Frozen Tapwater

Twice The Fool

2008-11-20T18:30:00.000-08:00

I've made a fool of myself. Unwittingly. Therein lies the sting. I have absolutely no qualms about making a fool of myself when it's all in jest & more importantly a deliberate act on my account. It's a different story when I unwittingly make a fool of myself; you become a tragic fool instead of a comedic fool; it's even more troubling when it dawns on you, while you're still in the act of making a fool of yourself, that you are actually making a HUMONGOUS fool of yourself. I accidentally made a tragic fool of myself. The scope of my acting like a tragic fool ensconced itself snugly in my mind when my eyes met the glassy and full-of-pity stares of my audience. I could have kicked myself if I weren't in a hurry to leave the scene of the crime. In the discomfiting process of making a quick exit, I suspect, I left my dignity and pride behind. I don't think they will be of any use any time soon anyhow.

I'm not going to pen down how I made a fool of myself. Why? There's no humour in it. You'll just have to be contented with the projections of your own fancy...

I've made a little mix of lovely music to dull the pain.

Glimmer

2008-11-12T20:15:00.000-08:00

My heart beats faster than the wings of a dragon fly
There are things that, probably, beat faster
But I, a child of my mother, could not care less
About those faster things & what they signify
For all I know they could all spell 'DISASTER'!
Or, be a prelude to some compressed mess.

You know, sometimes I'm just a tad too emotional. Emotionality is not always a bad thing; it helps the artist find his/her tortured aspect or temperament. But, in view of my post yesterday - when I was riding the crest of a wave of emotionality - it seems a bit crass. Eloquent. But crass. Its crassness forced into a corset of words. Its bitterness forced down the rictus of reason. In short, I feel a bit foolish. Of course, things were said. Feelings were hurt. But I should be the better man. I hate having to deal with insecurities since they, in a perverted way, affect me, too. I morph into an oscillating sujet. And in this state of alternating between extremes my emotions swell and I spill grandiosities that, if they didn't carry the weight of pathos, could be construed as contemptibly silly.

I think I drifted into the waters of silliness and got my feet wet.

Oblivion

2008-11-11T19:05:00.000-08:00

My mind is full of matter. My BF and I are going through one of those platitudinous rough patches. At some point during our relational stroll through couples' forest we wandered off the beaten track and ended up somewhere strikingly new to us. I do not know when it happened; I have an inkling how. The how is often much easier to ascertain than the when. To pinpoint a moment in time which instigated the atrophy of certain aspects of the relationship is nearly impossible. When? When he neglected my hurt feelings? Or the moment that came thereafter; when the sting of the hurt he had caused me finally materialized in my mind, and sprouted a myriad of hyphae, that corrupted every emotion they touched, that ultimately have ensnared me in this state of impasse?
I do not know when. How can I? I've mulled our situation over. I have debated whether to end it or to soldier on despite the realisation that hangs like a wraith in my mind. To be honest, I do not know. This state of not-knowing is killing me. I pride myself on being so very much in touch with my thoughts & feelings that this lack, this oblivion, sinks me deeper into a nothingness. Not knowing cuts like a dagger through my heart.

There's one thing, though. One simple truth that pierces, at intervals, through this mist. That I care deeply for my BF and that I do not want for it to end like this. In a state of oblivion.

Love is worse than a drug. Love is being reincarnated when you are still alive. I wish. I wish my lips could touch the waters of Lethe, and forget. Forget. Forget the things that have been said in carelessness.

Seclusion

2008-09-11T11:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent an utterly lazy day at home; I dawdled like it was nobody's business. Like a languid cat I lay in bed stretching myself, looking at the ceiling, and turning sensually in the velvety, oleaginous warmth of my duvet. It was pure bliss. After a while though I felt restless and made up my mind to go out. I went for a walk in the temperate summer air. A slight panic gripped my heart; I felt overwhelmed by all the faces I encountered, the urban noises. I hurried back home. I snuggled safely in bed with a book; I put the book down after having read several pages. My mind flittered. I could not absorb what I read. I put on a film instead: Equus.
I fell asleep just a bit after I spoke to my boyfriend. I wished he was there to hold me. Solitude can be so cruel sometimes.

Not Waving, But Drowning

2008-08-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

Sandy beaches with a million of crystalline pieces of exploded dreams. My feet leave imprints, indentations in the loose surface. I walk along these long stretches of a dreamscape and wonder where the shards of my dreams burst and settled down. The ocean laps languidly. The wind drags itself across the rounded masses that make up the people, the birds, the dunes, the wavy fields of grass. I sit down. My lover sits beside me. He grabs hold of my hand and together we stare into the distance; we watch the sun drown in a crimson coloured ocean of quietude. And we smile. We smile because what we prayed for came to be.

The sunshine won't ever come back. The earth will be dressed in the silky blackness of night for ever.

Dissociative Coolness

2008-08-23T07:52:00.000-07:00

Underneath the blanket of shame
We desperately tried to tame
That which cannot be named
Without soliciting from circumstance
A destination to allocate blame.

I've grown tired of going out. It's not a sudden change, but a gradual one. The realisation reiterated itself yesterday night when I went to see a friend of mine DJ at a local club. The mood was happy enough. The people - as far as I could tell - were pleasant enough. My spirits, however, were dampened by whatever emotive wind that was blowing. I don't know. I could not connect with those around me, and I felt positively disheartened. On top of that, I was exhausted. Perhaps, that had something to do with it.

I'm in the process of writing a story. I have the outline ready; I need to find the time (and energy) to actually develop the outline into something readable and enchanting. Wish me monsters.

Rules Of Attraction

2008-08-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

Desire. The ruin of humans. In philosophy, desire is identified as a philosophical problem; personal desires must be postponed in the name of the higher ideal. Rarely, if ever does this come about. People pursue their desires unchecked, unedited, unbridled, and mostly unconscious of the fact that they are being driven by their vague, inexpressed wishes.
A friend is expecting an ex from the US on Monday; his current boyfriend does not want anything to do with the whole affair. He does not want to meet the ex of my friend. I understand his decision, though I find it a tad over the top. It's all in the past. There's a reason why they broke up. Period. Not a comma. Not a semicolon. A firm and decisive dot, which does not, however, disallow the bond to continue in a different fashion, shade, form, hue. An affair can metamorphose into a friendship, and a friendship can metamorphose into an affair. The laws of physics that govern the bonds between people are not a collection of generalizations based on empirical observations of physical behaviour; they can not be tested or measured. They are susceptible to the minute forces that govern us. Why do we do the things we do? If only we knew...

I find it strange that he's so insecure, since my friend loves him dearly - and this his current boyfriend knows. That's it. Insecurity. Yet another ruin of us humans. If you let your insecurities run unchecked they can destroy much more than your self-esteem. A lot of people do not realize that being insecure is a state of being; it is not a permanent state. If you experience it as such it means you yourself are keeping your persona stuck in that precarious state. I have little sympathy for those people. I may sound harsh. But, I find it brutal that so many people are unaware of their own thought process.

