art at college gee I wonder how is he going to eat.... 2 [U] things that are produced by art[cheese is something made out of cheese isn't it... redundancy... how common], such as drawings and paintings.let's forget about literature and music! 'cause here at bffs we don't care 'bout that stuff.

I say art is when for any reason you go into some kind of trance, and just spit it all out. But that's just me perhaps...



[hey I didn't say this was art...]
by I'm the penguin

Strings break

“So you think that’s right then? That you can only show up in people’s houses in the middle of the night?”
“It’s not like you’re people’s.”
“No? Then what am I?”
“You’re a friend.”
“Is that what you call me?”
“Well, yes.”
“So typical of you.”
“Whatever. Are you giving me a hand then, or what?”
“What if I don’t?”
“I don’t know.”
“WHAT IF…”
“Don’t use that tone.”
“…If I don’t? What’s your plan B?”
“There’s no plan B right now.”
“Then my answer is no.”
“I don’t get it. You’re just asking me that shit to know if I’m hopeless? To feel oh-so-powerful by knowing that without your help I’m screwed? And then, you tell me know. Let me ask you something… Do you enjoy it?”

There was a long silence.

“Goodbye then.”
“You should know it by now…”
“Know what?”
“If you hang too long in a string, it’ll break. Strings break.”
“They do.”
"That's why..."
"I know."

[Mrs. K i t e ]
I din't got a chance to chose did I?

Albert the Amazing

"It was great wasn't it?" said the man to himself, the noise could be heard from the stage. The dim light of the dressing table made his round features sharper

"I guess, I mean you could have done better, you can always do better" the little man said, reflecting no emotion whatsoever in his face.

The room was hot and there was a red light coming from beneath the door, the tiny room was filled with customs, masks and feathers, lots of feathers. The man was looking deeply in the mirror, making faces to test what they looked like, the little man kept staring at the big man.

"You mother was here tonight" said the little man with a deep soar voice. His eyes piercing in that grinning man

"Let's not talk about it, please" said the man, trying to look happy and impressed, even he knew those expressions wouldn't fool anyone, so he moved on to sad faces; those were easy.

"We need to, you mess up the routine every time she shows up. If you've got some issues with her that's your business, but if you mess up with my act, then it's my business as well" said the little man.

"Look, I'll just tell her to stop coming" said the man, feeling the cheap flowered tapestry was moving, making the room narrower.

"You've said that before, Ally" the little man had yet not change his cold expression, his eyes were still fixed in the other man's face

"Don't call me Ally! I'm Albert the Amazing now, let's just leave this for tomorrow, we have to go back in one hour" said Albert the Amazing, still looking at the mirror, he was no longer trying to make any faces, he was just avoiding the little man's judging glare.

"You filthy stupid boy, you can't just be an ungrateful bastard and run away from her. She is your mother you piece of scum!" said the little man, with what could appear to be a furious expression, but was still his cold empty glare.

"Shut up! You have no idea what that woman did to me, if any, she should be grateful I didn't sue her" said scared Ally, trying to scape from the monsters which made him join the showbiz.

"Sue your own mother? You should be stoned to dead, no matter what she did, she sacrificed it all for you" said the little man

"You don't know what you're talking about, the only gave up being a whore and an alcoholic spouse who beat daily. I owe nothing to anyone, now just shut the fuck up"said the crying Albert the Amazing

"You are nothing, you will never be anything but little Ally grown in the trail park with your whore mother and bastard brothers. You think you're so great making it out of the trailer and going to the cities? You're the same piece of trash you were" said the little man, still scowling Albert.

"Shut up! Shut up!" said the man, as he stood up, grabbed the little man by the hair and crashed him into the mirror. He hit the little man several times, until the shatters of the mirror started hurting his hand.Then the door was opened.

"Excuse me sir, your act is in one hour" said a girl in the door with a schedule in her hand, with an empty expression, she didn't seem to notice the broken mirror, or the bleeding hand, or the violence.

"I know, I'll be ready" the man said, letting go of the little man's hair.

"How should I present you?" asked the bubble gum chewing girl, making a bubble.

"Albert the Amazing" he said, looking at his bleeding hand.

"And you are a..." said the girl, trying to guess by his props.

"Ventriloquist" he said annoyed, pointing at the little man with a face filled with glasses; a little man made of wax.





by I'm the penguin

Lattices

I was looking at the glass. At the bottom of the glass precisely as I sipped the last inch of water on it. It was a refreshing reminder of how thirsty I was, and how long had I been suffering with dehydration without noticing it. I filled it again, and again. I felt my lips where regaining their habitual texture and I left the glass over the glass table. As they came to a sudden but mild collision I heard a peculiar sound which gave me pleasure.
My feet where cold so I tugged myself into bed. I took the book I had by my side and opened it. Page 67 as I recall. No. It was page 58. I tried to read but I didn’t had my glasses, which I said I didn’t “need” but as I tried to read I realized I did.

