Whenever I think about New Year’s Eve, several objects or quick flashes come into my head: Candles, Grapes, Chimneys, Hugs, Grapes, Candles, Grapes. I also think about people I love, about people I don’t love so much, and about total strangers. And I think about Grapes again. It’s the wishing part of it that fascinates me. Although year after year I wish for some crap that never “comes true” I keep wishing, twelve important grapes. I think. Not the rest of the year though, all the other grapes I eat, they’re just “common” grapes. With no meaning whatsoever, except for their exquisite taste and mild acidity which as it seems, I love. But the fact of thinking those are special grapes. And of making those (vane) wishes which in the end, I don’t actually remember, and that’s probably why I keep wishing for the same thing….
Why’s New Year so relevant? I thought about it a lot. Remember once we talked about periodicity of time? Which is totally un-periodic, but we give it that quality? New Year is the way of establishing that periodicity, a “start over again” (It’s the again part that disturbs me…clearly ) But of course, not without the paradox involving the meaning of the new year: making wishes, resolutions, etc. The way of disapproving that periodicity with the idea we might do things better this time, with the idea we get to leave the rest behind. Isn’t it curious?
So, anyways… Times running up.. (thanks for the reminder damn calendar… ) But whatever… Enjoy the year… Best Wishes!!
"Dead is a gift" I was telling a friend, and of course we had had some talk before that. Something about the philosophy of liberty. And I was telling her that after all the suffering of living, at the end we got to rest. So our prize was the death. But you couldn't be bothered with an explanation could you?
"No it's not. That's just emo talk from a goth" You said, sounding all cocky as you always do.
"You don't even know what we're talking about, idiot" I said, with a very good reason. Because first of all I was talking to a friend in the corridor, without disturbing anyone. Then all of a sudden you come along and start your "I'm the master of philosophic point of views" talk.
"I do know. You think that death is a gift because you think life is shit and all about suffering and all about dealing with things you sometimes can't. You mean that it's an oasis after the desert that life is." You say, making it sound as if I was some sort of drama queen, which annoyed me even more. After all, that was not even my point. At least not the whole thing.
"Well that's how I see it. And it's not only because life is hard, but because it is the goal, to end. And I don't mean to try to suicide, that's cheating. You don't want to get there the fast way" I said, making a lot of sense inside my head, where you're obviously not.
"Sure, because it's a sin, and we don't want Lordie Lordie to be pissed when we get to saint Peter right?" You say. You're a jerk. And you try to ridiculize a religious thought that is not even mine. You think you're so smart, saying so and so to people. But you're a complete dougebag.
"Well, if that's your belief, I respect it. But I personally don't think of some guy admitting you into a clasist place where you live happily ever after. I only say that after living a fulfilling life, it must be a reward to know it ended. That it had meaning." I say, making my point, showing how I do understand, unlike you. And it makes me mad people like you are considered wise, or even smart.
"Get your story right, first you say it is about a rest and now you say it's about achieving a goal. Talk about two standard. What I think, is that you praise dead because you're so scared of life ending, oyu want it to be special, meaningful. Well, wake up, a person dies every three seconds" You say, now getting carried away. Maybe the perciengs and the skull tattoo may show I somehow think dead is a glamorous parade, or at least I hope so. But it's not, I want it to be meaningful, not because I'm scared. It's just that I wouldn't like to have passed all these in vain you know?
"I'm not scared to dead, and I don't want to pass away in some dead metal concert infront of everyone, if that's what your narrow mind thinks. I mean that giving an end to something makes it special. If it were infinite, then what would be the point of ever doing anything?" I said, trying hard to make my point clear. Sure you didn't deserved my time, but I at least wated to try to explain it. To myself at least.
"Then, what's so beatiful of death is life? Because if that's your point it's pretty damn idealistic. Life is life, you go through it and then you just don't. It is not some master plan where you are meant to learn and bring somehting to the world, that's just idealistic crap they make you think so you don't end up in suicide or prozac. You only live so humans don't extinct. That's it, you have no meaning, no purpose." You say, and I hate you for saying it. I hate you because you think you're so right and that you don't want to listen to what I'm saying. And I hate you because I know, deep down, that perhaps you're right, which kind of terrifies me.
