Piece of writing : liberation
"So much is to discover, so many characters, dead are easier to find because they are in the famous names dictionary, in the history of art and litterature, most of the popular writers of that time are boring to me and mainly writing for money and pleasing the crowd, to keep their popularity they feel forced to release a book every year, probably almost at the same time period, each year, i'm searching for the rebels, the tormented poets, those hiding in their stuffy appartments, those unloved and framed in loneliness, those walking against the wind, breathing under water, but finally allowing mankind to go forward to a higher level of consciousness, those breaking the norms with words heavy as a sledgehammer, those no one wants to hear about, those finally paving my path, the old ones, though my favorites, with their interesting ideas, new for their time, are still and will always be to me full of mistakes, misbehaviors, misconducts, so full of lies, full of lies, full of lies, full of lies like humans are weak, like humans are conditioned to hide their originality beneath lies, their cracks, their insecurities, never accepted, never faced, and buried in the mud of their sick bodies, are they considered great thinkers?!, even by elitist men, by scholars, by educated youth wannabe fame seekers, searching to be cool, all ready to lie to protect their poor selves, Oh those regarded as great writers have mostly that fakeness ingrained in themselves to me, it's not their fault, like all the others, the common people, the average people, the shallow people, the poor people, the dumb people, the violent people, the promiscuous people, the hypocrite humanity, so i peck here and there in their work, in their thoughts, in the grey jelly of their corrupted brains, there is beauty and truth here and there, beneath the shame and the lies, and me, as poor, as weak, as stupid, as ugly as i can be, for some, for me, for aliens and anyone, i will always step above, stand above, real, sleazy and emaciated, but at least and that's the most important to me, free of lies!
M. was one of my lead, J. K., somewhat stupid impulsive alcoholic, A. N. devoided of personality, too shy, too weak to be real in real life, even in sex, H. M. which i've got nothing to reproach except maybe being too curious and passionate like me, about stories, about sex and experiences, taking too much time to know the sense of drive, there is beauty, sparkles and beams of lucidity in all of them, it nurtures me, i should be thankful, i won't fall for the same mistakes and foolishness, surely different ones, but i've got that one advantage of already being an open book, rational, realistic, individualist, like every writing people should be.
I downloaded n..... w....., i wanted to see it, why, right now i'm just sick of sex related topics and i don't want to speak about that, i don't want to think about that, i hope to see a fine analysis of human interactions, but i know that movie is from a book that is a novel, and a novel must show events and dramas, so there will be lies, tons of lies, and irrational, senseless behaviors, glimpses, touch, words, nods, undressings, faces, desires, sex, sex sex, fake sex, sex with abandonment, people can't even desire for real, they don't know why and where to go, why feeling, not feeling, give sense to their actions and absence of actions, so that book/film and the others i planned to watch, a lot, because i have that hunger, to rise myself above the shame, the dirt, the guilt, the dregs, the cowards, the malevolents, those they will be full of lies and it's up to me to pick the shards of truth in that heap of slobbery hay, Oh i will enjoy it, because i'm a gold digger, and i have that ability to forsee the nuggets lost in someone, everyone, even when they don't know a thing about it, about themselves.
Damn, it's so good to write, it's so delightful to express myself, here, there, in space, in time, in public, naked, naked, naked is my pride!"
(that's an awful word soon i'll replace "pride" by "natural respectful way", at least i over them recognize it right now)
lundi 30 avril 2012
dimanche 29 avril 2012
Give it substance to hope
When you are thirteen or fourteen, only a kid, at that time period, you take a wasted bus with a fringe of white rust,
you absurdly go to school at seven thirty in the morning,
it's winter and like others you're dressed in gaudy garments, sat, packed, and rolling, you watch outside the clanking window, trying to counteract the annoying jabbering with your own reverie,
drenched in that bouillon of radio, screams and petty bickering you feel like you are going to a slaugtherhouse, and you're the meat on wich they feed on, while it should be the contrary,
you wipe the glass with your sleeve regularly getting misted up from your breath from your head too close and laid on your hand,
the sky is a blanket of grey clouds even darkened by the remnants of the night, nature is bare and bony, the trees have claws, and you're passing near that field delineated with wobbly stakes and barb-wire,
the grass is frozen in little nasty spikes, the scenery is white, white and grey, white under grey, and you start to wish, more like a vow to yourself, a challenge,
"If i'm able to run bare feet on the lenght of that field i'm allowed to be free, i can escape, i'm sure that's something i can do.",
run over that treacherous land, over the hidden ruts that could break your ankles, over the rigid shambles lurking under the spiky grass that could rip open your soles and toes and calves, already bruised by the cold and heavy bumps of the ground,
you can feel your limbs turning into logs, and red spoiling the pristine flakes, but at the end of that line you'll be free and you're sure you can do it, escape that zoo, save yourself into the wild, the real wild of your world, away.
