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The towel has fallen from my shoulders and I get the goose skin. The room is empty and cold. I met J. three months ago, just when I needed him - he came. Just as I wanted him he was - he was me, myself and more... My hair is wet, I can see drops fall on my skin and run down to the floor. I put my shirt on and buttoned it up. When I first unbuttoned it for him, three month ago, I've unbuttoned my chest and left my heart wide open. It went on beating, silly heart.
I am always late. The date of expiry has arrived and passed unnoticed. The best years are ahead. The milk in the fridge is no good, is it? I hate black coffee. I am sleeping my life away. The best years are wasted. I am at the beginning of my twenties; this is my modern times...The best years are to come. Will I be fine after drinking this milk? It's in the fridge after all...I am sleeping my life away. The time is slipping between my fingers, I must catch it. Oh, it's not just expired, it's empty too. Damn.
A hundred words are not enough to tell a story...But it's too much when you come to start. Now, if you had a hundred words before you died, what would you say? It can happen to anyone, let me assure you, I am positive, everybody can die. Maybe I am not sure that I can write, love, live, but I think I can die; I was born after all, wasn't I? Was brought from nowhere here, and the way back is the only way. Maybe that's the reason why I like so much the stories that have a circular structure.
The cave was high in the mountains and the view was fantastic. There was a dangerous task on the shoulders of my friends. They left. A couple of times I came near the mouth of the cave to catch a short view. They all came back soon with victory. The leader gave a beautiful speech, his right hand - funny boy, was entertaining us with his legs and his neck being black springs; I was laughing aloud and woke up from the sound of my own laughter. Actors go to amazing "places" that I can only catch a short view of.
What a curious thing - an empty well. In fact, I wish I had one near my own house, in the yard. I would come winter time and look down, and whisper something to hear the echo; I would drop a little stone inside and count, and never hear a sound when it's fallen on the ground. And then I would get a bigger stone and drop it and count in my heart until I got tired and stopped. Why didn't I hear any sound? Could it be so deep? Maybe someday I will jump into this well to discover...
When you travel to famous, popular sites on a high season you can't avoid getting into other people's photographs. For the rest of your life and after you die - your face/hand/butt will appear in enormous number of family albums. Does this passive memory of you count? Are you a celebrity now? Once, I knew a man that turned it into his hobby. A girl, whom he met and married years and years after, has been passively seeing him every time she looked at the picture of her parents on her desk. She felt as if she'd known him forever.
I have a very special corner in my room. There is a small lamp, a shelf with books, an armchair and a picture in this corner. Black and white picture is showing my friend's hand that holds a small cup at convenient angle, so we can see the inside of the cup. Small as the coffee cups for espresso, it's empty, just the leftovers can be seen and these, after the cup has been turned down and up again, draw a complicated pattern on the walls. I can't read destiny in coffee leftovers. If I could... Maybe he was still alive.
It's hard to write; to capture life on daily basis. Why, one day is not different from the other! And life streams like the water in the river... Can you catch a river stream? You just go with the flow. You are bored...Boredom is fear of terrifying view of your life running away...not captured...between two banks - your past and your future. I feel like I sit on the bank and watch the river. From time to time I change my location - once it's the past that I am sitting on, and once it's the future. Life passes by.
A small auditorium, a black stage, red chairs, half an hour after the show. The troupe is still inside. Some friends are waiting in the hall. Another theater group and their director, a big redhead woman, are sitting on the couch. I watch them. They're weirdoes. They read poetry; they have long hair; they wear old shoes. One redhead little guy sits near the redhead director. They talk, they smile to each other in great intimacy; it feels like they are lovers. I know they aren't. I wish I could be one of this group but I am a loner...
Money. I don't like counting money. Money, on the contrary, does like to be counted. We can be together only under my strict dictatorship. I don't like counting money. In the present I don't have any money to count, so I enjoy myself. Really! Later, when I'll accomplish everything I am dreaming of - I will have enough money to spend without counting. "No count" account. Well...there always a danger of money's victory - money's dictatorship... Then - I'm going down. I guess I just can't afford to loose this battle. What a caricature character, am I not?! Classical looser! L!
