“When the mind is in a state of absolute clarity it works in a very dangerous way, threatening
to destroy everything, to dissolve every impression left as a mark like bleach. The
connections become staggering spikes. Like a device calculating and concluding on things
yet not appropriate to be revealed. Like a lover running towards a cliff with great acceleration
right after a kiss. It is not a matter of clarity then, it is a burst of transparency towards every
direction. Everything is so see-through that for a moment there is nothing left to see. A black
Like a supersonic mechanimal running with the speed of light. You just see a red beam of afterglow tearing everything apart. All left behind is dust. And you/ I-the eye is standing at a sole point and the emotion is awe, stemming out of rage, coming out of sadness. Motion after stalemate. From night to day within nanoseconds. Like an atomic bomb explosion, it burns your eyes. Are you not crippled after that effect? Blinded? Bleeding? It amplifies, but is it optional? Is it deliberate? How does it stop? You (and) you. Just a measurable distance tiny but crushing.
Crush, like a crush, a car-crush that you keep surviving from.”
“Hearing the violinist breathing on the radio. Which part is more important then? The notes
forming phrases evolving into an emotional language that addresses right to my sentimental
cord like a poisonous dart? Or the air coming out of the performer’s nostrils, controlled in
small portions, rhythmical with absolutely no fine tuning?
The air is coming out as if it shouldn’t. Like a flaw. If the musician had the power to exhale in mute it would have been taken care of, gotten rid of. But it is present, reminds me that the seemingly perfect solo is smothered.
I end up being more interested in keeping up with the exhales. They construct a background motif that is harder to follow but far more interesting. The notes are complimenting it all of a sudden.
What would be more important for the violinist himself though, to cut off the air from his lungs for an hour long and produce perfection or to be deprived of playing a single note? If he lost a terrible bet and the man’s life was depending on this single choice of course that is. So, therefore I would create a concerto for violin and human air. But I don’t have any clue on how to play the violin.”
“My period cramps. Pain. Transfiguration of the facial features and production of certain
sounds that I never thought could come out of a healthy body. Like a strobe light hitting an
epileptic patient at the peak of a seizure. Interesting image. But then from the inside there is
no ease, nothing feels comfortable anymore. No position can sooth the tremendous amount
of pain. The pain is you and you are following the choreography like being possessed. Every
part of the body becomes edgy, all of a sudden you have corners, more like a broken piece
But it is flesh, it is always flesh and blood moving at a broken pace through swollen vessels. Like an animal in a state of amok, like a rampaging elephant crashing cars and trees, people running in screams for their lives. But the space is small, it is the size of a uterus. The torment of being a woman, reliving all the pain and brutality of all the wars caused by man in one body, one piece of flesh. Rehearsing for the deaths of hundreds. Staging a tragedy for an empty theater, no spectators on the other side.That is the embodiment of true artistic devotion, giving shows on a bed, honest performances. Absolute commitment is required to push through. A heavy reminder of how lonely you stand. Pain, you cannot share the physical pain, empathy might fool you but no. It is just like selling one ticket for a show destined for thousands. Failure if we are talking business.
Transfiguration unveils a totally new set of skills, shows you that there is always more, and more and even more than that so that you find out that beyond that kind of physical pain there is another one, more silent and unexplainable, that of loss.
The non-periodical kind of pain, the one you are avoiding gently like a passer-by you never cross eyes with, because you don’t have the time to start a conversation on the street. That one is the bad motherfucker. The stalker. Once the Loss appears it will block your way and then well, you know, picture a devastating attack and you’ve got it. Mine would be strong kicks on the head, till blood comes out of your mouth. It is never good to see your own blood in this case. It is not your period and it is not real blood but imaginary. So, no way to predict the conclusion.
Loss is what makes me want to run and get lost before it finds me first. The loss of the other.”
I am God, I am I, I for Internet
“Noise. Everything is noise, even a little crick consists of noise. And then it escalates. It goes
to a point that it becomes deafening and there is that you can find calmness, like being in the
eye of a cyclone. I within an eye. Everything becomes silent and crispy clear. I for me
looking like a stick and an O for an eye, the circle I am in. Like a knife and a balloon, or like a
stingray fish commanding the wind by flipping from a flat circle to a thin hardly visible line.
Like one and zero, like the parents of a URL address. Pixels and molecules.
Why then make more noise than there already exists? What is the equivalent of silence in a web-behavioral manner then? Innocence I guess, a childlike innocence of admitting what one feels. Emotions are demonized as being a sign of weakness. The real weakness is not letting oneself to the mercy of acceptance and rejection perhaps as an option. Rejection is the death of one certain state of emotion before moving on to the next one, it is the only path to fight against neurotic attachment, the one that dictates your choices instead of you. To walk against dependency, tough thing isn’t it?