But obviously it's just a fantasy and you don't jump off the bus bare feet.
[I realize i did it sometimes along my life, find myself in uncomfortable situations, and i'm still standing, even if with scars over my skin, you don't know that at a young age, that you don't lay down so easily, that it's unnecessary to escape when you perceive your own world, that you can live in the joy you paint on things around and people, how can you know that at a young age, so now i'm giving hope to you.]
you absurdly go to school at seven thirty in the morning,
it's winter and like others you're dressed in gaudy garments, sat, packed, and rolling, you watch outside the clanking window, trying to counteract the annoying jabbering with your own reverie,
drenched in that bouillon of radio, screams and petty bickering you feel like you are going to a slaugtherhouse, and you're the meat on wich they feed on, while it should be the contrary,
you wipe the glass with your sleeve regularly getting misted up from your breath from your head too close and laid on your hand,
the sky is a blanket of grey clouds even darkened by the remnants of the night, nature is bare and bony, the trees have claws, and you're passing near that field delineated with wobbly stakes and barb-wire,
the grass is frozen in little nasty spikes, the scenery is white, white and grey, white under grey, and you start to wish, more like a vow to yourself, a challenge,
"If i'm able to run bare feet on the lenght of that field i'm allowed to be free, i can escape, i'm sure that's something i can do.",
run over that treacherous land, over the hidden ruts that could break your ankles, over the rigid shambles lurking under the spiky grass that could rip open your soles and toes and calves, already bruised by the cold and heavy bumps of the ground,
you can feel your limbs turning into logs, and red spoiling the pristine flakes, but at the end of that line you'll be free and you're sure you can do it, escape that zoo, save yourself into the wild, the real wild of your world, away.
But obviously it's just a fantasy and you don't jump off the bus bare feet.
[I realize i did it sometimes along my life, find myself in uncomfortable situations, and i'm still standing, even if with scars over my skin, you don't know that at a young age, that you don't lay down so easily, that it's unnecessary to escape when you perceive your own world, that you can live in the joy you paint on things around and people, how can you know that at a young age, so now i'm giving hope to you.]
lundi 23 avril 2012
The storm
The storm came, suddenly, simply announced by the whistling of the wind, domineering in its chant, pushing trash cans aside, knocking them over loudly, big drops, cold and strong like crystal, came crashing on the pavement, streams formed in the gutters, going through the turgescent green of trees, tearing off leaves, twigs, bark and dust, any pieces of wood and nature, that were then snatched by the wind, swung around in emphatic curves, and scattered over the ground, still running and jumping down there, hitting walls and obstacles ferociously, this dark raging messing up the grass and flowerbeds, like a claw going through the head of hair, and i was thinking, how would i love to have a woman surging through the chaos, her wet hair gathered in thick strands, tortuous lianas, her redden eyes piercing me, dust over her face, her loosen clothes, weighted by water, disarranged, grasping her skin, pale and cold underneath, crossed by goosebumps and shivers, going out of the storm, how i would press myself against her, twist my legs around hers, i would rub in her embrace, even if i was freshly out of the shower, perfumed, and dressed in neat white clothes, i would bury my head deep in her, lay my face on her cheek and in her wet hair, i would lick her tense body, give it warmth, i would make love roughly, rolling in puddles, i would taste the chaos of passion, we will cover ourselves with dirt, the erratic coldness, the libidinous untidiness will make me rise, i want to entangle myself in an unclean lust.
