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Disappointment is what he felt. He thought she was better than that. He really thought she was different. "Whatever"she had said. "Whatever you, your feelings, who cares"she had meant.
Disappointment is what she felt. She thought she was better than that. She really thought she was going to make the effort and go see him that night, even if deep inside she knew all she needed was time alone. "Whatever"she had said. "Whatever, I just can't explain what's going on"she had meant.
Words can hurt. Uttered or not. Powerful, regardless.
"Whatever"she said. He didn't hear.
More than the task itself, the thought of having something to do scares him. When he wakes up in the morning, he thinks of all the things he has to do. He thinks about all those bills, laundry, shopping lists, people to call, "things"to do. He thinks about them over and over again. It never actually comes to his mind that if he did those "things-, he would be able to stop thinking about doing them. Those "things-, which could take place in the future and be easily part of the past, take over his life. He dreads. Professionally.
"All those divisions, gender, race, class, it's all crap really. All human-beings are Storytellers. By essence, that's all we do, tell stories. Not everyone gets listened to though. Sellers do: they know how to present their stories so that other people buy them. As for Visionaries, they can tell stories before they happen or maybe they make stories happen by telling them, either way, it seems like the future unfolds just the way they say. Visionaries can be Sellers as well."The old man spat the last chunk of tobacco he was chewing. "Death happens when we stop telling stories.-
"I have a theory."Anna's roommate did not budge. She knew her friend did not need any encouragement to launch into one of her self-proclaimed revolutionary diatribes. "There are only four types of men: the ones who do not want to sleep with you, that category includes gay guys, the ones who want to sleep with you now, think chocolate cake, the ones who want to sleep with you one day, eventually, and the ones who want to sleep with you every day for the rest of their lives.""Alright-, said the roommate, "Leave taxonomy to biologists, what's the story?-
Today I chose to get out of bed. I chose to wait until 3pm to have breakfast. I chose to send out emails to some people and not to others. I chose not to call a man I like, but who doesn't even know what it is to like someone. I chose to have chocolate and toast and butter. I chose to read a book. I chose to watch a movie. I chose to dance. I chose to talk to my friend. I chose not to pick up the phone. It's nighttime now, I am lonely. My choice. Lucky me.
She thought she knew herself, but she had been acting strange recently. Analyzing more than usual. Full of distrust and disbelief. People offer pity, love, support, but it is hard to fake faith. She couldn't find it in anyone she talked to, only in herself.
Maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe she was lost after all. Her only companions were two flies. And she kept trying to kill them. That was the story of her life. Well very similar anyway.
She hated being an object of commiseration. She believed it was more selfish than anything. A nuisance. Just like flies.
Someone had just called her a she-male and it suited her just fine. If it was typical guys' behaviors to get what they wanted and be contented. Then she was ok with being a she-male. She had yet to learn how to deal with the social stigma. In other words, she had to learn how to keep her mouth shut. She didn't like the alternative too much: Sex was much better than vanilla fudge brownie ice-cream.
Eric was her lover that night.
Lazy but lovely.
Still better than vanilla fudge brownie ice-cream.
He treated her like a big baby.
Alice was sitting on the train.
Her oversized coat was covering her black top and her ample skirt whose original color could not be distinguished. One could not tell the original color of her eyes either, she held them tightly closed.
She could have portrayed an ancient Rome aristocrat. Patrician nose, thin lips, chiseled face.
Her face did not belong to the tired body slouched against the seat, it did not belong to the legs covered with bruises, or maybe it did, maybe it served as a reminder.
She opened her eyes.
You wish she hadn't.
What color is sadness?
I really didn't think this would be so hard. I mean, what, just a 100 words. But then it's a 100 words times 30 days in average, 3000 words, times 12 months, 36000 words. So little effort, but so much commitment. It's so annoying to be able to see things for what they really are, but still going through episodes of sadness, despair, doubt, fear, plain darkness. Annoying, because it can be fixed, but it can't be helped. I can't help that I woke up feeling horrible this morning. But, my friend called and Nina Simone is singing. Easy Fix.
Lola woke up with existential questions in mind. So why was she, Lola, short, black, black-haired, fiery ball of fire of a woman? Why wasn't she more docile, more accepting? Who would she be if she wasn't
she was? And why was it that she was not the same person
all the time
? Where was her passion coming from? Did it matter? She needed to write her own posology. How much of what, when, how often? Love, tears, sex, fear, doubt, anxiety, grins, nods, fingers...crossed. All she needed was dosage and an extra hand to help swallow hard pills.
What a bastard! I have every right to be angry!