A Brand New Life

2008-08-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Leo Tolstoy

Despite my dislike of Tolstoy I very much agree with this statement. I have recently witnessed the endemic unhappiness of a family. I had been invited to the wedding of two friends of my boyfriend, which took place yesterday. During the dinner with elaborate dishes the divorced mother & father of the bride held equally elaborate speeches, albeit at othersides of the spectrum. The strained speech of the father of the bride was heartbreaking. It communicated so much more than what the string of words he uttered signify. It communicated his inadequacies as a parent. I felt sad. The mother of the bride's speech was full of zest and wit and an unhealthy dose of bitterness; in it she snubbed the father of the bride. Of course, not obviously. The slight was in the little things she did not say. She did not say she asked him for suggestions on the little film of her daugther's & son-in-law's life they (the in-laws & the bride's sister & brother-in-law & her) made. And to add insult to injury his name was not in the credits.
I spoke to the father of the bride (dating a nice woman, heavily philsophical about the status of his girlfriend); I found him a nice man. People are not perfect, though we often demand perfection in the execution of feelings & wording. We are dismayed when our expectations are not met and some of us repay the 'guilty' party with scorn. Of course, I do not know what happened between these two people, but to make the wedding of her daughter the stage of unresolved issues is not only tacky but also insulting & hurtful to her daughter.

The wedding was nice, very romantic. It is strange that the remote happiness of others always intensifies your own happiness. I fell in love with my boyfriend even more. I guess, that is what Tolstoy meant.

Hot Ice

2008-08-19T05:24:00.000-07:00

Even though I had to wake up at 05:00 AM this morning I'm in a very good mood. Does this mean I've metamorphosed from an evening person into - deary God - a dreaded morning person? Will I now start humming in the morning when I jump out of bed at dawn's crack? Will I turn into one of those eerily cheerful persons whom you always want to smack over the head, and whose deaths you're secretly plotting?

Nah. I'm too bitter for that. I have to scrape the sulphur allotropy from the bottom of my soul before I succumb to that macabre display of blistering blitheness.

Our Nursery Beds

2008-08-18T22:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I went to my brother's home to pick up some things I had left there; during the last three years I have moved three times. Moving is an irksome undertaking. Multiply it by three and it becomes nearly unbearable. Due to several circumstances I stayed with my brother for several months (a bad break-up and my parents moving back to Curaçao led to my living briefly with an ex which led to my moving out, because there were some unresolved issues between us - insert a "Duh" here - and staying with my brother; in a very cramped nutshell)

I've never had a sense of rootedness; when I was four I was transplanted from the warm earth of Curaçao to the wintry soil of The Netherlands. I kept moving ever since. I've always had the feeling I left something behind after each move; perhaps, something important, or nothing of any importance, but still some thing. Like a blundering thief I left a trail of DNA - as it were - in all the places in which I have lived. Fingerprints. Flakes of skin. Fingernail clippings. Hair. Traces of semen. Arguments; heated or loving words that echo dispirited in their evanescent form; the people who uttered them long gone, replaced by strangers who do not ackowledge the spectres that still haunt their abode. I think this process of casting off bits of yourself is a natural process. Our homes become a reservoir for all the things we shed.

Now I have a place of my own. It is empty still. It's the first time I have lived by myself. Alone. Up till now there's only been the buildup of material things. DNA. It still has to be filled with words, memories, embraces, warmth.

These last few days I have been thinking of asking my boyfriend to come live with me; we have discussed this before. I had thought it a bit too soon to actualise it then. Lately however I feel the increasing desire to be with him 24/7; not out of some sense of envisioned loneliness, but because I want him to be a bigger part of my life. But how can I ask him to uproot himself? At any rate, he's coming over tonight; I can't wait.

Shocking

2008-08-17T05:51:00.000-07:00

I've been cajoled by a sweet girl into updating this blog. I didn't know I was susceptible to the flattery of brown-haired girls... but I'm a gull who's easily swayed by the winds of adulation. So.

I've been watching The L Word. I'm a recent passenger on the bandwagon. I like it. I had thought that the daily dross of glam lezzies would not appeal to me, but I must confess that it not only appeals to me... I am actually moved by all the drama. Yes, I'm in essence a woman.

I'm at work right now; this environment is not conducive to my writing and I find that I'm struggle for things about which to write. I do not want to fall into the obvious subject (my work, colleagues, etc. etc.). But circumvention is tiresome.

I guess, this is the first of many defibrillating shocks to depolarize the heart cells that govern my flow of writing and allow a normal rhythm to return.

Peek-a-boo.

2007-06-30T17:39:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I wrote an entry; I could say I have been terribly busy - which I was - or I could say that I just didn't feel like writing - which is somewhat true. I have been very much distracted by a certain guy I met. He's been keeping my mind duly occupied; on top of that I have been very much a slave to the wage - working overtime raking in the cold hard cash. Yes. Not because I am suddenly metamorphosed into a greedy lil' bastard, but because my supervisor, or rather the planner, thought it wise to let me work more hours. At any rate, I'll write something soon.

Je veux te voir

2007-05-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

This is a very funny, very vulgar song by Yelle. She's some or other girl who has it in for some or other ginger-haired guy named Cuizinier (I believe he's a rapper of some kind). I laughed heartily since this is belly-shakingly hilarious. Enjoy.

Cuizinier avec ton petit sexe entoure de poils roux
Je n’arrive pas a croire que tu puisses croire qu’on veuille de toi
Je n’y crois pas meme dans le noir, meme si tu gardes ton pyjama
Meme si tu gardes ton peignoir, en forme de tee-shirt ringard
Garde ta chemise ca limitera les degats batard

Je veux te voir
Dans un film pornographique
En action avec ta bite
Forme patatoes ou bien frites
Pour tout savoir
Sur ton anatomie
Sur ton cousin Teki
Et vos accessoires fetiches

Cuizi c’est quoi
Ta position favorite
Tes performances olympiques
Mais tu n’as rien d’orgasmique
Tu es tout nu
Sous ton tablier
Pret a degainer
Mais je t’avoue rien n’y fait

Tu reves d’un Hummer fluo
Dessinee par Akroe
Mais tu n’as pas le permis
Tu prends toujours le metro

Superstar d’un soir ta vie redevient normale apres
Pas besoin de lunettes noires pour te cacher personne te reconnait
Ta carte verte t’attend mec
C’est pas des paroles en l’air
J’ai reussi à t’en faire
Une avec mon scanner
L’entree est gratuite ce soir
C’est le seul moyen pour qu’on vienne
Alors les filles on se promene
Ouais on va aux chippendales
On avait pas prevu de passer la soirée avec des rigolos
On voulait voir des pectoraux, des mecs montés comme des taureaux

Tes posters de Lil’Jon recouvrent ceux de Magic Jonhson
Ton corps est trop crunk pour assurer les dunks

Cuiziner c’est toi que je veux voir
Que je veux voir ce soir
Te faire ridiculiser par une fille qui rappe mieux que toi
J’ai pas assez de mes 10 doigts pour les compter dans la salle
Toutes ces filles coiffees comme moi qui savent ce que tu vaux a poil

Silly Broken Hearts Poetry

2007-05-06T17:59:00.000-07:00

Oh, silly boy
Foolish lover
Defending your
Man's honour
Can't you see
He loves you not?
His heart belongs
To another.
And on your heart
Will be inscribed:
"I fell in love,
He just lied."