Fact is i'm the one wiped out by the black storm.
Fact is i'm the one wiped out by the black storm.
The common misjudgement about Love
I'm thinking true love should be disinterested, without any expectations, being oriented to one person on a moment without restraint, so someone who doesn't like himself is unable to love genuinely, such a person will search endlessly himself in the other, a vain quest because what he is isn't in the other but in himself, and so not really seeing and respecting the other in that dreadful confusion. To really love we have to feel all powerful in what we are, in our choices, our actions, our opinions, those who seek love outside themselves are just wanting reassurances over their frail self esteem, someone who doesn't love himself is unable to love truly. I think true love comes from a strong sense of self.
(That opinion could be marginal, because it comes from me, me which nudity doesn't shock, but doesn't excite either, how can i be so casual, how can i be so insensitive, so boring. What i state serves my need, i could be an hypocrite, because that unbridled temper is what i need to feel loved.
There's the love we can give and the love we receive, and both are important in a human life, even if it's somewhat plausible and provenly bearable to spend it in complete denial. If it's vital to receive love it's then very difficult to give without expectations unless our sense of self is so strong that we know how to find what we need elsewhere if the one we decided to give love doesn't want to give it back, in that case could it be better to break the relation and so betray that first principle i want to follow : "true love should be disinterested". Interesting questioning, lots of dilemmas in the give and receive of oriented emotions.)
If you're expecting something from the other, even expecting to find yourself, how can you give sincerely?! It's not possible, so according to my own theories it's just disrespectful.
(That opinion could be marginal, because it comes from me, me which nudity doesn't shock, but doesn't excite either, how can i be so casual, how can i be so insensitive, so boring. What i state serves my need, i could be an hypocrite, because that unbridled temper is what i need to feel loved.
There's the love we can give and the love we receive, and both are important in a human life, even if it's somewhat plausible and provenly bearable to spend it in complete denial. If it's vital to receive love it's then very difficult to give without expectations unless our sense of self is so strong that we know how to find what we need elsewhere if the one we decided to give love doesn't want to give it back, in that case could it be better to break the relation and so betray that first principle i want to follow : "true love should be disinterested". Interesting questioning, lots of dilemmas in the give and receive of oriented emotions.)
If you're expecting something from the other, even expecting to find yourself, how can you give sincerely?! It's not possible, so according to my own theories it's just disrespectful.
jeudi 19 avril 2012
General lack of self awareness, simple report
If you're cold, you put on a jacket, logical isn't it, but some people don't even notice they are cold, so that results in being sick and complaining, that results in being uneasy with oneself and detestable about others, blaming others without questioning oneself, in short it leads to a lot of inner and outside conflicts.
I point that out because it works the same with more complex feelings and conditioning to be unaware, most people don't see what's bothering them in their life and they end up collapsing on themself or attacking others, so i ask the question,
how bring self awareness amongst humans?
to be part of the common social values.
Just a lead :
Consciousness and sincerity should probably be taught at school, i think it could solve a lot of conflicts and we could live happier together, but yeah for big corporations it's not profitable to be in front of thinking materials to sell their junk to, as long as societies will be controlled by greedy people and corrupted values (and this sadly seen as "normal" by the majority), humanity will have huge difficulties to evolve for the better of everybody.
I point that out because it works the same with more complex feelings and conditioning to be unaware, most people don't see what's bothering them in their life and they end up collapsing on themself or attacking others, so i ask the question,
how bring self awareness amongst humans?
to be part of the common social values.
Just a lead :
Consciousness and sincerity should probably be taught at school, i think it could solve a lot of conflicts and we could live happier together, but yeah for big corporations it's not profitable to be in front of thinking materials to sell their junk to, as long as societies will be controlled by greedy people and corrupted values (and this sadly seen as "normal" by the majority), humanity will have huge difficulties to evolve for the better of everybody.
mardi 17 avril 2012
How i write
I have a vision!, an action, an image, a scene, a reasoned thought, then i enter into it completely, i live it, i feel it, and the words come naturally, it happens to me like a flash, a burst of condensed slice of life.