[ …] a crystal was built from the repetition of innumerable identical lattices – that it was, in effect, a single giant self-replication lattice – seemed marvelous to me. Crystals were like colossal microscopes that allowed one to see the actual configuration of the atoms inside them. I could almost see, in my mind’s eye, the lead atoms and the sulfur atoms composing the galena – I imagined them vibrating slightly with electrical energy, but otherwise firmly held in position, joined to one another now, coordinated in an infinite cubic lattice.

Mr Oliver Sacks's Genius, from Unlce Tungsten [of course]

[Mrs. K i t e ]

Can we avoid that time?

Do we really just loose it all once we're in the system, don't we get a chance into deciding if we want to keep or lives, or are we just fated to pretend?

This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.
Yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do.
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute.

Forget about our mothers and our friends
We're fated to pretend
To pretend
We're fated to pretend
To pretend

Time to pretend by MGMT

Cuckoo

“I will stop, one day I promise, just give me time to cope with it, it’s difficult you see, I’ve been doing it for a while now, it’s just a matter of “getting used to” not doing it, as I one got used to doing it. It’s a process you see? I’m trying, I’m definitely trying, but each time I’m almost there, it becomes harder and harder… You see… I’m not a quitter, I’ve never been, I’ve always thought it was a horrid, how do you call them, character trait, that’s it. Character trait, horrid, being a quitter you see? But now. It seems it would be a hell of a character trait, hahahahahahaHA! Wouldn’t it doctor? I think it would. Being a quitter, HA. I thought, about the literature you gave me… You know the other day? I read them, all of them,”
“Good, great. Did you like them? I could bring you more. Maybe they could help.”
“Yeah Doc, but I thought… the people who wrote them, they’re wacky aren’t they? I mean, they’re mad right? You know, as in cuckoo, lunatic, moonstruck, nutty, round the bend, schizo, screwball…”
“We don’t call them that way remember?”
“Sorry Doc, then, I’m not cuckoo, lunatic, moonstruck, nutty, round the bend, schizo or screwballed I am…”
“Sick, Monty, sick.”
“You’re sick Monty, you’re sick… Yeah I know that Doc.”
“Have you been taking your meds?”
“Have I?”

Dr. Noon

[Mrs. K i t e ]

The old storyteller

"It all started a day like this, a winter Tuesday" The old man sited on his old rocking chair, contemplating the winter afternoon.

"Grandpa, today is Saturday. And winter ended two weeks ago." said the little boy in short shorts and a Transformer's T-shirt, he was about to leave and play water balloon wars, but first he had to listen to the same old story, maybe this time it would be interesting.

"Well, then it started a winter Saturday. It was very cold and everyone in town was locked in their houses, and wore over twenty sweaters and made fires in every room, or course we didn't have all your technology of magic switches which make a room warm" he said, pointing to a complex system of house heating that had nothing of magical or new for that matter.

"Yes, yes, you have told me a hundred times how many babies even died of cold, and they needed someone to take the lumber to every house and..." said the anxious boy, who for some reason was waiting until the end of the story to throw a water balloon at Eddie McMillan.

"Once you have your story you can tell it the way you want, let me continue. Well, as I was saying, it was really cold, some folks didn't even make it 'til spring. It was awful, people were running out of lumber and no one was willing to go out there and get it" he was then interrupted, part because he forgot for a second and part because young Timmy knew the story already.

"Yes, and then you offered to do it and were the town's hero, and then you met..." the young boy was interrupted, taking sit, knowing this would take longer than usual

"Timmy, let your Grandfather continue his story, is the story of the family, you ought to know it" Timmy's mother said, as if it was some American History class.

"But mom, I know that story in fifteen different versions" Timmy said, quiet annoyed, yet he wanted to know the sixteenth

"As I was saying, it was a real atrocity in all the county, and so I offered to go house by house giving people the lumber they needed, you see pops was a wood chopper, as he always wanted me to be, but I dreamed of bigger and better. That was when I decided I wanted to be a house designer, but then the turns of life..." he began to ramble as he was interrupted yet again

"Grandpa, please don't deviate into another story. We were talking about the winter you met Grandma" Timmy said.