Random Thoughts: TV, Trust, and a new beau on the horizon

2007-05-03T15:48:00.000-07:00

I do not watch TV. This is not some hip rebellious statement; I actually do not watch TV. I watch TV series - I must confess - albeit on DVD. Nowadays I find it strange that people spend hours on end in front of the Telly. I used to be a TV addict back in the 80s. TV was my drug of choice; I had very little else to numb the pain of my pre-teen hardcore lifestyle of kindergarten & sticks-and-stones harassment at school interchanged with the emotionally crippled parents' TLC at home. Besides the hard drug TV I experimented with the soft drug Books. I alternated between the two. Shooting up TV in the morning, and inhaling some powerful words in the afternoon before heading to bed. I solely watched cartoons. I believe I watched *all* the cartoons that aired during the 80s & early 90s. It was my first encounter with the English language; no subtitles meant either quickly getting with the programme, or letting the programme be and use your imagination to fill in the vast blanks. Funnily enough during the 80s all villains spoke some sort of archaic English. Soit.

I was heading somewhere with this entry, but I forget. I tend to be forgetful a lot these days. Perhaps it's because there's so very little going on in my actual life. I've decided that I should dislike my colleagues simply because they are nitwits, and deserve my scorn. Moreover they gossip incessantly & indiscriminately about everyone who's working for our company. I've already let know that I do not want to participate in this game of Chinese whispers, but it seems that they do not take heed of words that do not come in the shade of scandal. Alas. At any rate, I've decided I should dislike the bulk of the lot (i.e. only the fatties... har har har)

Oh, trust. I have been thinking about trust. It's such a flimsy concept. Trust. "I trust you'll do such and such correctly." There is little else you can do but rely intently on the other person's integrity, and ability. However confident you are chances are still great that the person in question will let you down hard. Nevertheless without that flimsy concept 'trust' it's quite difficult to establish meaningful, and intimate relationships with people. It's a slippery slope.
Nowadays I don't have expectations concerning people - hence my liberal interpretation of trust: I have no confident expectation of their meeting the standard of behaviour that I esteem. People rarely do what you expect them to do (and by this I mean: what you want them to do - in the usual order of things you can predict someone's behaviour based on her/his modus operandi, but that's not what I mean in this scenario, or any other scenario in which humans who are emotionally tied together must interact). I just voice my wish, if they take heed: great. If not: ah well, better luck next time. Of course I experience some form of frustration when they do not grant me my wish, but it never sticks. I simply resolve to let it go; put them on ignore. When my words take I acknowledge their trustworthiness, which doesn't mean I trust them; it just means that I recognize the fact that they have shown in this particular instance empathy. They are in effect paving the road to that elusive shrine of Trust. (I feel I'm getting too wordy again...)

Whatever.

I think I like someone. My feelings for him go beyond mere friendly, which is vexing since they do not have a release. I also do not know whether this person likes me back, which is even more vexing. Every time I resolve to make my feelings known some sort of fated incident takes place that thwarts my noble intentions. One would think - based on this - that it is not meant to be. But seeing my relationship with the Fates has always been capricious & playful I fashion this their way of showing me that they care. In the meantime I'm grinding my passion into dust.

Cough, cough.

This Year's Man

2007-04-30T18:27:00.000-07:00

This morning I had one of those strange dreams in which you know you're dreaming about something you were thinking about before you went to bed, or when you were walking home. It's one of those "Hey, I had just thought about that a while ago" moments. This morning I dreamt about having a child; not my having a child myself, as in actually giving birth, but about my being a dad. I had a clear picture of the child's mother, and her face is the only thing I can think of at the moment, which is very confusing. I know I have seen her before, but I do not remember where... Talk about vexing! It's not like I'm in desperate search for my 'baby momma'; I'm just curious to know: why her?

Humanity at Large

2007-04-28T16:51:00.000-07:00

Whoever claimed that life gets easier once one has aged beyond one's teenage years, or has matured, was very misleading; it is one of the fraudulent statements that has entered our parlance, and made itself feel quite at home in the hall of fame of cliches. Well, life does not get easier instead life loses its originality, its ingenuity, and occurences that once stirred your emotions lose their impact by the tedium of repetition. Life gently herds us to tranquil pastures where we munch on old chestnuts with a blasé air, or something. I can understand how one can confuse tedium with a state of comfort; tedium is always conducive to ease, if only in a deluding way. At any rate, my life keeps getting more complicated as days pass. I simply have to wake up, and breathe. No other actions need be undertaken.

So, I'm reading on technology and how it affects humans / our conceptions of humanity. I have started - of course - by examining what makes us human - as distinctive to 'animals' - to begin with. Naturally my reading started with morality. Our desire for conformity to the rules of - what is generally quite arbitrary, and highly subject to change - right conduct is astonishing; we are willing to sacrifice a whole lot to just be accepted. Morality is a funny concept, especially when viewed in relation to our equally strong desire to be independent individuals. We spent most of our teenage years asserting our individuality whilst trying to brave the storm of peer pressure only to succumb to it in later years. I see it happening all around me at work. Most colleagues are enticed to join the whispering choir by the leading rumor-mongers, and then heartily partake in Chinese whispers about anything & everything. Is this right conduct? I do not know; judging by the standard I should think it is, however all this murmuring is not conducive to comfort, nor a genial work space. No matter how great the tedium it engenders.

My love life is troublesome; not in the least because of my laborious efforts to get a date, but because of my whimsical taste in men. I seem to fall for men who are the mirror image of me; this is the source of many a stormy relationship, but I'd rather a gentle breeze than a passionate storm. You can attribute it to age. As I get older, and consequently wiser, or I should say 'fitted', my desire for genial relationships grows ardent. It must be because of the slowing of my metabolism. At any rate, I should find a way to adjust my taste to suit my mood. I have always had a terrible time adjusting my palate to a change in diet... Ah well.

Beauty

2007-04-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

My philosophy in life is to live as though there's no to-morrow. One can only imagine the disappointment I experience time and time again - at least, up till now - when I wake up to the fact that yet another dawn has, well er, dawned on us. I comfort myself with the thought that the recurring of dawn satisfies an innate human desire for structure & predictability, and that my disappointment in that light viewed should not weigh so heavily as to make me want to slit my wrists, or do something equally foolish. I have been accused of being suicidal in the not-so-distant past, perhaps it's sensible not to joke about such a serious matter lest that person should read this and put two and two together.

At any rate, life is like a fluffy cloud, and I'm like a hydrogen molecule floating upward toward the sun. I have actually never felt better. I suspect it's because I've gained a new appreciation for "the real world". I have spent a considerable time living, breathing, thinking in a virtual world. A world of books, and ether. A few weeks back my eyes suddenly opened themselves and I saw life smiling at me, and waving me hello enthusiastically. I could no longer neglect it.

So, I'm taking life out for dinner; to say thanks. I wish I knew what could allay its appetite.

Broken Glass

2007-04-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back I took a metro home which had as its destination "Unknown". I thought it very apt since I absolutely had no clue where I was heading. How disappointed I was to find out that "Unknown" is close to where I live; just 2 KM South to my temporary abode. A rude awakening - so to speak.

Yes, a few weeks back I had a blind date, or to be exact: an appointment to go on a blind date. I did not go. I did not feel like it, at any rate. The thought of having to spend time with a person I do not know that well, and having to entertain him by being pleasant and amiable, and having to laugh at his mediocre jokes, and having to show interest in his personal life/hobbies/interests/etc. when in effect I could not give a horse's rear-end made me reconsider seriously. Besides these small drawbacks that showed themselves when I was heading to "Unknown" I was terribly tired, and not in the mood for company.