For a short period when i write i'm not on this earth anymore, and maybe i lack the talent to render it properly, but to me the vision is always clear and the emotions sharp and moving.
For a short period when i write i'm not on this earth anymore, and maybe i lack the talent to render it properly, but to me the vision is always clear and the emotions sharp and moving.
A game of closeness
I meet her there, a low ceiling corridor, a glassy box, two long pannels of window panes running afar, allowing the rays of the spring sun to shine through and invigorate me while i'm waiting.
She comes from the thick swing door and her eyes instantly pined into mine, her lips already calling me, i could sense she was vivid and eager to tell me some stories and personal reflections about it.
I respect a lot, i adore that momentum when a person dives right away into a deep connection and shows me that stimulating openness.
Passionately she talks and she raises her hand periodically to tap my forearm and pull me into this.
I hear and i watch her attentively, that relation we have for so long and when each time we meet that longing to share and touch her is present, never fading, in that truthfullness of who we both are, and right now i feel that craving to taste her passion, to press her against me.
We drift close to the glass, stained with mould, little black hairy patches, the building is old, scratches and splashed insects are scattered all over, spider webs on the angles of the frames, in her back, as she drifts closer.
Something's moving.
Swift, i surprise her, draging her in my arms in a quick but smooth and careful move, saying but jokingly : "Beware behind you, i'm going to protect you!",
and i hold tight,
and my fingers spread in her back, rolling to her delicate waist, i dig my nose and smell the enticing freshness of her strictly-combed hair, i feel the small and soft bumps of her breasts against my chest and her breath in my neck, her body tells me she's surrendering and joining along in my game, "Protect me, don't leave me", she closes her eyes and lays her head on the cushy hollow of my neck, shoulder and bicep.
My longing to be close to her, in her words, in her presence, was so strong, and on that dirty window the accomplice of my trick, a frail mosquito is roaming frantically.
Life's a surprise, life's Great.
She comes from the thick swing door and her eyes instantly pined into mine, her lips already calling me, i could sense she was vivid and eager to tell me some stories and personal reflections about it.
I respect a lot, i adore that momentum when a person dives right away into a deep connection and shows me that stimulating openness.
Passionately she talks and she raises her hand periodically to tap my forearm and pull me into this.
I hear and i watch her attentively, that relation we have for so long and when each time we meet that longing to share and touch her is present, never fading, in that truthfullness of who we both are, and right now i feel that craving to taste her passion, to press her against me.
We drift close to the glass, stained with mould, little black hairy patches, the building is old, scratches and splashed insects are scattered all over, spider webs on the angles of the frames, in her back, as she drifts closer.
Something's moving.
Swift, i surprise her, draging her in my arms in a quick but smooth and careful move, saying but jokingly : "Beware behind you, i'm going to protect you!",
and i hold tight,
and my fingers spread in her back, rolling to her delicate waist, i dig my nose and smell the enticing freshness of her strictly-combed hair, i feel the small and soft bumps of her breasts against my chest and her breath in my neck, her body tells me she's surrendering and joining along in my game, "Protect me, don't leave me", she closes her eyes and lays her head on the cushy hollow of my neck, shoulder and bicep.
My longing to be close to her, in her words, in her presence, was so strong, and on that dirty window the accomplice of my trick, a frail mosquito is roaming frantically.
Life's a surprise, life's Great.
dimanche 8 avril 2012
unreeling one sort of functioning
The problem is to be too much centered on oneself, when talking to someone, not noticing if the person appreciates us, because our brain is more occupied to self judgment and projections, to search what we are doing wrong, instead of truly listening and being interested by the other, and so be able to read the signs he sends.
This functioning is negative because people want to be noticed, and often in life it's general : "we like those who like us", so i say we have to learn to watch and listen the other, genuinely be focused outwards.
This functioning is negative because people want to be noticed, and often in life it's general : "we like those who like us", so i say we have to learn to watch and listen the other, genuinely be focused outwards.
Let go
Are tears filling up a little bag which when full forces you to cry?, working like a bladder.
