A Clockwork Race

We've become cheap about more things than respect. People begin to live mechanically, taking one day after the other like they're never going to end, like we've got nothing left except the monotony of sunrises coming before sunsets. We get out of bed, we pull ourselves together, and walk outside into the fog. How much of yourself do you think you can find in the fog?
And we kid ourselves, we feed on bite-sized chunks of illusion. We go to a movie, we walk in the park, we wear sunglasses and we go shopping. But do those things make us alive? Everyone who's bored simply finds something to do, but does that constitute living? Does that constitute being free?
I wonder where exactly along the way we've lost our clarity of mind, our sheer joy of living. I wonder if we've ever had those. Is the entire human race prone to idleness or is it just the carbon dioxide coming out of the exhaust pipes clouding our judgement? How have we become so attached to our precious monotony that we're content with nothing more, and nothing less but our daily activities?
Why does nobody feel the need to go cliff-diving? Why does nobody feel the urge to smile to people on the street? Why does this fog we're stumbling in make us all reject the possibility that we matter as individuals? Why have we lost the faith in our power to change the world? Why does the vast majority know so little and care even less?

What are we doing with our existences? We've got a limited amount of time on earth, and we're wasting it because we haven't got the nerve to step up and step out of this suffocating cage we call a living. Let's work together, let's shape our cage of human limtations, let's expand its soft aluminium bars. Maybe, one day, someone will even unlock it.
Moreover, it's hard not to hit the "repeat" button in such a world. You lose interest, you lose focus, you lose all feeling except that tiny twinge of fatigue. You're forced by this invisible hand (who demolishes personalities and builds cold politeness) to be a human like the rest. How much more will people hang on to their schedule and bend to the unwritten rules of the system they live in?

So, what time did you say you're waking up tomorrow?

P.S.: "With the moonlight to guide you/Feel the joy of being alive/The day that you stop running/Is the day that you arrive" - Enjoy the Ride, Morcheeba (album: Dive Deep)
P.P.S.: The photo dates back to 1964, and it's University Square in Bucharest.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, R-E-P-E-N-T

Respect is an abstract concept for people nowadays. We're so cheap when it comes to wasting our unlimited resources that we've forgotten how good we felt when the big R was around. It all starts small, within us. We lose respect for ourselves, for our primordial status as human beings, and for our nature. So, we resort to plastic surgery; we take a beating but tell the doctor we banged our head against the door; we let ourselves be humiliated everyday by someone who is a little less cheap but a little more selfish about his self-respect and who places himself above you in some made-up, inconsistent hierarchy. We become trampled under the feet of our own will to cut back on our expenses. It's all economics, our failure.
From then on, things can only go downhill. Once you've lost respect for yourself - or simply ignored the initial acquirement of some - you've also lost your status as a human being. You are now officially "Lucy"'s daughter, the australopitaecus in original form, and you have bred many species within your race. You might be the Ignorant, you might be the Rude, you might be the Meek, but you're still regressing.
You're still part of a movement you've started somewhere around your stomach. Now you're burping the fumes of self disrespect all over the place, infecting everything. You spit on the street, you throw a wedding on the street and ignore your neighbours' pleas to turn the music down, you seek revenge by slamming a shameful grade in the register next to the name of just another collateral victim.
Slowly, you're turning into a hyena, losing whatever regard you had for all things holy to mankind like honour, culture, kindness, gentleness and - God forbid we forget - cleanliness. You have no respect for neither the dead nor the living. You eat your way to the top of yet another chimera of a hierarchy.
Let's hope against hope that there is hope, that the metaphorical cancer of modernity hasn't spread so wide inside our body. Let's try and be human again, even if it means silly things like not littering and smiling to children on the street.
Let's repent for freedom..., whatever that means.

I wonder what they meant when they said "repent".