Yesterday I met a friend I hadn't seen since October 2006 (it was on his Birthday); he broke up with his girlfriend. They were together for five years and have a son. I was saddened when he told me; I had got into my mind that they would remain an item till the end of time, but unfortunately life got in the way. Life has a way of throwing its weight around like that thwarting our designs. At any rate, we talked about the past, and about the future, about friendships/relationships. I thought about my own fancies at the moment.

At this point in time I do not crave company. I find it taxing. On the one hand I'd love to have a relationship, and be square. On the other I simply don't. Conflicting desires.

Ah, well.

Multiply

2007-03-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

Well, I have been persuaded to join a new online community called "Multiply" - a very suitable name. I'm a little bit shocked by all the gay porn & related items that seem to be popular tags on that site. Not that my sensibilities are so delicate, but I hate it when people spring porn, or their sexual preferences, on you. I never mix porn with light entertainment. Porn is a serious business, and like any other serious business it must be conducted, and executed with utmost planning & care.

"Hi, my name is Mike and I enjoy fisting & watersports."

"Oh, gee Mike. Nice to meet you, too."

That's not the way to go about porn, nor advocating your preference.

I believe to rebuff with a 'piss off' followed by an angelic smile on such an occasion is to add insult to injury... Though, I believe I would not hesitate to do so. I must yield to my irrational whims. But, I digress.

I think it's a lovely site, though. Lovely, but weird. It's porn in a dollhouse. Porn in an idyll niche on the Internet; a friends network of people you know IRL. I don't want to know the preferences of my friends. Heck, I do not want to know those of strangers. My idealism is a bit bruised, and to see preferences bruited about like that is not good for my faith in mankind. I will survive, at any rate.

At the very least, I will chuckle at the pictures that are supposed to turn me on... Har Har Har.

Autobiographical Nonsense: Blurbs on Life

2007-03-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

This is the definitive
And authorized biography
Of Man.
No doubt it will be
(Much to your displeasure)
Less action-packed
(Than the works of
Well-established authors);
Supplying a mass
Of relevant detail
On the life of Man
Whose unity endures
In the face of Choices,
Decisions, Desires
(Notwithstanding ample
Tears of Laughter,
Of Joy, impending disaster,
Multiple meanings
In individual words &
phrases within
lines of life.)
Enjoy the read.
Shed a tear,
Or crack a smile.
It will most certainly be
The last thing you'll ever read.

E.

Silence

2007-03-28T15:18:00.000-07:00

I have grown weary of communicating; and paradoxically enough I choose to air my discontent through writing. How can that statement be viewed as 'true' when it is in itself an act of communication? Does it nullify any irritation I have experienced? It is odd. As of late I have less and less inclination to use my 'voice' whether literally or figuratively. I am not breaking the silence - at least, I do not experience this act as such. I am merely projecting my thoughts into this medium. Telepathy is still, unfortunately, beyond my power - and though I feel reluctant to communicate I still experience the urge to make my preference known. At work I spent eight hours, if not more, talking. Talking, talking, talking. Knitting an endless shawl of worn words. I love words. But one can have too much of something - even of something one adores.

Woof Woof Woof

2007-03-18T15:26:00.000-07:00

Once again my mind drifts to my job. As of late work demands a considerable part of my time. As it stands at the moment I am too tired to even write some caustic remark about work. I will steer clear from rabid dogs, for I know they will surely bite.

An infection is the very last thing I need.

All This Pain Is An Illusion

2007-02-03T17:56:00.000-08:00

Of course.

But even hallucinations can make you bleed from inside out. Or, in my case, leak crimson instead of ichor.

I Less-Than-Three Recycling

2007-02-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

The life of an ice cube is somewhat square. Hardly adventurous. One drifts in a sea of beverages that require cooling dispensing droplets of water. Not the material that adventure novels are made of. So when an opportunity for unmitigated adventure boldly presents itself the principle reaction of an ice cube is to jump at the occasion whilst sublimating any frustration it might have felt prior to the occasion. This year I have several unmitigated adventures ahead! First, a meeting with a guy I've met in this ether (virtual space). Second, a trip to NY - the city that has spawned Interpol. Should I get more excited I would most certainly explode into a million crystalline pieces. Isn't it lucky then that I happen to know that Mother Nature & I share a passion: we both love recycling.

I recycle all things; mostly, books. I call it my book search & rescue squad, which at the moment consists of only me. I'm not at all saddened by the lack of comrades, for I often spurn the specious fraternal familiarity between men which - with an objective eye could be construed as latent homosexual; a fact which most men will dispute to the death - they deem as "male bonding". On a side note: I find the term bonding slightly scientific & somewhat alarming for I always picture the relationship to be of a parasitic nature in which one of either party syphons off energy whilst the other slavishly fulfills its tasks as the host. Ah, well. I love recycling books. I have recycled a great many, and am always on the look-out for books that need saving.

These last few days have been a pinch more than hectic which has considerably affected my mental resilience. Too tired, too strained, too many people wanting a piece of my attention (some silently demanding a lion's share). I've had it. I've got myself into a little tiff with my ex-room mate. Let me start by saying that I completely understand his objections to my behaviour, and feel genuinely sorry. If you have sensed that presently will follow a "however" your intuition is close attuned, and duly rewarded. However, I cannot help but feel a little irritation myself. I suspect that he expects me to treat him as I treat, or have treated, my other friends. (In general, I do. If I have made an appointment which is loose I tend not to cancel if something comes up. I know this is a bad trait; I try to change my behaviour, but as most of you can attest one cannot change one's behaviour at a drop of a hat.) I believe he fails to understand that he's not like my other friends since he is entirely a different person, that my history with him differs greatly from the ones I have constructed with my other friends (meaning: I have never dated any of them), and that the relationships I have with my friends are far from interchangeable. I don't know. I can speculate about the why but I'd rather not. Speculation is as specious as "male bonding".

I'll leave you with a little poem by Sylvia Plath:

Cinderella
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock.

Dante's Hell, Or The Story About The Guy With The Bluest Eyes

2007-02-01T20:58:00.000-08:00

I reckon that Dante is most commonly known for his book on the circles of Hell. He's written more than just a nice political allegory; he's also written a very beautiful tribute to his love Beatrice, whose true historical identity still remains a mystery. His love for her was truly eternal, since he continued to long for her long after her death. I've read Vita Nuova a few years back, and fell in love with the language and the intensity of his love for her. His love was almost ravenous, and his passion spoke to me in a clear, crisp voice. If you haven't read it yet, you should. It's a wonderful read. I especially like the line: "I am your master; Behold your heart." I fell in love with this line, not that I'm an aficionado of leather straps and bondage (not that there's something wrong with a little slap'n'tickle), but it speaks such a raw energy. Dante must have had ichor pumping through his veins because he's managed to capture the eternal aspect of love quite befittingly.

Love, or any inclination resembling the concept, is a double-edged sword. It can liberate and bind one at once. One can feel absolutely happy, when one's lover reciprocates one's feelings, and miserable, when one's lover shows himself/herself cold, and distant. Love is a constant master/slave role play in which both lovers alternate between the roles of master and slave. This is what Dante meant with that line, I reckon.