A stupid question a dream created in my mind by a peculiar event.
I stumbled up the little earth slope, with my headset on, playing slow and fuzzed music, i felt that incredible urge to cry, i couldn't walk straight, a massive decomposition of my being opened a door, leading me to bliss and the love of mother earth, my legs couldn't carry me farther than this path made of small white stone in front of the house, the weight of tears was so heavy, i was forcefully shouting in my head "But i'm not sad! I'm not sad, why do i feel to cry so much!", fighting against that finally uncontrollable movment of my body, but feeling it would just be magnificent to give up.
Two more clumsy steps and i crashed backwards, lying flat on my back, limbs stretched out, my vision went blurry, my eylids then my face warming up, and i breathed loudly in relief, blind by water and light, laid on a matress of stones and dirt, and the fuzz submerging me, i let go, no matter what others would think, the emotion is just too intense, and beautiful, not to succumb to.
A stupid question a dream created in my mind by a peculiar event.
I stumbled up the little earth slope, with my headset on, playing slow and fuzzed music, i felt that incredible urge to cry, i couldn't walk straight, a massive decomposition of my being opened a door, leading me to bliss and the love of mother earth, my legs couldn't carry me farther than this path made of small white stone in front of the house, the weight of tears was so heavy, i was forcefully shouting in my head "But i'm not sad! I'm not sad, why do i feel to cry so much!", fighting against that finally uncontrollable movment of my body, but feeling it would just be magnificent to give up.
Two more clumsy steps and i crashed backwards, lying flat on my back, limbs stretched out, my vision went blurry, my eylids then my face warming up, and i breathed loudly in relief, blind by water and light, laid on a matress of stones and dirt, and the fuzz submerging me, i let go, no matter what others would think, the emotion is just too intense, and beautiful, not to succumb to.
vendredi 6 avril 2012
This crazy waltz
When they are married or in an official relationship people get sad as soon as they feel attracted in any ways to another human being, because they question who they have to stay with, who they have to choose, this ends up by bitterly breaking the relation, the relations, and two or three or more people are hurt, and get scars for life. I say if you want to be with someone else then go on, and if you want to be with me just ask me to meet, at any time you feel it, it's easy, freedom prevents any suffering, why am i to blame, why am i not lovable because of that respectful philosophy. Because i respect people too much i'm the one left alone, girls think i'm unable to love if i don't want to own them. Such unconsciousness, and because i'm smarter it's unanimously agreed that i have to endure the rejection stoically and be able to live that life unloved, unrespected, invisible. Do i have to suffer, be jealous, possessive and angry to prove that i love, because i do, you people, i do love passionately, and painfully.
(inspired by "Take this waltz" : http://www.imdb.com/list/2xiKoHfupQY/#play-all )
(inspired by "Take this waltz" : http://www.imdb.com/list/2xiKoHfupQY/#play-all )
Sometimes we are sad without really knowing why, so there is no words to describe it, a good reason is probably fatigue, which brings a lack of desire by a lack of energy and concentration, but the only thing we would like is feeling close to people, a group of friends, a lover, being accepted in silence and share a cup of tea or coffee.
(I wanted to write those humble lines a little while ago, this means it's important to feel supported, even if we have nothing interesting to say, nothing to give, nothing to share to others in that very moment of sadness; Being present and surrounded by trusty people suffices.)
(I wanted to write those humble lines a little while ago, this means it's important to feel supported, even if we have nothing interesting to say, nothing to give, nothing to share to others in that very moment of sadness; Being present and surrounded by trusty people suffices.)
"Quiet Clean Girls in Gingham Dresses"
All I've ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women. I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.
all I've ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen.
when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.
I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.
"don't ever bring a whore around," I tell my
friends, "I'll fall in love with her."
"you couldn't stand a good woman, Bukowski."
I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.
I know she exists
but where is she
Upon this earth
as the whores
keep finding me?
"Yeah, where is she? ah ah! Nowhere at all"
Bukowski
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women. I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.
all I've ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen.
when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.
I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.
"don't ever bring a whore around," I tell my
friends, "I'll fall in love with her."