We Are One or Stand by Me

Contrary to my other posts debating heavy [right.] problems of today's troubled society, this here post will not be for all brains to understand. I wanted to let my readers out there know that I have found something, something very few people find and even fewer keep. I've found idiots.
I've found the most intelligent people on the planet. I've found dancers and singers, writers, elves and vampires. I've found the world, and I've found love.
When I look at what I've found, I feel as though I'm looking into a mirror. They breather; I breathe, and every movement that they thus make is like one of mine. Every gesture, every sigh, every image, every fight is like my own. I've found mirrors of myself that keep shifting place, I've found independent souls like mine, wandering the earth.
I've come across beauty, I've come across bliss.

But really, I've just come home.

P.S.: Yes, all that concluded after the sleepover. I love you people!

Suspicious Minds

Boy [this is just something I've picked up from Holden Caulfield a.k.a. the guy in Cathcher in the Rye] did Elvis know what he was singin' about.

Let me elaborate: I was sent by a lovely mother to go out shopping. I was delighted by the prospect, despite the crappy area of the supermarket - I got to buy chocolate cream! [Nutella, in case anyone's wondering. It's my secret drug.]
And I had already, after an arduous search, retrieved the objects of my desire. Nutella, peanut butter [I'm a virgin when it comes to peanut butter - and almost everything else. My mother thinks it's a disgusting thing, and I had money. I thought I'd give peanut butter a chance...We have reached an acceptable, though not promising symbiosis.] low-fat cheese [for the most brilliant pancake filling ever, courtesy of my Mum], some sour cream. I knew something was missing, but I couldn't remember what. I texted my Mum with a simple question: "Need any milk?". She called back, said yes, and I had to step out of the line.

I said "Excuse me" to the only lady behind me and simply went round her, being extremely careful not to bludgeon her with ym shopping cart. She, in return, gave me the most disdainfully reproachful look I think I have ever received.

I'm a nice kid, I smile, I'm polite. I smiled, I was polite, and she was still mean. I mentally threw a swearword at her and her jaded look as I hurried down the aisle and put her out of my mind. I got the milk - both requested cartons, you see, it was pancake day - and rushed back to the line. The best choice was behind the mean-assed lady that had stare-abused me earlier. I approached her burgundy clothed back and sat there. She threw back another ugly look at me as she lay on the counter her 4 bags of chips and about 20 coffee packs. Those small ones you just plop into water and wait around for until they dissolve and give you the unhealthiest drink in your life, second only to the gut-liquifying, stomach-burning, diluted tar that is Coke. Like I said, she threw me another disgusted look [like I was the one buying all the packaged chemicals] and moved a step forward.

I kept thinking that I smelled. I didn't, I'd showered. I sniffed my amrpit - Rexona all the way, everyday. So no, it wasn't the smell, it was the simple fact that I was a younger person stepping out of the line, out of that perfect little line of people.
The lady went away, with her pudgy smudged eyes averted, I hope - I cared not enough to look.

My revenge was a retribution. Behind me, was a little gypsy kid, buying some sort of pen or pencil. I let him jump line and come in front of me, just because I felt like it.

Eat that, black-eyed lady.

Because we can't go on living together with suspicious minds.

P.S.: Let the little kids jump line, and just don't care if they stare. Those people are barren.
P.P.S.:"There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." - Leonard Cohen.

Bludgering Brown

"OMG!" the schoolgirls go.
"Scandalous!" the parlour moms exclaim
"Who?" the working moms ask.
"She probably deserved it,"the men of the world say placidly.
Only the women who are bludgeoned as well empathize. And only I have a fit of mirthless laugh.

Rihanna was beat up by her very own Chris Brown. No joke, people, this is serious as they get. The picture was just released and Rihanna's pretty pucker had the shape and size of an elephant ear. So we know he's been working out.
All irony aside, it is parlour-lady scandalous that in our day, age and not to mention social status, a not-21-years-old-yet man sees no wrong (or simply ignores the wrong) in striking a woman. A not-20-years-old-yet woman.
The fact that they're both icons of the modern world makes it even funnier: the angels we pray to for looks and talents such as their are rolling on their clouds laughing.