Well, given the choice no-one wants to linger in Dante's Hell. We'd all prefer to spend our days in our lover's arms staring into our lover's eyes, while our lover whispers sweet nothings in our ears, and tells us of her/his undying love for us. In reality such a situation does rarely, if ever, exist. And, as long as our view of love is askew we will never get what we truly want/need. We all know that love is hard work, but we never seem to understand how much work exactly, and in which areas, and how we can be our best selves in a relationship. "To know my deed. 'Twere best not know myself.", MacBeth uttered. I would like to say: "To know Love. 'Tis best to know myself." At any rate, one needs to have an inkling.

Hormonally Yours...

2007-01-31T15:56:00.001-08:00

I came across this flourish-slash-interesting-twist to the written formula with which one can end a letter on someone's Myspace page, and it made me smile. I thought it an adroit title for this specific entry, since this is all about my hormonal state and how my hormones seem to designate importance/significance to the individuals that happen to enter my life haphazardly. To try to explain why one is attracted to some and repulsed by others is as useful an activity as rolling a boulder uphill then watching it roll back down. It's a matter of taste, of aesthetics, of conditioning. It has very little to do with active decision-making. Basically, it's just a question of your particular hormonal state. Of course, I'm talking about the initial attraction; by which I mean the feeling you get deep down in your abdomen when your eyes happen to catch sight of a potential partner, and his/her eyes reflect the spark - like a mirror - that has lit up your eye. The second attraction, at least in my experience, happens, or not, when you actually strike up a conversation - if sparks then fly, too, I'm yours, or you're mine... whichever you like.

A few weeks back my eye happened to catch sight of a guy whom it found - in collusion with my hormones - attractive (tall, well-built, redhead). I managed to introduce myself, and even though my mind revolted against the little dance of words (which proved a dance macabre) that was taking place between us (my mind, I must confess, was signalling loudly that it found the guy tedious) I was happily rubbing myself against him, and getting more & more excited, which - of course - the guy noticed. His attention had been thitherto all over the place - perhaps, he was shy I kept telling myself, trying to drown the lament my mind was crying out - but once he felt my manhood pressing against his well-developed thigh he was able to focus his attention on me. However, the more words came out of his mouth, the more bored I got. But, still no response from my hormones... they were cheerfully champing down the piece of man meat that got them salivating. At a certain point the guy said that he was going to look for his friend since they were there together and he wanted to check on him. It was sweet that he is such an attentive friend. Once he disappeared out of sight my mind augmented its cry seeing it saw the coast clear; it knew that once the source that drove my hormones was out of sight it stood a good chance to convince my legs to move in the opposite direction of the object of my lust, which was what happened. I went to collect my coat & I exited the building, leaving the guy probably wondering where I was and why he wasn't going to get any nookie since everything was going *so* well.

Well, this time it's the other way round. This time my hormones didn't even get the sweet taste of initial attraction. My mind has bypassed all that. I have gone straight to second attraction, forcing my hormones to follow suit... and even though hormones are strong, the mind is far stronger. It can be demoniacally persuasive. How can I miss talking to someone whom I've never met?

The Good, The Bad, & The Absolutely Fugly

2007-01-28T20:30:00.001-08:00

A few days back I was riding the metro minding my own business per usual when a guy I know from my church-going days entered the metro. He looked at me awkwardly as though it pained him to see me; his eyes bulged slightly, and his mouth reluctantly formed a smile. He sat down at the far end across me, and struck up a conversation, which went as follows:

Him: Hey. Good to see you. How've you been?

Me: Fine. Just fine.

Him: I run into your sister quite a lot in H & M.

Me: Yes, she happens to work there.

Him: Yeah, that's cool.

At this point I cleared my throat, of course, in slight irritation. I quite managed not to roll my eyes at him, though I felt like, and had pictured myself doing so at several intervals during our talk.

Him: How's your brother Carlos?

Me: He's fine. Just fine.

Note: my brother's name is Giancarlo. We call him Carlo for short. Not Carlos. There's no-one in his circle of acquaintance who calls him that, except - of course - those who hover at the outer rims.

Him: Say hi to him for me, OK?

Me: Sure. I'll say hi to Carlos for you.

I thought to myself: "Yes, I'll say hi to some random Carlos for you... Idiot."

Luckily, he had to get off at the next stop. When I was walking home I dug into my memory in search for the answer to why I didn't particularly feel like talking to him. I come across many people haphazard whom I know from my church-going days, and some of them I talk to without their causing the slightest irritation, and others just make my skin crawl. I have forgotten most of the people's faces, at any rate, which is an excellent way to not notice them genuinely. Then it struck me that he has always been - as far as my recollection could take me - an idiot. Some people are just born that way. Always asking silly questions. Always causing my skin to itch.

I've been exchanging messages with a nice young intelligent man who lives in Minneapolis. He makes me smile. Not only because of his understated sense of humour, but mostly because we are so much a like. It's heartwarming to come across people who are so much like you in a sense.

My life's still bobbing along quite indolently, being pushed forward by various winds of change. I don't know what to do actually, and as of late I find I have very little time to really rest. To take some time and examine things.

I've been listening to a whole lot of Me'shell Ndgéocello lately (her cd Bitter), and I'm completely smitten with her voice. If ever I should compile a list featuring songs that define me, or certain experiences I have gone through the song Bitter would most definitely be on the list. Which other songs would be on that list?

Too many to list. I'll have to muse on this one.

I'll leave you with the lyrics to Bitter.

ME'SHELL NDGÉOCELLO
Bitter

You push me away bitterly
My apologies fall on your deaf ears
You curse my name bitterly
And now your eyes they look at me bitterly

I stand ashamed amidst my foolish pride
'Cause for us there'll be no more
For us there'll be no more
And now my eyes look at you bitterly
Bitterly bitterly

In Thrice They Come, In Thrice They Go.

2007-01-21T19:00:00.000-08:00

I've just realized that I need to start working out again. I've lost quite a few pounds, and am looking rather like a shade of my former self. Not yet gaunt, but rapidly heading in that direction (Although, I enjoy being slim, waif-like I think it's time to beef up - just a tiny bit) It's a different look from beefy, butch homosexual man.

My manager/friend/ex-roommate C. reads my blog, as you might have noticed, and today he kindly let me know - again I might add - about company policy on surfing the Internet during office hours. He has also commented on some remarks I made in my post concerning my job. This is what you get when you're friendly with the management; even when they're not working they keep tabs on you. I know that he's been known to surf the Internet during office hours, as well. And he knows that I know. I can recall numerous MSN conversations conducted while he was in office, supposedly working like a diligent bee raking in the dough. But, I did not throw these facts in his face, nor did I even mildly hint at them. I just said that I know what company policy says. I then added that if he didn't like what he reads on my blog that he should stop reading it. He said no. I said OK. I hope that that will be the end of it.

I may now feel pressured to write less candidly about my work, but having mulled over the concept I have decided to not go with it. No, I'm not going to write less candidly about my work, since this is my online diary in which it is my right to bitch about things that I feel are worth bitching about.

My life, at this point, is quite devoid of diversions. Well. I do not go out dancing. I do not have a hobby, nor a special someone. It seems the only things I do are sleep, eat (and this not even on a regular basis), and work. In between these very exciting activities I manage to sneak in the odd trip to the museum, or a dance recital.
And with the prospect of a good friend's departure to strange lands looming at the not so distant horizon my life seems to be heading toward a scary place where social contact is even more limited than it is now. Of course, there are other people in my life. But they all have fairly regular jobs, and cannot meet during the day. And since my living in these backwater parts entails my having to travel at least an hour before reaching the civilized world, I had rather not meet during the evenings - especially in this weather. I'd rather stay in and do absolutely nothing. Well. That's a lie. I'd rather stay in and write.