Thou art in heaven
She looks really good in those jeans! I wish I could pull this out! I have such huge thighs!
Hallowed be thy name
What am I going to do with myself? I shouldnÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢t, mustnÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢t give up, I do not have the right to!
Thy kingdom shall come
What if it doesnÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢t work out? No! It has to!
That will be done
I like going to church on Sunday, there is nothing like baring your soul to GodÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â¦
She wanted her hips to got left, left they went. Then, she wanted them to semi-circle to the right, they did. Swaying to the alternatively languorous and fast rhythm of Zouk. Left, right, she was fantasizing! This music truly was divine. She could connect to her body in a way she knew one day, that man would. Left, right, she gave a new meaning to the word sensual. In touch with one's senses. Eyes opened, closed. Left, right, she could feel "it" right there. Power, satisfaction, desire. She was here, but she wasn't. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right, leftÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â¦
He was wearing his uniform, which was getting wet from the mid-afternoon heat. He had just left his wife and their three kids at home and was running late for his night shift. It was a whole different world there. Far from the curry smells and the softness of the cheeks of his three-year-old daughter. There, everything was gloomy and messy. Everything was neat and proper where he was coming from. Equally gloomy, but then it didn't look like it was, that's what mattered. He was a man, he had made it, what was happiness anyway? He was a man.
....I hate you with every square inch of my skin. I despise you with every cell of my brain. I love you with all the complexities of my soul.... The lyrics of her favorite Zouk song kept playing in her head. She couldn't help it, she kept thinking about him. Why? How can she be so far away from Alex and so close at the same time? How can everything she does remind her of that man with whom she knew she couldn't share her life? How was that possible? Why? ....Let me go... goes the song. ....Please... ....Let.... ....Go....
I lost a hundred words. Well, it's not like I lost someone I really cared about, but still, a hundred words is a lot. So what is about losing that I can't stand? Losing insignificant, trivial things. It's gone. Not to be found ever again. Or maybe. Why the need to be so dramatic? Why, why, oh why? It's a rather neurotic behavior I reckon, but then, there is not much I can do about it. Well there is. I am doing it. I am writing a hundred words per day. Not to be lost. Yet again, yet again, ...still.
I forgot what I wanted to write about today. I know I had a really good idea, but it totally slipped my mind. I hate when that happens. I mean, it's not like I am doing anything with my life right now, so how can I not remember the only thing that mattered, in a whole day. I mean shit, why is that so hard? I am just like a chameleon, copying the writing style of those chicklit authors, I have been devouring those past couple of days. The public library, "heights branch" doesn't really have much else of interest.
The TV went black when the game ended. The Ivorian team had lost to the Dutch. Unjustly he thought, so did the TV apparently, which went dark in protest. He could only console himself by hoping that next time his team will do better, that next time the result wonÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢t be so close that the outcome of the game could depend on fair decisions from biased referees. ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ…â€œStillÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â, he thought out loud, ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ…â€œitÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢s not enough that we are dirt poor, fighting a civil war, that they are stealing our riches and our talents, they also have to steal soccer games.ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â
- Why is he making such a big deal about me not coming out tonight? I need some me-time. And I know I am not going to enjoy myself, so why waste my time and ruin his night? We are not even dating anyway. - Right. ItÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢s ok for you to want to stay alone. I wouldnÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢t even have apologized! Take a long bath, relax and letÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢s talk tomorrow. - You are such a great friend! Thanks! - No problemo! Take care!
ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ…â€œSelfish slut!ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â The great friend snickered after she hung up the phone, ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ…â€œhe is too good for you.ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â¢Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â€šÂ¬Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â
I think I know what it is. I am more at ease with the people with whom I can express my sarcastic, sometimes mean-spirited side, without any fear of hurting. Some other people, naturally kinder or less prone to sarcasm, come out as more sensitive to my "mean with no harm intended"lines. I am more careful with them. I let out the side of me with lower self-esteem as I know they will try to comfort me. It's quite subtle I think, so subtle that I actually couldn't really explain it to myself. Until now. Talk about a chameleon.
So what is it with talking? When a young man or a young woman answers coyly: "we are talking,"they are in the process of getting together, or not. When a mother is talking to her child, it is something close to a scolding, or maybe some life lesson being passed on. When friends are talking, they are just sharing insignificant details of their life. They know they are friends because they are actually interested in knowing those things about each other's lives. And then, there is the keep talking... as in, who cares about what you are saying anyway.