"Well you can live your life thinking you're nothing but a naked ape, but I'd rather give it meaning. I can do that with my so called "evolved brain" so I choose to, to search for meaning" I say, knowing I'm sounding idealistic. Knowing that meaning is what separates us from the "wild" animals, holding to the thought that it all means something
"Oh really, you think it's a choice to look for meaning?"
[So... the end is near (of the year, I'm not going all paranoid...yet) And I thought of closing my part of the year with a discusion about the end. About the end of it all] By I'm the penguin
What I am is not you It’s not what you think about me either It’s the feeling of belonging I’ve never felt before (and perhaps never will)
It’s sting in the line for the blockbuster movie And even thinking about getting there on my tent one day before But just thinking it As most of my so called life that happens inside my head.
And as I wave goodbye I see you again And I promise (again inside my head) That I will never let you down
I thought about this, while listening to THIS, new Ringo's reminding us several things
Les leumieres étaient éteints, mon angoisse est passée à un tout autre niveau. Je pouvais entendre les pas partout, mais je n'avais aucune idée de l'endroit où étaient-ils en venir. Comme si elles étaient entourant moi dans une danse, une danse si ancienne comme le temps. Il s'agissait d'un rituel que je n'avais jamais vu ou en ecouté avant, mais, étrangement, mon instinct, ou ce que vous les appelez,y ont réagi .J'ai commencé à entrer dans un brouillard éthérée qui a tout autour de moi, elle me transportait en un lieu oú jeje n'étais pas debout, ou allongé, ou même flottant, mais il n'y a pas de temps, pas d'espace. Juste moi, être.
Et même là, je pouvais entendre les échos de leurs pas, l'approche et de s'éloigner. Je pouvais sentir regards pénétrants sur moi dans l'obscurité, je pouvais sentir leurs essences naturelles, tout aussi séduisant que la première fois je les ai vus. Je ne pouvais pas croire ce qui se passait, ni j'ai eu la chance. Il n'y a pas plus un pour qoi, il n'y a pas un comme, et quand et où a disparu. Il est resté le seul qui, et même alors, commençait à s'estomper.
Je n'avais aucune idée de ce que la planification sont-ils, si ce n'était qu'un retard de façon à s'adresser à moi et à la fin de moi. Je ne peut rien faire, mais être emporté dans les vagues de ce brouillard. Et là, tous mes souvenirs ont commencé à s'éclipser, ils ont été transportés par la marée, tous. Ma première chute, mon premier ami, tout était simplement là, et je savais qu'ils étaient absents, mais je ne pouvais pas les manque longtemps pour que quelque chose ne faisait pas partie de moi. Chaque chose vient éloignement, comme si elles étaient en train de préparer moi de quitter mon corps. Ils n'avaient pas d'intérêt sur l'esprit.
L'affluence et l'enthousiasme a disparu, mais pas parce que j'étais occupé à présent, mais parce qu'il n'y avait pas d'émotions gauche. Seules les sensations, pas de réflexions sur eux. J'étais libre, libre de mon esprit, à la dernière. Toutes ces années, j'avais essayé de renforcer la preuve ultime de l'esprit de puissance, d'être libre. Mais maintenant j'ai compris, notre liberté, c'est ce que les chaînes de notre esprit. Nous devons donc nous séparer de cette fausse liberté, enfin, paradoxalement, être libre.
Et si je l'ai eu, il n'y a pas de rituel de sang, il n'y avait pas de démons, a convoqué, il n'y a aucune convocation. Ce n'est pas un rituel qui a besoin d'une procédure de physique, il s'agit d'un spirituel. J'étais l'un d'eux, un être sans concision des autres, un être sans soucis. Ils n'ont pas emporté l'Anima, il a été l'Spiritvs qui me sépare d'eux. Eh bien, pas plus.