The I of the Internet is a new breed of existence, no ego, no opposition, it is the “I” who/that Includes everything, it is the I without a you to reflect upon, the all Independent eye that sees absorbs and processes with no remorse or sense of guilt, no other I to compete. Just an eye with an ego of a sword, penetrating barriers and current states of so far concerned as ethics, slashing through stereotypes, piercing through all sorts of established conditions. Looking like a sword, looking like a phallic symbol, looking like a dick objectifying reality to a drying extent.
So, there you are against strange parallels that touch some chords made out of tissue. To fight the male archetype, the father, the father who has raised you to be challenging and feisty, not fit for any stereotypes but at the same time leaves you crippled against a societythat has a way of doing stuff for ages now, a society that does not exactly incorporate independent females with the right to speak their minds and above all their hearts. The heart is a muscle. Pumping blood to the entire body, I am not referring to the soul, that is an entirely different subject and I am not willing to go there right now. There is a strange string thing about this muscle that controls blood pressure and is directly related to the emotion and to the sentiment.
The glute is also a muscle much more praised in our era than the heart. Let’s hope that the balance will be restored, they are of equal importance for mating. Both indicators of physical and mental health. Boom, the perfect catch, yet not easy to be dealt with.
A clear person is frightening to the common eye, it’s a dangerous being with many assets. I is neutral, much more puzzled and indifferent, emotionless and solid. Threatening to those with unclear objectives. Nuclear adjectives. And then you have commitment and loyalty. Totally different things if you want my opinion. Being committed and present in a way of openness is the noble thing to do. The act that makes the actual difference between man and animal, animal and human, human and woman, woman and man, man and I. I am human, I feel, I am aware of my mortality, the passing of time, it is irreversible, nothing can bring the dead back from the grave. I am I, I record, I monitor, I am almost aware of my immortality, I feed upon the passing of time, I am the zeroth law. Live when you live, before you leave. I will be here. Say what you mean and vice versa. I will have heard it already. I have the strength to admit how much rejection and affection I have suffered. I don’t. What a beautiful sight, what a marvelous site. It’s ok, unavoidable. I am me but I is I just like a net, like the internet, universal, gone to university, within this universe, watching it through the internet stored in a cloud. A web, like site-seeing, web-site-seeing. I am planning to become even more me as time goes by. I will become more of everything like spreading a new kind of time measurement, just like butter on bread. I am a bunch of flaws, a mistake according to perfectionists. I is all right. Well we cannot coexist on this pursuit of perfection, that indicates loneliness at its purest form. I am lonely but now it is chosen, lonely but not alone and of course free of prejudice and so conservative in a conscienceless consecutive sequence, connect a plug with flesh and blood“
Every night before I go to bed I have a little ritual of mine. The components are half a glass
of water and a selection of white and strawberry pills. If the day before has been tough you
can add some extra ingredients according to your taste. Bubbly painkillers, a cup of
chamomile, four cigarettes and a pair of headphones. Tonight, was difficult because there
has been no obvious demarcation from the night before and the day was not very distinct
either. So even this little ritual went to hell.
But rituals are vital. They are meant to be kept performed no matter what. They give a vibe of stability and know how. They set some boundaries when nothing else is solid enough to stand on. They give you the affirmation that something is concrete even though you are looking more like a broken jar of marmalade.
You used to taste fine, not too bitter, not too sweet either, fruity and above all bio. The real shit.
Every night I go to death. Every night I go to bed. Yes, every night I go to bed, that is correct. I am doing my rehearsals, death rehearsals. Practicing hard for 8 hours a day, that is why I find it out of proportion to have to work for another eight after that, and awake and all. Unfair Death rehearsals can also take place outdoors, at a bus station, at the supermarket que, in front of a painting at a gallery and many other spots. Feel free to enrich the list of locations that could host the action adding a new twist.
Death rehearsals and rituals, oh and working out. It is not easy to strike a pose and make it persuasive to the common eye as a mini event of a silent death interval happening
I like what I see, but at the same time it scares me so much. It is familiar and unfamiliar. Shapeless, with no shape like a soup. Soup of emotions. My tooth hurts so bad, the one I broke a few months ago. I smashed it in half by a careless bite at some pop-corn, porncorny pornographic fooling around- while having a glass of wine with someone I shouldn't share the same space in any occasion. Chemistry can come up with monstrosities. Pain as well can cause deformities. The most dangerous of all though is safety. Safety is like getting in position to fit your coffin. everything in order, nothing to worry about, nothing to bug you. I like what I do not see, but at the same time it scares me so much. It is known and unknown.
I feel like a pendulum my dear, like I am hovering over the ground, weightless like a balloon.
I feel like a flexible bag filled with air and the air is a bit excessive pulling against the rubber hymen. Omen, Amen.
I feel light and ready to burst into laughter or tears.
I feel nauseous and lethargic in a way that leaves everything else unaffected my dear.
I feel like I am floating, cutting through time and space with the grace of an egg rolling down a hill.
I feel detached and yet firmly grasped and squeezed by a pair of aggressively affectionate hands that held me since I was just an idea.
I feel that if they let me loose I will be lost in the stratosphere my dear.