At any rate, my blog must read like a sad tale of boredom. Unfortunately, my life is at the moment hog-tied; its movements limited to what I have listed prior, which makes for not a very exciting read. I can write about my anxieties, though I do not want to whine. I do much of that already. I guess, that a bit of soul-searching at this point would be a dangerous undertaking; dangerous in the sense that it will draw a most unfavourable impression of me, since my current state of mind will distort any feeling I might be experiencing, or any thought I might have. Even though, this is my place to vent I'm constantly aware that someone is reading along as I'm typing this. So. It's an uncomforatble feeling. I see it as an experiment. An experiment into determining how I will deal with eyes directed constantly at me, focused on my every move. These pair of eyes needn't pass a moral judgment; their mere presence will act as a (moral) corset shaping what I write.

Today at work I was less tired, but just as irritable as yesterday. I suppose my lack of proper nutriments is affecting my mental health. I need to find myself a hobby, or at least, something else worth fretting about, because these scribbles about food, sleep, work are far from interesting, and put even me to sleep.

The Girl with the Red Shoes

2007-01-17T16:02:00.000-08:00

I have just got home from watching a dance recital (D'un soir un jour; based on the intricate yet, clear impressionism of Claude DeBussy, with music by DeBussy, Stravinsky & George Benjamin) with a friend. Well. What can I say. The reviews in the foreign press were amazing, unfortunately the piece itself did not live up to the warm praise. I found it tame, and rather lacking in vigour. The dancers appeared even more listless & tired than I was. I nodded off several times; I wish they had done so, too. The more I attend these nodules of modern art, the more I realize that art is quite dead. If not dead, than at least moribund, and anxiously awaiting death by any means. In this case death by the able hands of Rosas (www.rosas.be)

I had a fun evening, nevertheless. I have got to know several fresh acquaintances better, and found it refreshing to divert my mind.

Privy

2007-01-16T15:10:00.000-08:00

My best friend and I got into a fight (or rather she went off her top and told me that she never wanted to see me again); I didn't want to blog about it, seeing that I didn't want to rant about, and trash someone who's been so close to me. But, as of late she is really making me want to unknow her. At heart, I'm not pissed off at her even though she has said, done things that really hurt my feelings; I just cannot bring myself to hate her, or be mad at her in such a manner that I will want to have absolutely nothing to do with her. I cannot go from liking someone to hating someone in just a matter of weeks. I don't even find it necessary to hate someone with a vengeance like that, or choose to behave in a manner that suggests that. I hate the way she's behaving rather than her as a person, since I feel like I'm being driven to act likewise (Despite, everything she is a really nice, and warm person - or, she can be - and to paint her the devil is not doing her any justice - really - she may at times behave like one, but she is most definitely not one). I feel like I'm an actor in a really bad play who's being directed by an incompetent director. At any rate, I've decided that if she wants to act all mad, and angry she can do so at her heart's content but I'm stepping out of this play. I've had it. I was angry with her because I thought she was being unreasonable, but now when I reflect on the matter I have reached that point where I do not care, since I do not see the point.

I just find it such a waste that we have been reduced to this. Silliness basically. Communicating in a way that feels so unnatural. To be honest, I miss her. But, in the light of things it cannot ever be like it was before, and that saddens me more than anything. It's like she's dead, and instead of acting pissed off - when, in fact, I'm not - I'd rather mourn the loss and move on. Life is for the living, n'est-ce pas?

So. I've just spent the evening with C. and it was nice to see him again, and have some time with him alone. He's accused me of not writing enough about him in my blog; to say he craves to be the centre of attention is to fall short. I would love to write about him - in a frank way - but I guess that such a character assessment would not further our friendship, and I do not want to write another blog stating that yet another friend has chosen not to talk to me - ever. Having said this, I'm not saying that I would paint a picture that is unflattering, I'm just saying that should I paint such a honest picture of him I would also show pieces of his character that he chooses - in real life, even - to rather not disclose. Even he is prudent in the way he shows himself to the world. So, why disapprove of my discretion?
He's has grown more important to me over the last few months, and I'm eternally indebted to him. And, I could list all his wonderful qualities and by so doing share him with you all, but I choose not to. I should like to speak my mind in why I choose so: I like to keep certain experiences private, and in this C. and I differ greatly. By sharing experiences that are dear to me with millions of other people I, in a way, trivialize them; I make them common. I take away the privateness. You see, by writing it down I relegate the experience to the world that is extraneous. The world of words. It becomes part of something else and ceases to be a part of me. That is one reason why people write. To write out their feelings. To distance themselves thereof. (It's all very therapeutic)
So. I write about the stuff I want to let go. The stuff I want to banish to the world of words. The stuff that merely takes up space in my head, and I had rather forget. But, somethings I like to keep private, and not share with the world.

Pure.
The day starts slowly
Like the reel of a film
Turning corners sharply
Anxiously running toward
The mill.

Pure.
In the mirror sparks fly
Flow from left to right - the line
That splits my face in half
Half grey, half white
Runs across the earth
Breathing.

Pure.
Ashes stick to my hair
The bite of life burns my neck
Around the eyes remain the stripes
Half waking, Half dead
A sideway glance toward the end
To deplore the disconnected
Gas.

Some things are very dear

2007-01-15T14:02:00.000-08:00

I intended to write a different entry today, or rather post a different entry, but seeing that my mind is cramped in this constricting mood I thought it best to just write and see where my writing takes me.
Today was spent mostly in bed, listening to the evenly modulated singing of several artists, writing my shadow blog on www.myspace.com/johndonne and reflecting on life - in general. I have been giving the story that has developed in my mind a great deal of thought, and last Sunday something dawned on me when I was discussing the merits of philosophy with a guy. It's silly trying to emulate established writers; I know it's been my goal to reach their level of artistry, but that - in a sense - means effacing myself to a certain extent. I should create my own way of constructing a narrative. Thinking about these things is quite easy; putting it all into practice is much, much harder. So - instead of raking my, already aching, brain - I've taken up studying African-American writers, and how they forged a narrative for themselves, build a tradition on the smouldering ashes of slavery, and fleshed out a culture by fusing old ways with the new, to see what they can teach me. I know. But, it's the most effective way to establish one's own style. See. Copy. Do.

I have spent quite some time studying rhetorics, and writing, writing, writing. Now, I feel that I have mastered the art of language enough to put pen to paper and draw blood from the particles that make up this universe, steal atoms, combine molecules to create my characters on paper. I've been writing a pretty, little story about a woman who loses her mind, or so it seems. I'm extremely interested in the position women take up in society - as a gay man it may seem strange that I would show any such interest, but the position women take up in society is inextricably bound to the position gay men take up in society. Gay men are always judged and viewed in relation to women, since they are in the eyes of most men not truly men; and if one's not truly male one cannot be anything else but female. This is the world of dichotomy. You're either one, or the other. So. If this patriarchal society questions women's sanity, gay men's sanity will not go unquestioned. It, too, will be judged accordingly.
But, this woman I'm writing about isn't mad at all. She is very much sane. It is society that labels her insane because she fails to comply with the set norms. It's not finished yet. I'm afraid it will remain so for the time being. I cannot write when I do not feel inspired, or when I feel that the words are just not right. Yesterday a girl who's also planning to write a first novel told me that she can write a hundred pages a day if she sat down to write. I was amazed, and impressed. I should thank God if I get to write ten pages a day. Usually, I produce one page a day. Some stories I can write quite easily; my mind just pours them on to paper. Others - like this story about the woman in a mental institution - are - in my mind - far more intricate and therefore need much more attention and care. Hence my deliberation.