[I had written nothing about vampires or in french so far, so I bit two birds in one feu]
“Well, I guess an I’ve been busy won’t do it right?” “Right.” “I’m sorry.” “You’re not.” “I am. I mean, I’m not precisely feeling bad about it, but I AM, sorry.” “Robert. You haven’t called in a week, you don’t return my calls, I bet you didn’t even check my voice mails…” “Voice mails…” (an intermittent red light from the stupid device) “I don’t think it’s working.” “WHAT?” “The VOICE MAIL, I mean THE VOICE MAIL” “Sure Robert.” “C’mon, listen. You know how school is, it’s very demanding, I have little time off, and I’m willing to change something in my schedule to make time for you. I promise I’ll make it up for you.” “Is that what you think I am? A part from your schedule. Someone you can occasionally see and call to have fun, sex, or whatever?” “Of course not.” “Apparently I am. Asshole.” “What?” (Lonely sound of hung up line. With a constant A note. Perpetual A note from my phone) (Fuck it Julia. I can’t stand it anymore.)
Schizotypal Personality Disorder is a condition characterized byacute discomfortwith, and reduced capacity for, close relationshipsas well as bycognitive or perceptual distortions and eccentricities of behavior. This disorder is only diagnosed when these behaviorsbecome persistentand very disabling or distressing.
Complications:
Individuals with this disorder often seek treatment for the associated symptoms of anxiety, depression, or other negative emotions rather than for the personality disorder features per se.
Comorbidity:
In response to stress, individuals with this disorder may experience very brief psychotic episodes (lasting minutes to hours). If the psychotic episode lasts longer, this disorder may actually develop into Brief Psychotic Disorder, Schizophreniform Disorder, Delusional Disorder or Schizophrenia. Individuals with this disorder are at increased risk for Major Depressive Disorder. Other Personality Disorders (especially Schizoid, Paranoid, Avoidant, and Borderline) often co-occur with this disorder.
Prevalence:
Schizoid Personality Disorder occurs in 3%of the general population. This disorder occurs slightly more commonly in males.
Course:
This disorder may first appear in childhood and adolescence with solitariness, poor peer relationships, social anxiety, underachievement in school, hypersensitivity, peculiar thoughts and language, and bizarre fantasies. These children may appear "odd" or "eccentric" and attract teasing. The course of this disorder is chronic. Only a small proportion of individuals with this disorder go on to develop Schizophrenia or another Psychotic Disorder.
[saving stalkers everywhere a huge amount of time] By I'm the penguin Thanks very much to: Internet Mental health http://www.mentalhealth.com/dis/p20-pe03.html
Christmas can take many forms, and be described with several metaphors, as a salad, a boat or a drunk sailer in Paris. But whatever meaning each want to give to said night, today I understand Christmas as a wave, an ocean wave. As any metaphor, it must be explained why the simile, and I could say that they both have to do more with Earth's position and it's interactions with the other heavenly bodies, than with a natural event per se. But christmas is about (or at least it's supposed to be about)love and memories, and so with love and memories I will relate it.
Tonight I compare Christmas with an ocean's wave because every Christmas eve is about family, the memories, and to be grateful of whatever we have (or don't).And it doesn't really matter who you are or where you are, as long as you know the term, it all comes back. Weather you want it or not. So it is a returning feeling, an everlasting event that comes every twelve months. And as strong as it hits, it just goes away, leaving us back with our daily man suits, until it comes back and we get to use those silly hopeful and grateful suits.
But it is not only a wave because it comes back, that would be some lame metaphor. You see, the core of it has to do a lot with water's natural movements. Every time a wave hits shore, it doesn't bring the same grains of sand it took, and it's not either a system where it brings brand new sand. It is because it delivers it after a messy, revolving and chaotic mixture and collision of grains, every time.
What does sand and chaos have to do with Christmas time? Everything
Because it is not only about that year, it's about doing the same turkey you ate the year Granpa died. It is putting the same decoration you saw when you got your first bike. It is the same band of cider you got tipsy for the first time. And I'm very aware that this doesn't apply to everyone, but you get the point.
It is the time when all those memories, all those mementos and scars from the past, haunting or blessing, they come back. Every time with a different intensity, every time remembering different things. All those memories revolving, mixing and colliding. Just like the wave, and just like the waves they go back to that box marked "Christmas stuff" in you attic. We don't choose if those grains of sand are going to open old wounds or relieve childhood fantasies, it's only the risk of our wavey Christmases.
[looking at Christmas differently since 19**] By I'm the penguin
An Indian chief with magical powers is trapped in a whale's stomach with a gardener who's an alcoholic.