"You wanna look like this?"
"No, but I do wanna have his right hook."

What we should do is throw the little Michael-Jackson-follower behind bars for some time hoping to rid him of his violent habits. No bail, please, we all know he can pay that and be out and running (in his case, biting, was it?) faster that you can say "expensiveplasticsurgery".
For Rihanna, I feel sorry a bit. (Stressing "a bit". I find it hard to empathize with people who are so incredibly far from what I am and do, it's a fault of mine.) You meet a guy who can dance you to Neverland Ranch and sing you well into a comfy mansion on the hillside of dear old Hollywood. He looks like a prince, probably is smooth, ergo you fall for him. The next thing you know he's "borrowing money from you and spending it on other dames and betting on horses", in the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe. So guess Chris Brown isn't all that special: at the end of the day, he's nothing but a mean-spirited horse with an appetite for kicking.
And Rihanna's nothing but another abused person joining the pool of homeless kids, moms who leave their husbands, children who kill their parents, dogs who bite their owners and Whitney Houstons/ Tina Turners.

So, today, for the world, we have Rihanna's swollen picture staring at us with a pained expression. Today, she was just an abused lover.

The difference is somewhat made by the possiblity of plastic surgery, but that's another story.

That's the way the cookie crumbles! (or something in that category of sayings that imply food falling apart being a major event)

A Most "Revolutionary Road"

Okay, so I went to the movies.
I saw "Revolutionary Road" by Sam Mendes, with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio playing a couple planning to pack up and move to Paris.
All I can say, without much revealing the delicate plot, it that Mr DiCaprio has finally shaken off his "Leo" title. Ageing has proven itself profitable for him as it has for so many actors who find wisdom after their thirtieth anniversary - which kind of makes you hate fate for killing James Dean so young. "Leo" is, my friends, "Leo" no more. He's grown into the great actor we all hoped he was. Let's face it, we all know he blew our minds with "What's eating Gilbert Grape", but it's not like he's done anything as astounding since. But this - this Revolutionary masterpiece - has given former "Leo"-lovers the chance to say "I told you so". He's good, and I'm usually judgemental. He's very good.
Now, for his on-screen-wife, April. Kate Winslet has had a field-year, if I may say so. "The Reader"'s value was mostly of her making, yet she does not dissapoint us in this movie either. She plays the wife-who-wanted-more so superbly, it actually made me rethink my opinion about actresses nowadays. I, for one, am rooting for an Oscar here, because I think she is one of the few valuable people who have stepped foot in Hollywood this century. Call me melodramatic, but she's talented, and there's no argument against that.
Behind the heavy amount of liquor and cigarette smoke Sam Mendes sought fit to decorate the movie with, you will find no happy ending. Nobody's merrier at the end. Weakness and strentgh double back on each other until they creat such chaos you, as a viewer, become confused: are those who live on stronger? It has so many loose ends I wouldn't know where to begin to tie them: the oblivious [or not!] wife, the husband in love with another woman, the husband who calls his wife neurotic for wanting more out of life, the couple who wraps themselves in the blanket of self-appreciation ["We're not like all the others!"] - until they see it's too full of holes to keep them warm. It challenges mediocrity, monotony, hopelessness, endurance - take my word for it, it's a good movie.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all."
Or not. Just see the movie.



P.S.: Grim would have hated this with all his heart.
P.P.S.:"We will always have Paris..." [Bad joke, I know.]

Sincerely Stinging - "Songs From The Labyrinth"

"Cleare or cloudie sweet as April showring,
Smooth or frowning so is hir face to mee,
Pleas'd or smiling like milde May all flow'ring,
When skies blew silke and medowes carpets bee,
Hir speeches notes of that night bird that singeth,
Who thought all sweet yet jarring notes outringeth."