I'm going to finish with a poem:

Some things should stay hidden
Behind golden clouds that smile
And say: "You're welcome sir.
All's forgiven, forgotten not
For another mile."

Something of the way you laugh
Will always ring at the break of day
The things you said when we lay
In bed will colour dark
Against the sky

(I am, now, but one step
Away from drowning in
The Northern wind)

So swift the earthy moods have changed
So solemn the trees chose the waves
While colours dance like yesterdays
Across the silver lakes to die.

"You're welcome sir. Another mile
We'll run, we'll sing, we'll play.
But behind our wooly coats will cry
All the things you chose to hide."

Now you see the bunny run, now you see the bunny on your plate

2007-01-13T16:35:00.000-08:00

I have had quite a week. I have gone to an exhibit of Klimt & Toorop paintings on Sunday with my - now - ex-roommate, C. I'm in love with Klimt's painting Medizin, and luckily for me it was one of the centre pieces of the exhibit. Of course, silly ice cube that I am, I went on the last day, which - naturally - was the day millions of other people who share my level of silliness decided it was the bestest day to visit the exhibit. One could hardly move without bumping into some or other stranger, or obstruct someone's intent gaze. I'm not even going to divulge on the numerous toes that have been stepped on, whether intentionally or not.
C. & I made fun of some of Toorop's paintings; it seems he could hardly paint flattering pictures of women. His woman looks rather haggard; sharp features, huge chins, with equally pronounced noses. I'm not attracted to women, but if I were I would be slightly offended by their depiction in these paintings: I cannot stomach people making light - or in this case: monsters - of my predilections unaccompanied by the famous tongue in cheek. Of course, our tongues - when joking - were firmly planted in our rosy cheeks, so to speak. No foul in our merry-making.

I must say that I had great fun that Sunday, though I'm not sure if C. had as much fun as I did. He appeared absent-minded - a state he's rarely in. Though I was a bit worried I brushed it aside quite readily since he's not one to linger beyond a necessary moment in a certain mood. He's quite adept in making his moods change from heavy to light. At any rate, I was sleepy, and went to bed as soon as I came home.

Wednesday I went to see D. D. and I had had a dalliance last summer, which resulted, like all dalliances that go unchecked, in a messy episode in which tears flowed - mostly, if not only his - like the mighty amazon river, his mouth delivered a rapid and continuous fire of words - mostly, if not only in a whiny tone of voice - and pairs of underwear were returned to wearer - in this case: me - in an envelope. I had chosen not to see him anymore. Drama of this sort is best avoided like wearing white after labour day. At any rate, he sent me an email saying that he was sorry he behaved in such a manner, and that he's over me, and that he would like to have a drink sometime. Sometime sounded quite pleasant, since it is entirely non-committal. I decided to make sometime this Wednesday. I called him, and we arranged to meet in Amsterdam. Note: I hate Amsterdam. With my newly acquired powers of self-deception I had turned the unpleasant act of visiting Amsterdam into an act I could look forward to without the slightest pricking of my sensibilities. Quite happy with this feat I went about planning my day in Amsterdam; I resolved to do some shopping, and buy some books in one of my favourite bookshops. The day went along quite nicely once I was there, though at around six my brain began to fatigue; it could no longer sustain the illusion, and I started itching to leave that Godforsaken place. I rang up D. to relieve my stress, but he was not cooperating - i.e. he did not answer his phone - and I slipped into a minor panic attack. Luckily, I got hold of him presently and we agreed to meet at his place and then go out for drinks & dinner (have you noticed the order?). We had Thai food, and two bottles of wine. Then we consumed an entire carton of B&J's. I stayed the night, which was probably not my brightest idea. But, my brain was already fatigued, sugared, and liquored up to think properly, so nothing but imprudent decisions could it make. There was some innocent hanky-panky, which left me feeling rather like an idiot. Since it reiterated the realisation that had already dawned on me: D. and I are so not meant to be an item, it's not even funny. He's a nice enough guy, good-looking enough, bendy enough, intelligent enough, but - unfortunately - I find him not captivating enough. If he could only grab and hold my attention for several minutes in row I would in an instant grow attached to him, but alas. I don't want to come across as a snob, or as some guy who thinks highly of himself. Moreover, I'm not calling D. boring - not at all even - I'm just saying that I'm not that into him. It's not his fault, and it's not my fault. It all bottles down to chemistry. There is none between us. Alchemy, perhaps, but not chemistry. I left Amsterdam feeling odd. And silly. I felt sixteen. And all the while the words D. uttered when lying in bed rung in my ear: "What's wrong with a little hanky-panky? it's not wrong if we both want it." But therein lies the sting D. I did not want it at heart. I was swayed by hormones, and the promise of connecting to someone. That promise, however, was unfulfilled and left me feeling lonelier than I had felt before I sallied into your bed.

Ah. Well. Today at work a colleague of mine Diana was grilling me; asking me all sorts of questions about my private life, and in a bout of candour I told her more than she needed to know on the level of our acquaintance. She is a strange woman. Guarded I should say. Quite difficult to assess. She has a way of talking of things in a light, and frivolous manner; in a sense luring you, like the pied piper, into disclosing your innermost thoughts. At any rate, I let her lead me down her mental path. I told her I don't like people. That I would rather be alone. That I enjoy doing things by myself. That I should like to buy a cat, and live like a hermit. She laughed, but she could as well have clicked her tongue in disapproval. I like her. She's human. I suspect some of my colleagues to be of an otherworldly nature. Quite scary folk. They would make colourful characters in a novel...

Tada!

2007-01-05T18:39:00.000-08:00

The new year has come, and with it came an act of betrayal of a Shakespearian scenario. Tada!

Come Christmas, Come Ice

2006-12-25T09:56:00.001-08:00

"Do they know it's Christmas time?" some artists sung back in the 80s, I have always wondered why. One can hardly escape the Christmas barrage; starving people all over the world included. Funny time of year; Christmas. Everybody is merry, and full of good intentions, and "Christmas spirit". Yeah. It's the only time of year, indeed, when people act as though they are possessed by some benevolent umbra. Benevolence aside: a ghost is a ghost, and in my book ghosts are never good. Not good at all. Too bad exorcists are in cahoots with the rest of them. Them. Yeah. You know the people who adore Christmas. So.