They finally won. "Never die spirit"they call it. It wasn't enough though. Out the "elephants"go, out with a nod of their trunk. Playful, energetic, feisty, that is the image they projected. They could finally demonstrate a couple of steps of "coupe-decale."Finally,
Despite the losses and the ousting from the tournament, the "elephants"won friends, admirers, followers. So much passion, so much energy, a great image for the game, a great example for life. They finally won. Fans are happy. Promises. Next time. There is always going to be a next time? Is there?
The conference was more a way for those traditional practitioners to sell their craft than for any of the "students"to actually learn it. How many of those gum-chewing, cell-phone-answering, attention-seeking amateurs would actually reach the level of the masters?
The majority of the public was female, the diligent ones, some with a self-esteem that so low it seemed a rather daunting task to try and pick it up, some with a self-esteem so high it seemed a rather daunting task to try and approach it. The few male students seemed out of place, either old, or quiet, or both.
Passengers of the van were getting crankier as the temperature rose. The AC was making such terrible noise that the driver had turned it off. It was warm outside, even warmer inside. One man, red-shirted, was standing in the narrow passage dividing the van in two, arbitrarily coupling passengers. He was tapping impatiently on the window, only interrupting himself to circle the crowd and complain about the heat in an approximate Spanish. He was visibly annoyed. The driver stopped, gestured towards the door with all the authority conferred by her mass, a red shirt followed. The van got slightly cooler.
"You guys are full of shit, no wonder they blew up your face on 9/11. New York, New York, New Shit, New Shit! I can't believe you are not capable of fixing my ticket, you messed it up, now it's time to un-mess it. New York, New York, New Ticket, New Ticket! It's not that hard to get. New York, New York, New Idiot, New Idiot! I have been waiting for an hour now and I am a very patient old lady. I won't leave until you tell me I can board the bus. New York, New York, Damn it.-
The house had the calm reassurance that old age bestowed on some lucky mortals. The kitchen was the most welcoming room. Every ladle, pot, mitten, fork seemed immortal. Placed there to serve, serving. For years to come too. The dance of the use and used had reached a subtle harmony, the right tempo, that survived and will survive through the attacks of time, the weariness of material. Everything in that kitchen sang family. Everything in that kitchen smelt good times. Everything in that kitchen looked right. Everything in that kitchen felt true. Everything in that kitchen tasted like love. Yummy.
"People are like dogs, they bite when they are scared, said a French writer. Surviving the attack depends on two factors, first, whether or not the dog has rabies and second, whether or not you are vaccinated against rabies. Michael was a rabid dog, he was so scared of Lucy's influence that he bit her to the bone. She wasn't vaccinated. She died. She hung herself outside of their apartment door. He had threatened to leave her. He wouldn't have. But she took him seriously. She believed his words. Pretense. Death. Words we free do not belong to us anymore.-
- Open the "Mozarella Fire-! It took me a while to realize that she was talking about the application "Mozilla Firefox!"I liked the new name, and Lisa's attitude seemed representative of what most adults do in a much less delicious manner: not seeing what's in front of their eyes, but fitting it into some boxes that they know about. Or maybe I am reading too much into things.
- Did you ever go to Peru?
And off she branched out onto some other topic.
- Did you ever take a shower in the snow?
That ship has sailed.
"There are so many deep-rooted prejudices and clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©s in your mind that not only is original creation a small miracle, but original anything is to be acclaimed. People don't think, we are on automatic pilot. Because it's easy, because it's expected; the good student inside has always wanted to meet expectation. It's the rebel we need to pay attention to. The one that questions and seeks to understand before accepting."
Lucie liked to say that unlike most people, her eyelids did not flutter when she was waking up; she opened her eyes wide. The morning light used to hurt. Not anymore.
"Did you see the shirt my Dad is wearing? It is p.i.m.p. pimpin. The shirt said "2006 Greatest Dad."
"Well, he has to be the greatest, he is my only Dad,"Lucie added. Plain, ruthless logic that only eleven year old kids are capable of expressing aloud.
Lust, cheating, relationships, drinking, eating, being good or bad, everything is open for discussion. Compliments are sincere unless She is trying to get some junk food out of me. She is very perceptive and can reassure you like no one else, because she knows so much already, about what hurts and what doesn't.
Scarified back, ritual of hatred, marks of contempt, expression of power. Ridges and hills made of swollen flesh, canals made of torn skin. Dark skin. Black skin.
Each grain is a memory
Each thread is a song
Each look is a battle
Each day is a victory
Dignified back, whipped, battered flesh, wasted blood, marks of resistance, expression of survival. Dark Skin. Black skin.
Each picture is a strike
Each trace is a witness
Each word is a door
Straight back, bent back, healed. Healed, but damaged forever. Scars of war, scars of slavery, scars of debasement, scars of union.
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