Indeed, ladies and gentleman, the one and only Sting. Identically Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner, him and his bedazzling talent paid us a visit tonight.
Released in 2006, his album "Songs from the Labyrinth" contains songs written by various medieval singers. Accompanied by Edin Karamazov's leute, he sung us all into awe.
You would never believe how, in an hour and fourty-five minutes, one man can mix his very enticing British wit, his sly handling of a leute, his mesmerising voice and fantastic originality to create what was just about the most wonderful concert I've ever seen.

To tell you the truth, I hadn't done much research about the new album, so I was basically walking into the concert hall with "eyes wide shut". I saw about six instruments propped up on an uncanny Persian rug, four anorexic microphones in the back and...that was about it. I expected an average concert, doomed by the fact that it was held indoors, marred by its lack of instruments and cursed by the amount of over-sung pieces of music about to be heard.
Never did I imagine that by stepping onto that stage, Sting will have single-handedly topsy-turveyed my idea of a concert.

The minute - no, the moment! - Sting sat down and spoke to us, in his mellifluous voice, of John Dowland, I was charmed, enchanted and blessed never to be able to take my eyes off him. John Dowland, one of the fifteenth century's foremost lutenists and composers, wiggled his melancholic tunes into Sting's playlist: Come, heavy sleep, Come again, Flow my tears, In the darkness let me dwell - all of them and more were revived, renewed and re-gifted to an unexpectant auditor: me. Each song had a story, each song was preceded by a fragment of one of John Dowland's letters to the Queen. His reading made my blood stand still, his singing painted this open-mouthed, idiotic grin on my face which I was not capable of getting rid of until well on my way home. I reached the conclusion that everything - and I'm not exaggerating - was impeccable. Even the lighting gave everything an intimate touch: soft copper colours hit against the sombre darkness of the singers' attires from every angle. Simple, but not plain.

What I saw, for once, on a concert stage, was the naked reality of the performer in front. A history lesson, a revival and renewal of the past, a wonderful idea brought to the world by two very modest men, a choir of young and talented singers - all without the useless paraphernalia involving a concert for someone as famous as Sting. Without a touch of tiredness in his voice, or in Edin karamazov's fingers, they were able to create such a warmly electric atmosphere than I have seen anyone do. By their spirit, making me enjoy every moment of the concert for its uniqueness, its grace, dignity and warmth.

It was well worth skipping my last class - which was, coincidentally, History -, I realised. I needed a walk in the "Fields of Gold".

"You'll remember me
When the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley."

P.S.: You see, that's where he was wrong, though I hate to admit it. I'll be keeping him, his voice, talent and spirit constantly, at the back of my head until I find a better sound. Or feeling.

Grim Reader

Some of you might have already guessed this: I met Grim today. Again.
[It's inevitable, I have to meet him every Monday. Almost.]
He once again shared with us his movie preferences. Happy-happy, joy-joy, I tell you.
He listed [hold on to your hats!] "A Walk to Remember" as one of the movies he thought the most educative. Bien sur, what can be more wonderful than the story of the high school freak who happens to see the light thanks to her fatal disease and who marries the high school it-boy, turning his principles, life and demeanour round?
God forbid we ever admit to having a dark side crept up somewhere in a corner of our souls! The more pink and perky we get, the more bubbly and beatific our personalities are, the more we are headed down the road to perfection...and destruction.
In a world where things might get ugly from time to time, we want the arts to stay as oblivious as possible to the dirt and grime of the city streets. Keeping arts off the streets is our goal. We seem to find refuge in this fantasy universe songs paint, and movies build. But, let's face it, we're only kidding ourselves. We're teaching our minds, souls and bodies to let in only the good, the pure and the marvellous; what we find down the street is so completely and irreversibly different that it makes us close our eyes to everything we deem unfit. We become the judges in a world where the need for patience is spilling over the brim of the cup.
So is it that bad that we sometimes are shown how dark and twisted are our fellow souls inside? It is so bad that we are shown the story of an illiterate German woman who joined the SS only to save her reputation? Is it so horribly wrong that we are shown how, at a complete loss for what to do and too little courage to do what is right, she ended up becoming a murderer? Is it so wrong that she took the entire blame upon herself, being thus landed with a life sentence? "What would you have done?" That is the idea. Under pressure, shame, panic and distress, would you - would anyone else - have saved the people she considered right to lock inside the burning church?
Now that's soul-searching. And that's "The Reader". For all Mandy Moore lovers [I still say she should stick to singing, her acting isn' really all that good] just take a peek at Kate Winslet.
And remember, the Grim Reader is the little voice telling you to stop trying to understand darkness and let yourself be blinded by the light.
Over and out.