Big Mountain tries to convince him he’s actually in a spaceship as the trip goes on. The gardener who’s in need of alcohol looks for a new method of extracting it from the whale’s system, but Big Mountain keeps on going with his story, as he tells the gardener he had a blackout because of the alcohol and that he’s actually in the spaceship. But the gardener doesn’t believe it and finally finds out he can extract alcohol from the whale. Big Mountain is disappointed, but after several boring days. He decides to have a drink. Unfortunately, Big Mountain becomes quickly an addict, causing a lot of trouble in the whale’s insides and to the gardener’s alcohol supply.
While he sings the song of the lost catamaran, while the winds are announcing the worst storm of the year with a soft whistle, while the seagulls are flying in all directions far away from here; I stay, and just stare. I stare at the ocean, the tempestuous and symbolic brine. I remember the first time my father took me into a sailing expedition. He couldn't stop talking about the respect we all owe to the sea, for it let us travel and eat.
A day from now, every man and every lad will be ignorant ignorant of the story about a boat which met its end, oh so arrogant
He also told me ancient sailor myths, such as the origin of Davy Jones, the numerous fights against the krakens, and the often sightings of mermaids, "all damn bitches, never trust them, even if you're a woman, those treacherous beings delude anyone" he said once. It was very atypical for a captain to take his daughter for a sailing excursion to the Baltic seas, but I had never been a a very effeminate lady, I could sweep the hull as any other person of the crew.
A month from now the paper will speak and the people will see Of the lost ship, into the dark water of the Sea of Cerulee Some ladies will cry, but no men will know who died
He died trying to discover a new route to the new world, he and all the other honorable sail men who had some sense of adventure. In fact I never knew if indeed he died, or maybe he ended up captive into some Indian tribe and became a slave. I would rather think he died in the sea. But I wasn't sad, he died doing what made him happy, he died like a hero. He had seen the elephant, from mythical beasts to the king of gypsies.
A year from now, only rumors will be known, about the ship which is long lost, rumor only by few own
After waiting for seven years a ship that I knew would never return, I went started gathering a crew, but it turns out that being a woman meant I wasn't serious about anything. So, in my desperate search for aid I ended up marrying him, the singing man. We met in an opium pub. He had some fantastic stories about traveling to the end of the world, which apparently had moved to the south, stories about giant women living and ruling the lands of said hell. I never believed him a word, but then again, half of my stories were a bit exaggerated too.
Avast! Mourn for those men lost to Devy and pray for them to find their way back into the navy Mourn for the souls that will remain unnamed
We formed a crew of paupers, coots and retired pirates. And so we sailed, as simple messengers of some raddish company. But what mattered was not the job, was not even the crew. It was being back where I had always meant to be, back to the only place I knew. And maybe it was because I grew up in a little house in the pier, maybe because I had no mother and my only company was the sea and my father, which later in life I learned were married if not the same. Regardless of the reason, that was where I was meant to be.
And now, remembering all these, being here in the shore of a godforsaken island. I am not scared. I am in fact delighted of how will it all end, just as it started. In the ocean.
A hundred years from now, there will be leyends stories and myths will be told about the boat which today sunk the wrath of the gods and giant squibs will be related to the end but nothing will be accurate, for it will be the tale of a drunk.
Buford Hull, was a healthy cab driver, one day, all of a sudden he started coughing. He didn’t know why, or how, but what seemed minutes after, he found himself in a hospital bed. As he opened his eyes he could see flashes from distant cameras and British voices speaking to him at the same time. A man with a white coat approached to him as what seemed like nurses pushed what seemed reporters outside of the room. “Hello Mr. Hull.” The white man said, “You’re in the hospital, you where on an accident. You broke some ribs and you had a mild concussion, but you’ll be alright.” Buford could hear this, but he couldn’t quite answer, so he nodded. Some days after, Buford woke up again, having the same white man in front of him, repeating almost the same lines. “You’re in the hospital, you where on an accident. You broke some ribs and you had a severe concussion, but you’ll be alright.” Buford didn’t knew it, but he had ran over the Queen with his yellow cab.