Sometimes, I feel like there are decisions that I cannot make, regarding my own life. And even if I try - the answer has been already given, and if I think that I'm standing on a crossroads - I am wrong,I am much further on. "The timing connection"between the question asked and answer given is rarely precise enough to match the timing of real live. The choice can be made consciously in rare cases, when the connection is being made in the current second. This way spontaneous people have better chances to be true and honest with themselves.
Today is my birthday according to the Chinese half moon half sun calendar. It's their New Year's and I was born when the year of Pig came to replace the year of Dog twenty two years ago, and I guess it's proving itself every day - I am lovable like a dog and messy like a pig...Though pigs are smart. Smart and not kosher, that's what I am. It's interesting that the Chinese didn't have to invent psychology to put people's personalities into convenient shelves. So I am half dog half pig... Not such a pretty combination, but special, right?
I was riding the bus. A girl came and kissed me. I couldn't say a word and there was my stop. I went out and into apartment where my old friend, a psychology student rents a room. His mom, a psychotherapist was there too and we sat around the table and talked. The accident in the bus seemed like a dream and I told as if a dream. She asked me who the girl was, but I didn't know, though she seemed awfully familiar and she said 'So you're looking for her', I tried to deny, but she was right.
There're many types of people, alright? Too many, so I'll name just two: moralists and aesthetes. Moralists always know what is wrong; aesthetes never do. And I, from my point of view, can't understand how they (moralists) know... There is a full range of colors, how can you tell if red is black or is it white?? The moralists can easily tell; aesthetes never try; I can never tell. Aesthetes are the silhouettes on windy streets of half tints; the moralists are the contrast figures on black and white photography of 19th century, yellowed with time. No possibility of communication.
I am transparent. I am completely alone, and there is nothing to this world, and yet I like to be alive. All my good friends are translated into mathematical formulas and appear offline, but there is no flesh, nor blood, no souls, only nick names, only email addresses. They are all trapped in a web of information. I would like to meet the Spider who did all that. I would shake his many hands, I would look into his simple eyes, they see only light or no light, they see only black and white; he is a moralist, this spider...
Don't travel if you don't have a good reason to. What's good in changing places, running from country to country? All that you can do without leaving your room - open a book and read; smoke a joint, watch a movie. As my friend says - you don't leave your shit at home when you travel - it travels with you, so have a good reason for traveling. Is sex a good reason? So many people travel for sex, it's unbelievable... Yes, it's incredible to fuck somewhere near Coliseum or the Latin Quarter, but there's got to be something better than this...
After reading Virginia Woolf: What was I thinking about? My head is empty...They walk around, in rounds and circles and never reach me... The thoughts... The unseen ghosts... I opened the window pulling a dark curtain aside and the bright white light has entered; it's blinded me for a long continuous minute; a black cloud hangs where ever I turn...The exposition was too long, now the picture can't be saved. What's happening? Where am I?? It's all dark... Joanna D'Arc...Fear no more the heat of sun! Oh, thank God, it's gone. What was I thinking of? My head is empty.
It's sunny, it's weekend. Some plans are better than no plans. Some plants are better than other plants!... It's officially PEACE in Jerusalem...So I've heard. Should I go back? Should I return because it's not dangerous anymore? Was that the reason I left? No, it wasn't. But I know that it was the right thing to do. I never felt there at home anyway. Now I am here, a wandering soul... I am not eager to stay here either; I guess I am doomed to be a fallen leaf caught by the wind... But I wish I could find company...
It has been a while since I last took my camera with me downtown...That time it was one foggy early November morning, cold and depressing. Perfect if you are up to searching for the unusual, the weird and the unknown on the streets of a well familiar town. The streets were just dressing up and yawning, the stores opening their back doors and the early people heading somewhere, holding a cup of coffee in hands and contemplating into the dark, moist asphalt as into a river. On the shore - it was hard to tell water from the sky. Silence.