P.S.: And, let's face it, "A Walk to Remember" is cheesy.
P.P.S.: I know the story was real. Reality makes a much better example than the movie inspired from it, don't you think?

Trolley Trance or The Silent Society

I honestly don't know what it is about trolleybuses, but I'm starting to believe they're the hidden drugs of the era.
Touch your nose if you've noticed it before, but as soon as people enter the malodorous, cramped, crowded and awkward world of the trolleybus, their functions and intellects take a deep plunge heading for the sidewalk. Thinking is flicked off, breathing is only a reflex, blinking is slow and forgotten more than oft and if you find anyone who so much turns their head in your direction, it means you're special. Very special.
My best guess is that people who build the trolleybuses must rub morphine on the floors and bars we so innocently touch. Atoms and atoms of morphine slither beneath out cells and make us all numb. It's my best guess, like I said, because I can find no other reason for people to act so uniformly dumb.
Seriously now, I can find no logical reason that in the midst of such opportunities of socializing, people basically turn themselves off, shut themselves in. They become a closed society, not noticing others, and never being noticed. It's like trolleybuses are moving devices that create zombies. Don't know if you've ever seen the mass of people in a bus staring outside: they look like corpses under a thick layer of ice.
Rarely does a dying ember crane a neck, blink or blow his nose in scary proximity of another. But with every movement, every slicing of the air, one causes the other embers to completely die away. The more you want to come close to them, the more they cringe and recoil.
You smile, their faces lock in a constipated rictus. You sigh, they back away fearing your vapours of sorrow might cling to them. You sniff, they frown distantly, as though a heavy noise bothered their deep meditation. You so much as look at them and they make a point of blinking lazily and staring forward.
The few passings of words have a strictly material purpose. People demand information they need. They don't care about why you've just rolled your eyes or pursed your lips. From the beggar who demands money by jutting a bumpy hand in front of you, from the lady who paints on a peasantly cold face and asks you if she could borrow your already used ticket, they are all ruled by their needs. I've often wondered, while looking round the cramped space that holds so many inert things, if they wonder as well. Do any of them see my ruffled hair and ask themselves why I choose to live without a comb by my side? Do they see the old lady who's munching on pastries like there's no tomorrow and brushing off crumbs from her enormous belly, thus showering the people in front of her with an assortment of edible debris? The yawning child, the wrinkled beggar, the driver who has pictures of his children and a few naked women on the windshield, the white-shirted student, the ostentatious Barbie, the tired young woman, the couple holding hands, the obviously disgusted punkrocker, the painfully blonde backpacking tourist, the skinhead with an electric aura nobody wants to step near, the old man with spectacles as thick as elephant hide, my reflection in the grimy window.

I see them all.

But do they see me?

Firefighter's Bobbing Head

Hm.
The U.S.A. - three letters that for most people represent wealth, freedom, and...er...help me on this one, please. Well, all in all, we like the U.S.A. and typically hold its supposed lack of rigidity quite opposite from, say, the U.K.'s world-famous protocol-love.

Right.