“You know, it is you who warms the blanket, not otherwise” I said, feeling all wise and informative
“Damn, you’re nerdy even when you’re drunk” some voice near me said. And that’s what I last recall of the whole thing, of the so called “party” which involved pre-adults consuming lots of –barely processed—alcohol. And lots of not so decent girls, doing not so decent things, to not so decent people; you get the idea. But there was also a lot of talking involved, more like ranting, but talking still.
As any readable narration I should probably begin from when I was conscious, but let’s just forget the definition of conscious as when someone deliberately makes a firm decision or something, for the sake of my good name –embrace the sarcasm—.
It was 8 p.m. and I had quit my idea of ditching Aiden, still not knowing why, still not convinced about the plan. But hey, if Sir Isaac hadn’t gone out to get hit by an apple what would be of today’s classic physics? (Probably a guy from a patent office would have stolen someone else’s idea of it). So I arrived at the park where Mr. California was already waiting, with bags. Bags with bottles. Bottles didn’t contain Minute Maid.
“I thought you were not coming” Aiden grinned, just making lousy chit chat; he knew I couldn’t resist the curiosity of observing.
“Well, how else would I have gotten your Carny’s perfect machine shirt?” I said, not realizing it had sounded kind of dirty.
“So we’re moving that fast? Sorry, I got nothing for you, honey cheeks.” He laughed, now walking. Without a word I followed him. Since I had never gone to this Kelly Green-whatever-‘s house, or ever walked around the neighborhood, I was pretty damned lost after a few turns. And then I saw us. Out of me us, walking down the lane going to a party, as good old American teenagers. I felt normal, as if this was what I did regularly, “hang out with my dog A, getting some pussy.”How common.
“ So…Aiden, bro.. you know where this girl’s house is, right?” I asked, when I noticed an orange house with small circled windows everywhere started looking familiar, after the fourth time passing next to it. It was almost nine thirty, I guess they call it fashionably late…
“Sure, she lives in this street, or so I understood” He said, rising his brows trying to remember the name “This is St. Mary street right?” he asked, looking for a sign, somewhere.
“Yes, yes it is. It actually is St. Mary here, and for the next, like twenty more miles.” I said, kind of yelling a huge I told you so to myself. But Aiden seemed to be immune to my deathly stinky eye and instead started looking at the road. I wondered if he was looking some sort of huge big sign with leds and neon lights, reading Kelly’s party of sin and profanity .But instead, he was in fact, looking at the road, as in looking at the cars. The boy was a genius, we just had to follow the first tiny old car crowded with more than seven dudes, going at a hurried pace, their veins wanted the –OH.
The entrance was a bit awkward, because for one I didn’t know anyone, and second, I tripped as soon as I arrived. Now, people normally trip, it is a common thing that happens when you’re not aware of the floor. But it’s not the same tripping to a rock in the middle of the park and just say it was an accident, than tripping with the sound system of a multitude that, because they never had anything good to say, they needed a very loud rapper repeating the same phrase forty seven times (without including the chorus). Talk about glamorous entrances.
“Damn my parents are so killing me if they find the stereo is braken” said a tiny blond girl, who apparently was Kelly Green-whatever. Then the angry—and drunk—crowd started making noises that sounded like complains. And sure her fears had bases, her stereo might have never worked again, it had plugged out.
“It just plugged out…” I said, thinking I was saying something obvious, perhaps I should have went through my technical assistance notes, so I could deliver a formal report.
“Oh my god, is that fixable?” asked the girl, I really couldn’t believe that she didn’t knew the term; it almost sounded like a poor accident of bad fiction, or a very drunk girl. So I bended over, took the short cord and directed it to the two rectangular holes, and then music was made.
“You fixs it, you’re my hero” said the blond, forgetting I was the one who broke it in the first place. Then the tumultuous group hailed the music giver and cheered for it, and also because the song changed, and because some girl called Tina came out for the restroom, what can I say, they were enthusiastic.
“So what does it feel to almost ruin your first party?” asked Aiden, putting the not-Minute Maid-bottles in the table. “This is not my first party” I answered, a bit ashamed. “Okay, your first party without bouncy castles” he said, grinning at my lack of sociability. “Well, I haven’t been missing out much” said my lack of sociability, she always had an excuse.