"Right, so, I was the only boy in all town that went house to house selling the wood chunks, and at first my mother was against it, but later she saw how much I made with that little job, the lord knows that woman was a Saint, but we needed to make ends meet. So I went every day in my bicycle, door to door giving them the wood. People were very nice to me, of course I was saving their behinds from freezing, but nevertheless they were really nice, treated me as their hero." Grandpa Lou said, tears coming from his wrinkled and heroic cheeks.

"And then, one day, I had to go to a house were I had never been before. It was on the upper side of town, where they were all the rich houses that had lumber of their own. From neighbor to neighbor, shouting out from the windows it had came to my house the message. And so I took my basket of lumber, tied it in th bicycle and rode there. But what I didn't know was that in my way back the day before a tire was pinched with a nail or something in the way. The fact was that with the cold and the snow, I couldn't see or hear the tire." said the old man, remembering the facts as he could and dramatizing what he couldn't

"Now it's more believable, last time you said a wolf attacked you in the way..." said Timmy, remembering the unremembered drama.

"Shut up and listen. The thing was that in my way I started noticing how the tire was going low and the wind was whistling louder and the snow was rising. It was becoming more and more cold, and I could barely see the houses. I arrived by a miracle to the house I was supposed to and then I climbed out of my ride and knocked on the door. There was no answer, I could no longer feel my legs, and the I passed out" he said, not knowing this was the first time he was using cold as his cause of passing out, it had previously been lumber thieves, wolves or a histrionic fall from his bike

"I don't remember how, but when I woke up I was surrounded by a family with worried faces and a dog barking. The lumber basket was beside the fireplace and I was sitting in a kitchen. And as I tried hard to assure everyone I was fine, I saw her, I saw the must beautiful woman my eyes would ever meet. It was love at first sight, and I knew I was going to marry her." he said, remembering the past. Past alway messes up with the present, or is it vie versa?

"Then..." Grandpa Lou said, and was interrupted.

"Then you won her heart in the town's carnival in spring because you helped the circus reach town and in exchange the musicians played her favorite song at her window. Actually that was my favorite version, are you now telling us the real one?" Timmy said, because up until now, all he had heard were fantastic stories which ended with his Grandparents marrying in Tibet, or him fighting the mob for dear Clarice, non of those versions convincing enough.

"Let Lou tell his story Timmy, you have all your life to build the truth" she said

"I thought fiction was the one build, truth just was" Timmy said, learning a new lesson that day. Or so it goes

"When it comes to memories it makes no difference" said old wrinkled Grandpa Lou, sounding for once all wise and sane. Then he went back to his story "Well, you're right, I saved the fair and everyone was just too happy about it. But not even then did she even look at me, to be honest I never remember her looking at me, we just ended married because his father went to bankruptcy years later and I was the only one who proposed" he said, looking at the air as if every inhaling he was breathing was the news of someone's dead.

"Mom... what is grandpa saying?" asked little Timmy, scared that the story was not including stories of mysterious wedding rings.

"And every night I could hear her cry until her sleep, and every night it broke my heart I couldn't give her what she wanted. It tore me into pieces knowing that she was unhappy, that the only woman I ever loved was miserable. The we had kids, I thought that would make her better, but she only sunk more. Then she was diagnosed cancer, and now what was killing her from the inside was also physical, and so she died, miserable, as she lived." said the man in the rocking chair, crying, crying for a wound that was buried deep into his wrinkled skin.

"Mom, what does Grandpa mean? Is this the real story?" asked a scared Timmy, crying too with that old storyteller. And scared mom took Timmy by the hand and walked him to the door

"Tim, go and play with your friends, everything is fine. He was just making up a story again, he didn't took the right pills today, he's fine. Now go play" she said, shredding tears.


[why are facts so important when we can choose fiction instead?]
By I'm the penguin

Three songs-moods-stories

I have a secret not the sort of secret you tell in a truth/punishment-bottle-kinda-game but the kind of secret that hunts. That makes you wake up sweating in the middle of the night.
It’s always there, always present. People walk around not knowing, so calmed so innocently naïve. I can’t stand it, it’s so warring, I know they’ll find out, and sometimes I cry about it, NO ONE CAN EVER FIND OUT. Everyone’s so close to open the door, to break down the door, I hear them coming, I hide.

Sit. Take the coffee. Forget it. Read a bit. Take the coin and play with it. Look out the window. Sit. Stand up. Get out of the house. See the sky. Sit in the street. Cry. Breathe profoundly. Close your eyes. Think about not knowing what you cry about. Lift your arms. Hugh the sky. Breathe deeply. Stop.