Funnily enough, just recently a man - a firefighter! - was suspended from a marching band for nodding [uh-huh], quite subtly, to the new pres, Barack Obama. Allegedly, the pres waved first, and Drum Major John Coleman said he was just acknowledging him. I mean, you can't risk being rude to the president of your country, even if you were told not to make any gestures.
After being suspended for six months, Major Coleman quit his job.

Okay, I get that we're talking about the president here. And I get there's a protocol to follow, but isn't it sad that something like this happens in a nation which promises not to be a subject to the rigidity imposed by royalty? It seems to me only absurd that a man got suspended for nodding to the very man who called himself a "mutt". The purpose of his suspension was...Ooh, I see, teaching all those nodders out there that such a gesture is so indecent that it must not be done in the presence of noble people. There's no suspension for winking to women on the street, no suspension for Bush's dropping bombs, no suspension for people who swear in traffic, and for so many sins the harm the world. But God forbid we nod publicly! God forbid we, the people reputed as the welcoming, unprejudiced race, put a toe out of line and show that we are as human as we claim to be!
Not to say "I told you so", but this great nation has once again proved its falsity. It's slightly boring, and it makes the world a slightly sillier [uglier] place.

And while I can't judge the Nod's implications on the world and the ceremony, I can smile, nod, wave, scream, shout, cheer and do all the ill-reputed things that ruin a perfectly cold, frozen and picture-perfect Technicolor moment. No one can suspend me, which makes my efforts worthless. But hey, someone needs to cheer for Mr Coleman, or else he's the jester to an empty crowd.
In my ears, though, the message rings on.

P.S.: "Smile and wave, boys. Just smile and wave."
P.P.S.: Oh, and despite the efforts to mimic other rigorous displays of solemnity, I pretty much think Mr Obama suspects those little people blowing on the strange thingies are not tin soldiers from a fairy tale.
P.P.P.S.: I quit now. Good night.

Sex, Food and Meowing

Yes, all that from my kitchen window.

Tonight I had the joy [ahem] of seeing a typical feline copulation ritual. Plain white-and-grey tom-cat on black backalley-cat. Nothing too spectacular but the cacophony of loud sounds issuing from such tiny creatures. I turned away respectfully.

Only the rampaging tom-cat, I presume, had not ended his conquest. A mere hour later, one could hear the same rude concerto coming from the street corner. I was getting annoyed by the symphony and once again opened the window to my back yard. There, I found a beautiful cat - a Siamese beauty, with long tresses and eyes that [gave me the creeps and] glowed red in the light of my kitchen. It's raining heavily; I begin to pity my Siamese friend, and scavenge the refrigerator for a tiny piece of fish. Found! Thrown. Ignored.
"You little...!"

But the cat doesn't even turn to pretend to hear my indignation. No, she is staring at a fixed point somewhere down the street. There you have it, ladies and gentleman: live porn for felines. [A.K.A. the loudly rampaging tom-cat]
Okay, so I understand a feline has needs, but come on, people! I'm throwing expensive food at a cat who's been parading my garden wall for about an hour! In the rain! Practically begging for nourishment and comfort! You're seriously telling me you'd pick porn over food? Over warmth?
What if there's a nice side to it? What if the cat chose to escape from reality, into whatever illusion was before her? What if, for a second, she was more than a cat begging for food in the rain? A dream, her dream, her ideal. Maybe she wasn't really watching the live show. Maybe she was seeing sunshine, daisies and pretty little rainbows in her fantasy tom-cat's eyes. More than a cat. More than a beggar, more than hungry, more than sad and droopy. Maybe she had to choose between black, wet reality and painless fantasy. She chose the reality of her imagination; she chose to dream rather than to eat. She chose her heart, rather than her stomach.

Illusion over need? Mind over bulk? Essence over matter? Soul over body?

Apparently, felinity gives you that luxury.

["Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you'
Birds singin' in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me."]