I tried to proceed with the ceremony’s traditions, so I followed Blondie to the living room which was filled with silly people (I don’t want to exploit the word drunk). And then we just watched and talked about really nothing and then some silly people talked to us, and then people actually laughed at my jokes, they were really silly. And it didn’t felt that bad. Moday’s mourning I was going to be the nerd who sits at the back of the room again, but right there I was funny-bespectacled-guy who said funny words. Yet I didn’t belong.
“Aiden” I said, after half of the guys were passed out (it is important to note that it was not even passed twelve a.m.)
“Yes?”
“Why are you nice to me?”
“I’m not”
“No, seriously, I don’t understand. Is this some sort of Cool eye for the geek guy realty show I’m not aware of?”
“It’s funny you say that, but no, I can swear there are no cameras following you, you’re not that photogenic”
“So what is it? Are you a magical guide and after the whole school is my friend you will leave flying in your surf board” that image was actually funny
“I just got you into a freaking party, it’s not like I’m doing you a makeover. I don’t know why you have to analyze things so much ” he said, he bothered, not pissed, not sad, bothered.
“But..” I insisted, then I was interrupted by Steven, who I had never met before.
“Hi man!” he said lifting his hand in some sort of greeting ritual I tried to imitate. I wasn’t good for this.
“Hi… how’ve you been?” I asked, trying to sound sarcastically, but it just doesn’t work for silly guys these days.
“Fine, bro, thanks. So are you liking the party?” He was holding a holed plastic cup, he hadn’t noticed.
“Well, sure” I said, then Aiden saw that for some reason, as the perfect moment to ditch me and he went to the other room, the kitchen I guessed.
“Have you set your eye in any of the chicks here?” Chicks, how nineties. But yea, I had seen a couple of girls who I wouldn’t have mind striping and performing nasty things to, a nerd, nevertheless a man.
“Nope, actually I haven’t looked around” I answered, pretending to actually look around.
“Do you see that babe over there?” he said, pointing at a fairly well endowed Asian girl with tiny little shorts. “She’s Lisa Smith” and one would think foreign looking people would have foreign sounding names. “I know what you’re wondering, shouldn’t she have a name like Lee Wong or something? That’s ‘cause she’s adopted” he said.
“Are you friends or something?” I asked, since that is not information you just tell some guy at some party; I guessed.
“Oh no, she won’t talk to me, not after… never mind, I just know every name of every hot chick here dude, that’s how cool I am.” And then they go around saying I have no life.
“Really? So what’s that girl’s name?” I tried to put in doubt his skills. The freaking CIA would be embarrassed next to this guy
“Her name is Megan Irving, her puppy died a year ago, and she was so devastated she went out with three guys at the same time, poor little thing” I didn’t knew who did he mean by thing.
Twenty minutes later I knew the name and interesting fact of almost every slutty looking girl in the room. And it wasn’t that they weren’t pretty or that they weren’t attractive (they all had boobs), but there was something about shallow girls that I just couldn’t deal with. But well, you don’t go to a car sale to buy books do you?
“Man I haven’t seen you with a drink in the whole night, are you sick or something?” asked Steven, who somewhere along the way said his name, or at least so I understood.
“I don’t really drink…” I confessed, perhaps coming out with a crappy excuse would have been better.
“What the…wait, that wasn’t a joke was it?” He asked, really thinking it was not a possibility. Not drinking underaged. “Dude you seriously have to be kidding”
“ I’m not” I said, taking a long pause, just maybe he would forget. Then he stared at me, unbelieving, as if I had just stated the Earth goes round in times pre-Galileo. “But there’s a first time for everything right?” I was already there; not performing the whole ritual would have been a waste. Little did I knew.
[Okay, no this is not a whole chapter, I haven't finished, but I thought I would have been too much. Yes now I'm making it a novel. Sort of. And yes I know it looks YA and shallow and plane, I just need to get rid of some YA demons]
"Is he really not coming out because of that?" asked the annoyed child
"Hey, it's a big deal, the bigger the person, the greater the fall" She said, trying to calm the crowd
"He's a big guy, shouldn't he be able to just put a band-aid and take it like a man?" he asked, using bigger words than a 7-year-old should be using
"Well honey, you see, he didn't fell down literally and got a bruise, he...simply...fell." she said, to the annoying child
"If he has no bruises, then it doesn't hurt, why does he whine about it?" questioned the spoiled brat
"The fact that it is not physical doesn't imply lack of pain, now go and mingle with the angry crowd" she said, about to lose he last strap of patience
"But Mrs. Kite, why can't he just put one of his masks, so he can come and perform the show?" asked a girl, very similar to the boy. Siblings, they never fail to be more annoying than the last one.