You’re running down the street you know, and you try to imagine it is a place you’ve never been. Keep going and think none knows you. A couple of people say hi to you, but you just keep running, each time faster, and faster, and faster.

Tranquilize Twin Peaks Intro How it Ends

[ Mrs. K i t e ]
a playlist, three songs

I killed a man

I had killed a man, how was I ever going to explain that?

Now apologizes and regrets wouldn't do, it was true, this whole time. I had always thought that once you were dead, you were done, puff, c'est fini. But after all those years of considering heaven and hell nothing but a pitiful way to control people I have to be here, to sit among others who await for their final judgment. I have to be here in the land of damned souls, just wandering and wondering for what was ahead. But I had killed a man, so there was not much uncertainty for me.

In life I would have had so many questions about this all, questions of the origin of this silly judgment, questions about the beyond, questions about things no one could or would explain. Now it's clear, crystal clear. And no, I don't have the answers, nor will I ever, but it's clear because it doesn't matter. None of those questions matter here, what good could they do now? It even is kind of funny to consider that I spend my whole life looking for meaning and now that it's here it doesn't really matter, because it has ended.

I had killed a man and there was no way out of it, there was no pledge of insanity or psychosis, because while some may have objected I have never been a sane person, I planned it. I plan Robert Snider’s dead from the beginning, every part of it was just a well plotted plan were in the start he would have all these dreams, fantasies, energy and happiness, and in the end he wouldn't. I didn't just killed a man, I killed all his baggage. I killed his memories, I killed his dreams, I killed his fears and nightmares, his deepest secrets. All of it, like a cold blooded murderer.

The reason or the method I used to end with his life had no importance now, it didn't matter he deserved to be killed, it didn't matter I threw him from the twentieth floor of a building. It didn't even matter I stabbed him before just to be sure, I had killed him and that was it, I was going to hell, or Tijuana, or however you want to call it. And to be honest, it wasn't truly mortifying, I was going to pay for what I have done, but it was worthy.

Robert Snider was a middle-aged man who was fighting against the world always, when he was not suing a multinational corporation, he was protesting in the streets. He might have given to everyone the impression he was an activist, an idealist who thought he could change the world, they were wrong, all of them. He was in fact always talking about changing things, about the power of one, he even made a huge statement in national television. It's worth mentioning he was an artist, and he sometimes exteriorized his art into the streets, which in other words is saying he was a petty vandal painting in particular property, in huge scales. He once made a pig showering in mud--mud made by dollar bills-- in the entrance of a McDo**ald's building, which appeared on the news, as well as many other of his "caused" crimes.

But Robert Snider was different, he was not an idealist by option, he was not an idealist because he thought in the power of one, he was not an idealist because of any reason, he just was. Because since he was a young boy who could draw beautiful paintings he was told to go to art school, because once he was there he was told to join the group of gifted and talented kids, because then this cool kids told him he should expect something better from the world, but he never did, he didn't ever expected anything. His whole life was based on other's decisions, on other's expectations of what a modern artist should be, he had lost the entire meaning of art. But none of it was of importance, because now he was dead, and so was I.

I said before the reason I killed him was not important, it still isn't but maybe it should be said. Despite the fact that people who aren't authentic should not be approved, that gave me no right to kill him, in fact nothing ever would give me right to kill anyone, but it did gave me reason, I mean. It was because of that same thing that I did, he always made what he was told, yet he had his own ideas. He was a frustrated classic artist who was unsatisfied by all the crap surrounding him. He never thought painting a pig in a door would actually make a corporation stop being a monopoly, he knew that marching against a tennis shoes company wouldn't stop them from using children from Asia to manufacture those shoes. He didn't thought the world would change just because he said so. He was unhappy. Yet he had to raise a flag and protest, because that was what he was told to.

Killing an unhappy person is wrong, but only because it is a person. I did what I did because his existence was meaningless, he was always searching for something beyond, but only where he was told to. He was a prisoner of his own self, the outer shell was poisoning the tender inside, where he was just a peaceful classic painter, who had a lake house with ducks. But he never followed his gut; he thought it was right to continue the activism, that's what all the other modern artists were doing, no ducks included.

So that is the reason I had to kill him, he was not living anyways. He was dead inside and so I had to end him completely. I had murdered a man and now I was going to hell, no regrets or forgiveness.

Maybe some people wouldn't understand why I killed him, maybe not even I will understand why I put an end to his life and now I was paying the consequences. Maybe it had no reason to be, maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he was going to live a life of regrets and finally die with them, or maybe he would realize in time and change his life. But death is a bad time for maybes or perhaps, it's just about being dead. And now we were both dead, but at least I don't regret a thing.