Windsor Wind or Why Not Be?

Ahem, Ophelia, darling. Hamlet is gone cuckoo. Deal or get dealt, so I say.

[There was a girl; a very strange, enchanting girl. And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this she said to me:

"My guy is jaded. Beat that."]

I ask you, wasn't it so perversely masculine and overbearing of Mr William Shakespeare to create such a character as our friend Ophelia here? What better a way to dissipate his own guilt ["Honey, I know I haven't been all here this week, but look, you're my new character in a play!"] playing the Creator of this weak, tormented figure?
Shakespearean-ly enough, our pretty Ophelia loses all: lover, brother, father, dignity and capacity to breathe. Not necessarily in that order. Feminist question: what the hell?
I mean, I know Hamlet is supposed to be the one to make us shake with crying, but Ophelia is sure giving him a run for his money. Seriously now, she is the most tragic character to wiggle its lines into the play. Not only does her pristine universe crumble around her, but she uses the will to live, falling into a pit of despair. And not caring. It's so desolately sad to see a person live only through his or her love for others, and have no appreciation for the independence of solace. She was lonely; she killed herself. She did exactly what the famous soliloquy kind of tells people not to. "A sea of troubles..." Anyone for a swim? Thing is [this post is born out of frustration] it is both tug-on-your-hair frustrating as well as enchantingly fairy-tale-like to dream of such a [leechy] complete love. It is not only prejudicial to make Ophelia kill herself, because it assumes she depended solely on Hamlet, but it is also a degrading supposition as to the nature of a human being. When the going gets tough, Ophelia drowns herself. Women in love have no willpower, no strength, no depth beyond their affections. They, if alone, start brooding and planning their own deaths meticulously. "Honey, I'm home!" is what got Wilma out of her suicidal-mode.

Were I [or any sensible woman] carrying Ophelia's name and part in the story, I would have most sincerely told Hamlet to shove it [after crying a wee bit to get the angry bits out so that I could swear gracefully]. If, Hamlet, your personality is that ebbed that even I can't fix you [Coldplay!...Sorry.] then you're off the charts. Hamlet should be the one killing himself over this [take it literally, don't take it literally, I don't care]: the person I love can't fix my sorrow; I see my old man's ghost; my mother is sharing a bed with my uncle. Okay, I need to recite my soliloquy now and decide whether to live and let die or just kick the bucket and turn my back to the world.
Ophelia should be wasting her time reading Truman Capote and smoking cherry-flavoured cigarettes while someone is painting her toes red to hide the deppression. So to all you Ophelias out there who are contemplating suicide [be it physical or sentimental]: sing a Christmas carol, sing a happy-song. Give out free hugs, buy yourself a tiara [Scratch that last one! Twice!], drink a cup of French Vanilla, listen to Oasis, walk the city alone and see the sun filtered through the bare treetops, smile at children and dodgy dogs, feed the pigeons and just enjoy the brief time you have. Let's not all be the shakespearian dream and kill ourselves before we spend enough time alone to know who we are.

One last thing: raise a glass of champagne to "Be".

And smile on. Nothing's bad enough until you die.

P.S.: And when underwater, SWIM, DAMN IT!
P.P.S.: And don't find the above offensive to your deppresion.
P.P.P.S.: Oh, and Mr Shakespeare, I know you're turning in your grave, but I truly meant no disrespect. I just get mean when I'm tired.