The beauty of still and silent urban landscape is unbelievable. The snowflakes are falling. They are the only motion; they just increase the impression of lack of movement. Falling snow is the anti stagnation. The frost reminds the body of its future temperature, said one great poet... Everything is a great illusion, it's true, but nobody gives a damn. We keep running until we fall. We are falling while everything else stands still. We are nothing but snowflakes one beautiful winter morning and everything is meaningless and beautiful. The scariest place of all - a world that doesn't have a soul.
It's such a boring month. Nothing seems to be happening! Nothing moves and I am close to give up. Because of the wonderful weather instead of going out I spent the night at home reading Russian history from the vikings to... well, I didn't get much further, but I was always suspicious about my blood content: I don't look so russian, but I definitely look german or sweden, I guess a thousand years ago my distant ancestors were the Normans. We came from the North. That's why my soul is irreparably pagan. Gods of nature whisper their secrets to me.
Prince Sviatoslav was killed by Pechenegs, the wandering people, when he and his knights were on their way home from some victorious journey. The chief of the wandering warriors made from Sviatoslav's scalp a cup and drank wine from it at special occasions. Surprisingly, at that time drinking from somebody's scalp was a jest of respect, and not otherwise, as if drinking from a scalp of defeated but great enemy he drank his strength and courage. I bet drinking from somebody's scalp, somebody's who you happened to kill is a senses waking experience. Why don't we do that anymore???
Black holes... White holes...Green holes... Holes in teeth... Holes in the bagels...Holes in cheese... Holes in trees, in ears, holes in... The black holes. Eleven dimensions, parallel worlds...parallel words. The Word has gained an L and the worLd was created. What is L? Lord? Looser? What? Kabbalah wouldn't get so far if it was relying on english, huh... I don't like serious people. My dream husband since I was a little girl had laughing eyes...Because the most dreadful things in human's history had been done with a serious face. The black holes - the white holes...The energy can't be lost.
She opened a window. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœCan I smoke?' she asked. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœSure'. They were going on thrilling speed down the empty highway. The darkness was first dealt by orange streetlights then it became their concern. They struggled through the darkness seeing fifteen meters ahead, but he never took his foot off gas. She lit a cigarette. 'Can I smoke here?' 'Sure, just be careful'. 'It's you who had to be careful that time, right?' A nurse entered. IT'S A NONSMOKING hospital, she said. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœI pay the price, right?' he said quietly to the girl. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœIt doesn't change the rules' said the nurse.
They teach you to be an actor, to be a driver, to be a doctor. They don't teach you to be a lover, to be a gangster or to be a writer. These things they do not teach you. Does this mean that they don't want you to become a writer? Very unlikely. What's the difference between actors and writers? Both have to learn methods and techniques: how to hold a character from the first sentence till the final period, how to make it look like one whole and not just something torn apart. But there's no school for writers.
He makes money. He works two jobs and studies full time. He looks years younger than his actual age - they ask him for ID in pubs and liquor stores. He has a car and friends. And the most important thing are the connections of course, without connections - what would we be? He has no time to think, but why would you want to? You have the connections, now there is no time to waste - money, money, money...He tries to look smart for me. He is a senior year university student and not a thought in the whole head.
The moon is full. Again. And there is this little star beneath it. Again. Not again, not again...But there it is and unmistakably another month has passed like a shadow and vanished. I feel like a sand clock - they just turn me over and the seconds begin to run; inspired by gravitation and some other unknown force... The moon is full again and there is this star, like a beauty spot on ancient African black skin of the sky it keens my attention on the lifeless face of Luna... Forever pale and sad, she gazes in grief upon us.
I am proud of myself for keeping up the whole month. I rarely enjoy doing something on daily basis. Not even sex! Yep...There are many things in life that are as good as or even better than sex for your body and soul, like poetry, theatre, a good book.... Though, when sex becomes art it goes up - beyond any competition. There is a serious problem with people's perception of love. Love hurts, love doesn't kill. The world is too full of smart cowards, but in a great lack of silly romantics...romantics itself turned into used clichÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©s. Too bad, huh...
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