"you couldn't stand a good woman, Bukowski."
I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.
I know she exists
but where is she
Upon this earth
as the whores
keep finding me?
"Yeah, where is she? ah ah! Nowhere at all"
Bukowski
jeudi 5 avril 2012
Not to be shared
Finally every woman is bodily the same, the sensitive spots can slightly differ, but not much, it's a pleasure to find it, for me, because it's a vicarious pleasure, not a real physical pleasure but an intellectual one, sensing that the other is reacting to what you do, then, nothing looks more like a vagina than another vagina, all with the same characteristics, why being so aroused by that (anticipating the pleasure we, men, can get out of that), legs are legs, lips are lips and breasts are breasts, and, even, some are rather fucking ugly (like my body would be to some women), humans aren't desirable, the chemicals we host push us to lust. That's all!
And then, also, i probably miss some chemicals in my brain, preventing me to be blunt, primal, i desire in another form, because the sexual pleasure i get that way is totally weak and unrelevant, (if only i could take down that barrier to be sure, maybe with a bullet in my head), that's why the intellect is so important to me, what makes the real connection, to choose who i'll be attracted to, that's how i get stimulated and i'm fed up with giving my emotions, my passion, my imagination away, gratuitously, without ever receiving enough stimulating responses, i'm one of a kind, fucking by the brain yeah that would be me then. Fuck it!
I accept the wrath of anyone this text will offend, you can throw it at me, don't hide, come, and see how good i'll treat you.
(i'm not angry or bitter, this is simply a writing, if you want explanations, just ask the questions)
And then, also, i probably miss some chemicals in my brain, preventing me to be blunt, primal, i desire in another form, because the sexual pleasure i get that way is totally weak and unrelevant, (if only i could take down that barrier to be sure, maybe with a bullet in my head), that's why the intellect is so important to me, what makes the real connection, to choose who i'll be attracted to, that's how i get stimulated and i'm fed up with giving my emotions, my passion, my imagination away, gratuitously, without ever receiving enough stimulating responses, i'm one of a kind, fucking by the brain yeah that would be me then. Fuck it!
I accept the wrath of anyone this text will offend, you can throw it at me, don't hide, come, and see how good i'll treat you.
(i'm not angry or bitter, this is simply a writing, if you want explanations, just ask the questions)
That marginal temper
Coming back from doing errands, on the road with my brother, i had to make a last stop at the bank, and i began recalling that dream, matching words and details, objects, people and feelings, i felt that urge to write, so sudden, i needed to nail that image, that emotion, carve it and give it form, erect a temple for me to be able to soak back up in it, give it a life.
I'm fumbling impatiently inside the glove box, i ask my brother, i turn his bag upside down, and the words bump around in my head, a silent litany, i must not forget, i must not lose track, and i'm panicking, smiling to that ridicule situation, that haunting impulse, and verbally pounding "i need a pen, i need a pen".
My brother releases me in front of the bank and i rush in, it's empty, i say hello quickly with glassy eyes for the clerk, and spot a pen tied to a small chain laid on a small pedestal table, that's it, i'm saved, i take five, ten minutes and scribble several lines over a random pamphlet.
Relieved i'm turning to the clerk, who appears to be a pretty middle aged woman, i ask what i was supposed to, (settling some money business between my brother and i), she starts up with a tirade to sell me some bank stuff, in the middle of her detailled speech i put up my sad look and wave my arms like scissors, saying "i'm sorry i don't understand a thing", she stops, surprised and i read a feeling of rejection on her falling cheeks, a weighty silence grows, so again i'm appologizing and let her finish, growing back comfort in our communication, even asking a practical question that she was happy to know the easy answer.
During that exchange i was thinking, i could have waved my ink filled paper and say "You know i'm more of a (crappy [useless]) poet than a (boring) technician".
That morning was kind of original, i can't supress that need to express, get things out of me and connect through the passion of my temper.
Please, let me in
I'm fumbling impatiently inside the glove box, i ask my brother, i turn his bag upside down, and the words bump around in my head, a silent litany, i must not forget, i must not lose track, and i'm panicking, smiling to that ridicule situation, that haunting impulse, and verbally pounding "i need a pen, i need a pen".
