Ok., let me say something officially.
I always loved Michael Jackson and I always will.
Damn, he spoke as soft as a woman.
Click, watch and continue with the parts 2-9.
2009/06/29
2009/06/22
the republic of whatever
It's a November weather outside, I turned 21 and since 9.30 a.m. I'm on vacation.
I'm watching five Ally McBeal episodes in a row and looking at the neighbors' windows. Flowers in the vase, a few dates in my calendar.
I glance at the backs of the books good people gave me: Marek Edelman, Danilo Kiš, José Frèches, Jacek Hugo Bader. And the two I picked from the second-hand book shop: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse. I look at all of them, I touch them. They're intact. I smell them before I taste.
Time is so capacious to me now. I can go wherever I want to. I'm standing at the threshold, sinking into the prospect. Afraid to broach anything of it. Don't want to waste any hour.
I'm thinking about the people I could meet with now that I'm free. MT, MS. It would be a matter of just texting them. Or A., yes, I sent her a message, she wrote back as if she'd been waiting. We almost set a meeting, but I stopped. I trusted my intuition again, perhaps I'll regret it later on (again). Something tells me to hide from her, from each of the people. I lean towards desistance, I feel like the mere thought of the meeting could replace the actual event. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's me being tired. So I'm just sitting and looking at the neighbors' windows.
I can feel it coming. It always begins with cynicism and sarcasm. Then I ride down and down, only to discover a month later, with a junkie's exhilaration, that the world is still there and it's safe and sound. Sadness, sadness, always this dark sediment, indelible, no matter how sleepy my pills make me, or how – objectively – I have all possible reasons to be satisfied.
There's only one answer. Chocolate.
I'm watching five Ally McBeal episodes in a row and looking at the neighbors' windows. Flowers in the vase, a few dates in my calendar.
I glance at the backs of the books good people gave me: Marek Edelman, Danilo Kiš, José Frèches, Jacek Hugo Bader. And the two I picked from the second-hand book shop: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse. I look at all of them, I touch them. They're intact. I smell them before I taste.
Time is so capacious to me now. I can go wherever I want to. I'm standing at the threshold, sinking into the prospect. Afraid to broach anything of it. Don't want to waste any hour.
I'm thinking about the people I could meet with now that I'm free. MT, MS. It would be a matter of just texting them. Or A., yes, I sent her a message, she wrote back as if she'd been waiting. We almost set a meeting, but I stopped. I trusted my intuition again, perhaps I'll regret it later on (again). Something tells me to hide from her, from each of the people. I lean towards desistance, I feel like the mere thought of the meeting could replace the actual event. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's me being tired. So I'm just sitting and looking at the neighbors' windows.
I can feel it coming. It always begins with cynicism and sarcasm. Then I ride down and down, only to discover a month later, with a junkie's exhilaration, that the world is still there and it's safe and sound. Sadness, sadness, always this dark sediment, indelible, no matter how sleepy my pills make me, or how – objectively – I have all possible reasons to be satisfied.
There's only one answer. Chocolate.
2009/06/16
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