Narrow Escape from Sin City

I met someone recently. Let's call them Grim. Grim came up to me and told me how absolutely glorious, unmistakeably marvellous and perfectly heavenly are those movies which depict characters of immesurable selflessness. Tear-jerking, moving to the core. Absolutely perfect. Nothing gets better than watching two and a half hours of selflessness then realising your own mechanism must be wrong because you just don't save the day. Every day.
To me, even if they are wonderful movies, those flicks make too many eyes tear to get to me that much. They present the fact: the bare superiority of a fellow human, an ideal we will never reach. Superhuman kindness, inhuman dedication. Rubbing it in to the poor sinful souls who will [unfortunately] go to hell while you pull jokes with the archangels. I admire the portrayed kindness, but it cannot be something I relate to. I am, we all are, imperfect. And that a demi-god is born every ten years to make a miracle happen...That's serendipity.
Moreover, concentrating solely on the values of humanity...people, that alone isn't right. We're dark, twisty and murky as well as bright, shiny and merry: we deserve to be treated as such. Complicated, difficuly, beautiful in all our humanity. No more pristine souls, it is not who we are. We'd be selling lies.
Grim moved on to the subject of books. "Lolita", to name but one literary atrocity, was an abominable sin of Nabokov's. Horrible intellect had he who could devise such a story about obsession, sexuality, desire...Ugh! That is not the kind of movies one must see! We get enough muddy souls in our day-to-day lives. Who needs movies about malice, lust, greed and all those things which make us so invariably human?

[Or maybe Grim suffered from a disease whose symptoms consist of severe narrowing of the brain/mind.]

How much can you hate your own race that you want its reality out of your house, mind and DVD player? How can you deny and reject the very things that comprise your essence as a human being? Sins and thankfulness, joy and sorrow, lust and love - part of me, part of you, part of the Grimmest person ever to exist.

P.S.: She forgot all about Lolita's redemption. Ha-ha.

Osama. Obama? Your Momma.

It was only natural that I wrote about the big event of the year [so far]. Yes, the US have a new president. Guess what so special about him. He's coloured.
I admit, I never actually thought he'd win, but the American people surprised me[ for once!] and actually elected him. Albeit it's a step forward, electing a president different from all the others in the past [however respectable they were] is just a [national] cry for help. Barack Hussein Obama resresents their lifeline, their hope that something will be different in the future. No one can blame these people for wanting change [Clinton? Bush?!], but I am still mesmerized by the fact that someone with such a profile was elected. [Not that I'm complaining.] He's black, which means I have to nod in approval to the people who voted. His name is Hussein [anyone remeber a guy Saddam a few years back?]Obama [Call me crazy, but dunnit sound like Osama? As in Bil Laden?], but apparently the American people saw through that and picked him over [century-old] McCain [yikes!]. So yes, I'm glad to be able to say [just this once] that I'm happy with how people saw past the heritage and more into his education and behaviour [even though he was not exempt from his fair share of scandals...but whether the scandals will come back as "Watergate Reloaded", only time will tell]. Conclusion: Obama's a pretty dream.
But pleaese-oh-please don't come round telling me he's going to be the one to save the American people ["Once the greatest nation in the world"...a thing to which the economical crisis saw]. Granted, he's not Osama - he pulled out the troops, and brought the change [Yeah, yeah, we know we can!] that needed bringing. He ended something that should have never even been started, and for that I[for one] hold him in respect. But he's not your mother, he's not any sort of divinity and even he can't make the impossible happen - and he won't cradle you in his arms and sing you to sleep. People, you're going to have to help yourselves as well[there's something at the end of your arm which will do most of the job] out of - what is it? - poverty [if that be the case; I'm not looking to offend anyone].

Real conclusion: the new Pres is a much needed breath of fresh air; "bush" is associated with too many malodorous prophanities.

Scream Team

I hereby swear to scream, bellow, shriek, prattle my head off for all eternity. Pour la paix, bien-sur. A blog/clog for my opinions, people, to make the long story short.

"A beautiful sunset that was mistaken for a dawn. "
~~ Claude Achille Debussy

Gr. No. Optimism.

Er...

"Computers are useless. They can only give you answers."
~~ Pablo Picasso.

Funny. But it doesn't help me prove a point.

"Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something."
~~Plato

Better.
Now you're confused.
Mu. Ha. Ha.

Love,
the One-Man-Band