My brother releases me in front of the bank and i rush in, it's empty, i say hello quickly with glassy eyes for the clerk, and spot a pen tied to a small chain laid on a small pedestal table, that's it, i'm saved, i take five, ten minutes and scribble several lines over a random pamphlet.
Relieved i'm turning to the clerk, who appears to be a pretty middle aged woman, i ask what i was supposed to, (settling some money business between my brother and i), she starts up with a tirade to sell me some bank stuff, in the middle of her detailled speech i put up my sad look and wave my arms like scissors, saying "i'm sorry i don't understand a thing", she stops, surprised and i read a feeling of rejection on her falling cheeks, a weighty silence grows, so again i'm appologizing and let her finish, growing back comfort in our communication, even asking a practical question that she was happy to know the easy answer.
During that exchange i was thinking, i could have waved my ink filled paper and say "You know i'm more of a (crappy [useless]) poet than a (boring) technician".
That morning was kind of original, i can't supress that need to express, get things out of me and connect through the passion of my temper.
Please, let me in
mercredi 4 avril 2012
resistance
I had that dream, a nightmare, i'm in a room, several bedside lamps create an intimist atmosphere in orange hues, i've got the consciousness it's a dormitory, i brought back that girl from a nearby party, no, it's more like she insidiously led me and we're isolate up there, but the next door is open and i see another couple hastily starting foreplay.
That girl acts like she wants me, and quick. She presses languidly against me, she reaches under my shirt, she bites my revealed biceps, and if it's not conspicuous enough she says it, again and again, the same line with different words, rapid words, urging me to take her.
She's a thin brunette with mid lenght straight hair and determined brown eyes, she takes her white shirt off, and she's showing pretty little breasts, sligthly pyramid-shaped mounds that don't require a bra, and a beautiful flat belly, with a tiny beauty spot on the side of her navel.
In her energy and body i feel that girl is definitely desirable for me, she continues to rub against me, to lick my face, my desire pushes me to touch her, i run my hands along her skin, and impregnate of every curve and spot, but inside me something is reticent and i keep gently shoving her back, keeping her with my strong stretched arms at a distance where i can see her, look at her, trying to admire her, to read into her, i want to take my time, i want to know her, i want to tell her secrets, i want we really connect, and i'm starting to feel awkward because she's all focused onto the sexual pleasure she wants from me, while i'm thinking "why can't we take time, speak and discover each other, taste all the sweetness of intimacy".
Always demanding, almost begging, she suddenly plunge to untie my belt and unbutton my pants, she's got one thing in mind, and i hear in the next room where the door is still open that the other couple is getting at it, they are grunting heavily and their rale is resonating on the white walls, i feel more and more uneasy, and aroused too, i contain her desire with harder resolution, and she's starting to get annoyed and frustrated, saying "Oh come on, let's go, it's a one minute business!", and i hear "Do me, please, do me", like a voice from beyond the darkness of her mind, i'm tense and soon distraught, i have to get away, i clearly don't want to be a fuck machine, a mere object that will lose its interest once used.
(That unpleasant dream tells me i want to be intimate at all levels with someone, if possible, and take the time to discover the person entirely, body and mind, in details, i need to build that intellectual trust before releasing my passion, and i know that's a contradiction because nature pushes men to be wild in those situations, acting with the sexual drive and not the reasoning mind, i'll be like them if i had enough self confidence, but my passion requires a defined environment to hatch and spread in an incredible craving.)
That girl acts like she wants me, and quick. She presses languidly against me, she reaches under my shirt, she bites my revealed biceps, and if it's not conspicuous enough she says it, again and again, the same line with different words, rapid words, urging me to take her.
She's a thin brunette with mid lenght straight hair and determined brown eyes, she takes her white shirt off, and she's showing pretty little breasts, sligthly pyramid-shaped mounds that don't require a bra, and a beautiful flat belly, with a tiny beauty spot on the side of her navel.