I feel that as time goes by I shrink and I wrinkle.
I feel that I expand and I grow like a sphere.
I feel that the air in me is expendable.
I feel like a toy that is destined to last for seven days or up to a thousand years.
I feel like I am getting stretched to transparency here.
I feel that if I burst the noise will scare them off so would I rather disappear?
Boom my dear.
Cheers, we will be consumed like a pint of beer.
The dead are on the library selves watching me as I run on the tredmill, they are mine now,
they belong to us. Idolized through selective memory knitting. Such an obscure company, if
you watch the pictures of the dead side by side with the ones of the living. Ones are living
the others just left.
The dead are in my headphones also. Speaking to me as I run, sweat, keep in shape this machine of mine. Run, run running fast to keep away from what is coming. Well if it didn’t get me it would be an amazing surprise.
Losing matter, weight, wasting away and by doing that I notice that my waist is getting
My size is being reduced.I am creating landscapes of a night view scenery, with pills, while John Cage is in a landscape, caged in a landscape, that no one can escape from.
Escape from a form that you came from.
The dark tones and the heavy notes are pinching something on the inside, that is more visible now that transparency occurs out of food deprivation, lack of healthy manners and plenty of heat.
The veins are more visible, I can see them on my chest bones, they look boring and stagnant abandoned construction sites, like a gas station, in the middle of a hot summer deserted landscape.
The one I can’t escape, not yet.
For them who suffer but wait
All we are even if not ill
Am always sick
Another day is dying.
Another day is passing by and I am watching it uninvolved in any sort of way.
Just following the light, taking its lead. Falling asleep approximately 4 hours before sunrise and getting up when the noise outside the window is too loud for me to act asleep. Neutral facial muscles and really greasy hair. I can see a tomato stain dripping down my t-shirt and I smell bad. Luckily there is no one that close so I have nothing to actually really worry about. I feel so light when seated and extremely heavy on my way up to a standing position which makes my decision on whether I should move or not relatively easy. Even expressing my thoughts is easy as fuck. I construct sentences defined by extreme clarity and cohesion, surprisingly enough even to myself. Easy to explain what is unbearable to experience. Like words are subtitling the real thing, the one you avert your eyes from, like David Attenborough would describe in a low pitch soothing voice how the little gnu cab is being devoured by the pack of female lions because they need to feed their babies, like the fucking circle of life, that is undeniable.
Circles forming chains forming bondages forming dynamics forming everything.
Formulas with chain reactions based on attractions causing distractions deforming abstractions.
Distracted by absurd constructions related to others disasters.
A Meeting of meat
What if you and I take a pause
What if we take a look at all this mess we have made
Underwear, single socks, hair and dirt from the street outside
And all of it sits there like a small installation
A monument to the fleeting unsung time
Us in a shot
Undone and still as we now are reflecting on that floor
Not the glorious moment of the first sight
Or the aftermath of a teary and sweaty combat
That pile of fabrics and evaporated body fluids with nothing charming and twisted
With no carried emotional information rounding the edges
You will then see my love
We were just bashing meat against meat
I feel empty, emptier than an empty shell, like a Shell, a Shell gas station in the middle of
nowhere, with a lot of gasoline under the ground, idle and super explosive but flashy like a
neon sign, flickering light. In the darkness lighting the way to refill your engine if you are out
Funny how this Shell looks like the one from Botticelli’s painting, but stripped from the classical essence yet serving the same purpose, that of resembling a moisture monumental human vagina, intact and holly. Same shame. Holly fuck, the holiest of them all the one thatnever happens
”Unfriend, refriend, like, dislike, park, unpark, blink, stare, swallow, spit, sit, shit, sit you shit, take a sit, you shit, sit take a shit, you sit, and shit, sit-sit. Climb, fall, fuck, unfuck -cannot do that, no unfuck, fuck, fuck, shit you fuck, sit and fuck, die, undie - cannot do that, cannot do that, cannot get up. (Just like Jesus but he is not a legit historical face, he is equally significant to )Yoda, (which sounds) like Toyota, like my car Toyota. Like the greek letter Yiota, like ‘ota’, like ears, like here’s, here is, hers’ is , hair at ease, heretic, heretics, ticks, ticks, take ticks, trade ticks, tik-tik, tick-spray, thick say, thick spray, thrill thick, thick stay, thrill kill tick spray, thrill kill guilt, say, may take away tick, stay, guilt, tick, three days trip, guilt, guilty stick rage, praise kit, raise dick, razor pick, razor trick, prick trick guilt pick, 2C: Lovely girl- This is not a feminist myth. You are a pool of inspiration, a tool of reconciliation. You are the number 1 causing temporary damage to the number 2. The latter consists of two parts of 1, what glues 1 and 1 together is another small 1. So 1 against 3 is a battle already lost like a stillborn. 1 is the goat and 3 is the dove. Sacred and scared, evil and alive. Lonely girl-This is the Coolidge effect