"Well, it's not that easy you see, when he is in the state he is right now, none of the masks are useful" said Mrs. Kite, now holding her every cell not to punch the kids
"I don't get it, he's always a very dramatic person, why can't he just perform without it?" asked the girl, thinking she knew everything. She knew nothing
"No, he's not dramatic, that's only on Thursdays when we feature "The empire's several weddings". It is when he uses that blue velvet mask of his." she said, trying so hard not to yell at them
" Are you implying that he's not really funny as well?" said the uncomprehending boy, such a waste of brains.
"He is funny, on Tuesdays when we perform "Hell's tragedies". Aren't you aware of the schedules?" said the woman, all tired now.
"So when he's being nice, he's just wearing a stupid mask?" asked the angry kid
"It depends, if he has to be nice to you, then I reckon he uses a stupid mask, yes." said the lady knowing they would never understand it
"I don't get him" said the boy
"No one does, that's the whole point." Said Mrs. Kite
"So, he's ever going to come back?" asked the now kind-of-worried girl
"You can count on something when you come to the circus: Theshowmustgoon"
Due to season, and social commitments, next posts will be a combination of generator-inspired topics... which may or may not be intresting, but wishin' and hopin' for the first option. First things first.... no generator-inspired post today, but a mindless mumbling of thoughts about a person I love.
Today I saw a man who was not young, I hoped he was I turned around as I waved goodbye I thought of him as a part of me as I took his hand I wished he was better to put the jacket I'm getting for him Once the hot cocoa is ready and the punch is warm While we have our green-pasta and we joke with presents. Oh how miss those times when I think about yesterday I can only wish for tomarrow to be a better day Don't smell the hospital's bed.
[Mrs. K i t e] again? c'mon... it's been enough....
She sits right beside me, my knees start shaking and I can feel my pulse accelerating. The couch is crowded and so our arms are touching, she is soft, she smells sweet and my chest is going mad, it can't contain my heart. I get cramps, the good kind of cramps. All my hands want to do is rub her leg or just pass near her arm, but I can't I simply can't and so I fight really hard against my hands. I fight my whole self not to jump over hear and kiss all of her just right in front of everyone.
Then I look at her face, mistake. She is pretty as always, with that curly black hair, which no matter the season is always perfect, her large brown eyes dazzling like two black pearls, so deep, so beautiful. Then I see her perfect sculpted nose, just as sand brown as the rest of her skin, her soft soft skin. Then I see her lips, pink and dry. She gets dry lips in this part of the year. And I can't stop staring at her perfect lips, I try, but every cell in my body is ordering me to kiss them, to touch them. I can't.
I try really hard to watch the movie, their is an action scene, perfect. Explosion, cars, her lips, a guy diving from the top of a lighthouse, the precious pink of her face, car crashes, the smell of her hair. I have to bite my lips and scratch my legs to contain myself, I can't, it's too hard. Then, she does it, she talks, as if she knew what a powerful spell it is to calm me. "Are you alright?" she asked, with a charming and soothing kind of soar voice. "Sure," I answer stupefied. "I'll just go to the restroom" I say, standing up really fast. "Do you want us to pause it?" she asks, now being sweet, damn her, everything about her is so attractive. "Nah, you go ahead" I say, trying to keep it cool as I run to the restroom.
I see myself at the mirror and try to convince myself I have to behave, that I can't to this, not right now. But trying is just that, trying. I wash my face with cold water and I go back. My pathetic attempt to change sit is dismissed when the sees e and makes space, again right beside her. As I sit, I feel in control, apparently I'm stronger than I thought. I just relax and see a cat fight, both girls are kind of hot. Then I try to tempt fate, i look at my left. And just as bad as I was before leaving, the instinct posses me and drives me crazy, I start shaking, but I can't do anything, I simply can't, and I hate the world for it.