In her energy and body i feel that girl is definitely desirable for me, she continues to rub against me, to lick my face, my desire pushes me to touch her, i run my hands along her skin, and impregnate of every curve and spot, but inside me something is reticent and i keep gently shoving her back, keeping her with my strong stretched arms at a distance where i can see her, look at her, trying to admire her, to read into her, i want to take my time, i want to know her, i want to tell her secrets, i want we really connect, and i'm starting to feel awkward because she's all focused onto the sexual pleasure she wants from me, while i'm thinking "why can't we take time, speak and discover each other, taste all the sweetness of intimacy".
Always demanding, almost begging, she suddenly plunge to untie my belt and unbutton my pants, she's got one thing in mind, and i hear in the next room where the door is still open that the other couple is getting at it, they are grunting heavily and their rale is resonating on the white walls, i feel more and more uneasy, and aroused too, i contain her desire with harder resolution, and she's starting to get annoyed and frustrated, saying "Oh come on, let's go, it's a one minute business!", and i hear "Do me, please, do me", like a voice from beyond the darkness of her mind, i'm tense and soon distraught, i have to get away, i clearly don't want to be a fuck machine, a mere object that will lose its interest once used.
(That unpleasant dream tells me i want to be intimate at all levels with someone, if possible, and take the time to discover the person entirely, body and mind, in details, i need to build that intellectual trust before releasing my passion, and i know that's a contradiction because nature pushes men to be wild in those situations, acting with the sexual drive and not the reasoning mind, i'll be like them if i had enough self confidence, but my passion requires a defined environment to hatch and spread in an incredible craving.)
lundi 2 avril 2012
dimanche 1 avril 2012
What makes a clumsy oafish?
What makes a clumsy oafish? (reflecting on a recent event)
Joking about a difficult subject, filled with negative and commonly disgusting connotations, by including someone who has different, more delicate and tacit manners, someone who is not so casual with this or that subject, but summarily it's highly a matter of manners and direction of the boorish remark.
Try at an example : "If Aurore walks down that shady alley, she's going to be raped! arf arf!"
(often followed with an overly demonstrative and indecent laugh, in an attempt to rally people over the supposed lightness wanted behind the use of direct and highly connoted words)
That kind of joke will be better accepted if it was abstract and so directed to no one in particular.
Example : "Going down this creepy alley there's a chance to get raped (in the ass)(with gravel)!"
The subject is always rude but because this remark wasn't intended to anyone, it's simply thrown into the air, someone sensitive hearing that will be less shocked than if it was directed at her, and so will be more magnanimous and will judge less severely the one who would have dared joking about such a serious and troubled subject.
(example of subjects not to joke so easily about : coprophilia, pedophilia, rape, necrophilia, hygiene, generally death and sex and filth, and probably more....blah blah blah, subjects people with loose manners will speak aloud remarks about, in the most public places with any person in their vicinity, without considering the delicacy of some of these persons, and the weight of their own degrading words. )
Poor Aurore!
Joking about a difficult subject, filled with negative and commonly disgusting connotations, by including someone who has different, more delicate and tacit manners, someone who is not so casual with this or that subject, but summarily it's highly a matter of manners and direction of the boorish remark.
Try at an example : "If Aurore walks down that shady alley, she's going to be raped! arf arf!"
(often followed with an overly demonstrative and indecent laugh, in an attempt to rally people over the supposed lightness wanted behind the use of direct and highly connoted words)
That kind of joke will be better accepted if it was abstract and so directed to no one in particular.
Example : "Going down this creepy alley there's a chance to get raped (in the ass)(with gravel)!"
The subject is always rude but because this remark wasn't intended to anyone, it's simply thrown into the air, someone sensitive hearing that will be less shocked than if it was directed at her, and so will be more magnanimous and will judge less severely the one who would have dared joking about such a serious and troubled subject.
(example of subjects not to joke so easily about : coprophilia, pedophilia, rape, necrophilia, hygiene, generally death and sex and filth, and probably more....blah blah blah, subjects people with loose manners will speak aloud remarks about, in the most public places with any person in their vicinity, without considering the delicacy of some of these persons, and the weight of their own degrading words. )
Poor Aurore!
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