"Robert Snider, come forward" I heard a voice saying from everywhere. It was dark, I was a little scared, but I stepped forward to meet my destiny

by I'm the penguin

El agujero profundo

No necesitaba el alivio, solo el consuelo.
Al mirar tras su cabeza descubrió aquel profundo agujero que nunca había visto
Poco a poco lo palpó, dedo a dedo, pelo a pelo.
Rápidamente dejo de sentir, para comenzar a correr.
Seguía, y corría y corría.
Y observaba y lloraba y gritaba y golpeaba.
Detuvo sus pies, los despojo de aquel frenesí con una fuerte indicación, “ya deténganse” les gritó.
Los pies se detuvieron, y descansaron mientras se sentaba en la acera.
Los pies lloraron por el regaño, y él fingió no escucharlos.
Miró hacia arriba, para ver las hojas, que reconocía de sus recuerdos de infancia.
Poco a poco las memorias volvieron, recreando aquellos momentos que sentía, no eran suyos. [O al menos, hubiera deseado no fueran.]

[Mrs. K i t e ]
i had a frenzy with rue de cascades, so.. yeah, that's about it.
Way to start new year....

Limpia primaveral

Entonces empezó, la limpia de cada año. La escrutante y despiadada limpieza de primavera. La abuela, como cada año nos ponía a todos a lavar y fregar pisos, cambiar el agua cada tres lozas y barrer siete veces cada cuarto, para la buena suerte, decía. Teníamos que sacar la cochambre y la angustía alojada en la sala, por alguna razón a mi papá le fascinaba regañarnos allí, la mesita de centro necesitaba una aceitada, los recuerdos a gritos alcoholicos no le sentaban bien. La cocina había que darle muchas pasadas con el trapo, ahí la abuela se exedía con el rompope y nos ponía a todos a expiar sus culpas con cloro, y claro también quitar la grasa pegada, se alojaba y era tan dificil de quitar como las falsas pretenciones que manchaban las apredes de la casa entera.

Los cuartos eran asunto de cada uno, el polvo y piel muerta porducido eran tan culpa del inquilino como los arranques de depresión o euforia que tomaran lugar ahí, siempre dejaban mancha. En mi caso tuve que limpiar las manchas que quedaron en la pared de los posters que una vez puse, también sacudir muy bien los muebles por eso que les quedara la sosobra acumulada del año. Las cortinas era algo que haciamos entre todos, uno siempre se tiene que asegurar que el testigo de tanta cosa calle ante la intimidación de la mafia completa.

El comedor debía ser barrido con cuidado a no llevarse aquellos escasos y caóticos momentos felices, que mas que recuerdos eran fabricaciones propias pero eran tan livianos como el polvo que se recogía. Las discuciones y pelambres que se quedaban atorados debajo de las patas de los muebles se tenían que ignorar, nadie era capaz de levantar los muebles, por falta de fuerza o miedo de que saliera lo que con tanto esfuerzo el mueble guardaba. Y eso sí la tele se tenía que tratar con esos sacudidores finulis de pulmas, solo esa es forma de tratar a quien crio y educó a una familia entera, a su corriente manera, pero igual la crío.

Los techos eran difíciles pero se tenían que hacer, talvez no llegaba mucho la peluza, pero ciertamente se llenaba de los sueños rotos, inconclusos y/o decadentes y de esos estaban tapizados nuestros techos. Los closets se podían limpiar con una sola pasadita od os del trapo, no habñia mucho espacio que limpiar, además de que no nos gustaba tratar mucho con los cadaveres de monstruos que ahí habitaban, igual esos se guardan de por vida.

Los baños y los crucifijos se limpiaban con cinismo, diferentes tipos de pero igaul cinismo. A los baños se les lavaba como quién invita a un amigo que diario ve a un evento especial, la cosa es la misma pero uno se siente forzado a aparentar que es especial, igual, lavabamos la misma mierda de siempre. El cinismo de los crucifijos contsaba en que sólo en este evento se les agarraba o ponía atención, como quién invita a un evento especial a un supuesto amigo que jamás ve, y tiene que actuar como si se tratara seguido. Pero este cinismo es más elevado porque uno promete al pedazito de madera y así mismo que le prestará más atención, pero terminamos arrumbandolo por ahí junto con los propósitos de año nuevo; a esos uno ni los tiene que tallar del espejo, solos se vuelan.





[and so it began, coming back from basicsºMaybe you find it VERY familiar, but it was not intended to be a doppleganger]
By I'm the penguin