"Kim, are you sure, you're Okay?" She asks, pronouncing my name in the sweetest of tones
"Sure, it's just that Fred hasn't called me in three weeks" I lie, I know I am a terrible liar. I know everyone knows Fred is my gay best friend, but I try.
"Ugh, boys. Forget about it, it's now just us girls" She says, actually being woried about me, damn sweetness of hers
"I don't even want to start this discussion, because a) I will surely win, and b—" Samuel was interrupted in his babble talk.
“You win a religion debate? Seriously?” said Remi with a bit—lot –of an attitude. As he sat down in the same old dusty couch
“Well, you don’t count Remi, I know your French ways always get me” said eye-rolling Samuel, feeling a tad humiliated, after all he did won religion arguments to almost anyone, who was not a true believer, therefore almost anyone.
“It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m French” Remi said, making more acute his accent “I’m just that good.”
“Pft, Remi? Good? He’s way too easy to beat” Said Ethan, just out of the blue
“Excuse me? I always had the last word on our debates if I remember well; you ended up gibberishing about me not understanding the whole point. The point was clear, you suck” Remi said, a little offended
“Of course not, you ended up using rhetoric, and my arguments were better” Ethan said as he opened up a cool beer and sprinkled a pinch of salt, with a handful of arrogance.
“O really? Good arguments to defend Cuba? And socialism, dude you always end up using the it’s-the-only-fair-way bullshit.” The French said as he engaged in a silent dare which wouldn’t end up well
“Well, just compare it with America. We have all this pretty things, but you know what? There are millions of families that don’t own a home, and have to pay enormous mortgages for houses they no longer own. We spend on things we don’t need. At least in Cuba you know every person has their own home and an assured education. And don’t even dare to mention the damned Aspirins.” Ethan said, expecting a poor come back.
“Sure, I must admit Cuba has the advantage that all of them leave in poor houses, with enough food to survive, often. But how much people want to go to Cube and how many want to go out? I just say that, Okay, have them be socialists and give the same shitty equal life to everyone, because “we’re all the same” but give them a choice. You can speak so freely about it, but I don’t see you living in a socialist community or going to Cuba” Remi said, speaking about facts, not ideas.
“Because the capitalism is so free right… There is only one goal in this system, get rich. And let me tell you, millions die trying. And maybe I don’t live like that, but I plan to” Ethan responded looking as if he was just making up, which wasn’t.
“No, no you won’t. And if people wanted to live in a petit community, everyone just living of the self consume, they could in the capitalism, they don’t call it free market because everything is for free.” Remi said, pissed about the idealism
“Capitalism is full of crap, the media, the advertising, the so called entertainment. They all tell you the only way of living is by consuming and consuming, and then there are the trends, which tell you have to throw away those new pair of jeans because they’re not hip enough” Ethan said, furious that his point wasn’t heard.
“You’re right about that, but that’s not the whole story. In Cuba they tell you that way is the best one, and it surely works for some, it works because they also “wash their brains”. And I get it some take the decision to follow, not because of what others say, but because they don’t want to. But what about those who don’t? What about those who want more in life than what the system has to offer? In the capitalist system people are tried to be controlled, and many times they succeed, but that’s because people are stupid, not because they don’t have a choice” Remi answered, inspired now.
“So you’re saying that every single poor person decided to be poor, that it was their decision that the market didn’t look up for them and that they have no choice but to live in poverty and decadency?” Ethan started flinging; you never start attacking opinions, unless you run out of them.
“Of course not, but they have a word on it. I’m very aware that their options are limited and scarce, I know that most probably they can’t do a thing about it; but I believe that is tradable for the benefit of freedom.” Answered the vehemently believer of liberty
“It is not about liberty, it is about the right we have as humans” Ethan said indignant
“We have no rights as humans, we’re as any other animal, we have had the advantage of conquering the world, but that doesn’t but us high above the others. The natural laws still inflict on us, the stronger survives and lives on to make a new generation of stronger individuals. I don’t see why we should take considerations just because we’re lame conquerors” Remi said, hitting the whole point of the discussion.
It was not about East and West, it was not about money anymore, it was not about religion, it was never about religion. It was that, the nature of the human. Is it an animal, or is it a special entity that rules the world with empathy towards others? Are we human or are we denser?
[The murderers are now suing us for sure]
By I'm the penguin
Posts