So. What do I think of Nietzsche? It's a question that strangely enough has become current. I had thought about Nietzsche and his mongrel philosophy several years since, and after an initial period of detestation I found several of his works well worth a read. But, to be honest, his philosophy never managed to set its talons firmly in my flesh. I'm more of a Schopenhauer, Heidegger, Hegel, &c. aficionado. Eh. Philosophy's only rocked my boat when put in a certain (historical) context. For instance, when I read on modernism I read Nietzsche. When I read on the Romantics (Byron, and his band of brothers) I read Rousseau. In general, I find philosophies a bit troublesome; it's like religion: everyody has an opinion, and makes it vociferously known, regardless of what the general consensus is (not that the general consensus is worth much in the grand scheme of things; but, eh, it represents a general willingness if not a general way of thinking. Ideas should be introduced with the utmost care. Nietzsche's philosophy has been used to justify all sorts of sordid deeds, and twisted ways of thinking), and tries to covince you of its Truth.
For instance, 'Christmas spirit' is used to flog all sorts of stuff, which we do not need. An altruistic ideal gets perverted into a commercial ideal. Nice.

Lucky me spent the greater part of the day in bed, listening to music, and dreaming of Chris Keller, eh, yeah. It was a nice dream. Unfortunately, at around six in the evening I sprang up, afraid I had overslept... which was not the case. And try as I did I could not grasp the shards of my dream that fell like leaves to earth..

"Bye, bye dream. Please, come back and visit me soon..."

Silly Little Bunny

2006-12-24T18:46:00.000-08:00

I'm silly. Without a doubt I am just that. Silly. Oftentimes I think that my silliness - which left unchecked could not only be my downfall but wreak havoc on unsuspecting passers-by as well. Yeah. Anyway, I hope they realize that I am not to blame whatsoever, and should harm ever come their way I am truly sorry. I shall repeat it again: I am silly - lest they forget.

A few days back I was listening to some very cool electro songs and all of a sudden I was taken by this tremendous feeling of ecstacy; I felt so in touch with the essence of the universe; I wanted to make love to the entire world. I felt a bit saddened, though, that I didn't long to make love to one special person in particular. I just hope I'll reach that point of wanting to make love to one person in particular soon; since you can't fool around with all of the people all of the time. But, eh, there's no rush. I'm quite happy as it is being single; I just hope I ain't broken. Well, the question of sex is a very delicate one. I don't miss it, per se. Though the lack of it, or rather its shadow, looms over me everywhere I turn. It is some spectral force that I feel exerting its insidious pull on me, eh, yeah. So. It's been a while. A long while. A very long while. Thank God I have other things on my mind that dim any feeling of eroticism that dares grow sunny in these brumal times. Yes. How Shakespearian.

At any rate, I keep myself duly occupied with work (Death, and Writing), and grinding my passion into dust. Chores that befit my constitution; that of a true romantic. I have written a nice little poem that speaks of my inner turmoil, but I reckon most people will judge it completely in the reverse manner than it was intended. They will, in all likelihood, read something quite perverse in it. As I have already written earlier today; free interpretation has caused a lot of damage in this world, as has innocence. Innocence has done much more harm than malicious design, or free interpretation, ever did. See, malicious designs are intrinsincally flawed; since human beings are flawed. Besides, humans are much more acute to recognizing devices that are intended to cause harm. We are wary creatures. The genius with innocence is that it is utterly unknowing of its own nefarious plot. Silently, and moreover righteously, it unfolds its diabolical plot and ensnares us in its web of naiveté.
We are flabbergasted once we figure out that all the misfortune that was dealt to us has come from such a guileless source. All was done to us with the best of intentions. Silly Little Bunny.

Puddle

2006-12-12T03:27:00.000-08:00

Yes, there are so many reasons for me to be happy. Many reasons for me to think my life quite OK. I should stop leaking all these opaque drips. Water is meant to be clear, not murky.

Crystal

2006-12-10T12:18:00.000-08:00

"False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

MacBeth sure knew how to make horrid acts seem trivial and necessary.

Crushed

2006-12-07T08:35:00.001-08:00

"There's absolutely nothing out there. Repeat after me: There's nothing out there. You have to believe it; otherwise it's no use."

The words lay uncomfortably in my mind. They did not take. Not even when I thought about the exquisite times I had with Steven. Not even when I evoked the sensation the sweetness of his words used to rouse in me. After a while I just told Steven that I was exhausted and wanted to get some sleep. He was quite understanding, although for a while he stared at me - as only he could - silently communicating his earnest disapproval, and, I suspect, wishing that I had done things differently. I guess he couldn't stand seeing my mind destroyed. Before he left he tried to give a hug, perhaps in a last bitter attempt to offer me some solace, or to demonstrate that he did not think it entirely my doing, but I would not let him touch me. In my mind he was just as dirty as the others. Just as contemptible.

"Is it going to be like this from now on Kathy? Please, don't tell me it's going to be like this." I almost felt sorry for him; he looked so terribly lost, so utterly confounded.

"Like what Steven? Tell me. As far as I know it's always been like this. Always. You talk and talk and talk and words keep coming and coming and coming and in the end you do not make any sense whatsoever. It all goes clean over my head." (Did I laugh nervously on purpose?) "I have never understood your motives Steven. Never and most certainly not now. Please leave. Please..."

"You're not well, Kathy. That's why you're here. You tried, you tried... to hurt." He stops. I touch his face gently and cup his cheek with the palm of my hand.

"Steven, please... leave. I need to be alone. Let me be alone. I can't bear it all right now. I..." I feel as though I have confessed to all the wrongs in world. The more I look at Steven, the more I resent his being here.

"If that's what you want Kathy I'll leave, but I will not let you go through this alone. I love you, and I always will."

Yes, Steven thank you! Thank you for loving me! I just warmly wish you had more experience in the matter so you could have done a better job of it. Sometimes love is not enough. Not quite enough. Men try to hide their true intentions, mask them behind those sweetly intoxicating words 'I love you'. Men like Steven especially should avoid saying them at any cost; when they say sweetly those intoxicating words it's always accompanied with a doleful look in their eyes as though by saying those words they admit defeat, or insanity. It goes against their nature. (What does he know about love? What? What? What? How could things have gone otherwise with that one feeling hanging between us like a noose?)

I have not been mentally deranged all my life. No, not all my life. I purposefully refrain from using that worn-out term "crazy". I am not crazy. Crazy are those who take in portentous nonsense, unchecked by their conscience or intellect, buckets full at a time. Crazy are those who go about in life frolicking as though life's one big pasture. I am not crazy. It is just that my mind's natural condition has been upset; a very recent development in my psychology. I do not know what brought it about; it is a state I have found myself in by mere chance. Perhaps - when I think hard about it - it was facilitated by the addiction I was nursing; I had begun drinking in secret. Taking little sips, at first, of the strong alcoholic drinks that my husband bought for his buddies and him, to calm my nerves. My nerves needed calming after the second child was born: Michael. Dear little Michael. If only dear little Michael knew how his incessant crying made his mother's nerves contract. A slow twitch. A fast twitch. A twitch that made me revolt against all the supposed little pleasures motherhood hides in itself. Mother needed a drink, or two, or four, or six. And while everybody around me loved everything about my life: my children, my husband, the way the household seemed to run itself, the way I persisted that this was all my choice, that I am an emancipated woman, that - this - is the homeliness that I have longed for for so long, I hated every aspect of it. In their eyes I was the happy housewife. I believed it, too, for a while. (The happy housewife - with a smile sported so often it osmosed completely in her face)
At a certain point I feared talking; for fear that I might say things that go against the assumed nature of mothers. We women have become slaves of our own conspiracy. What else can you do when the fear of talking, of saying too much strangles you? I went quiet. Dead quiet. I could not speak anymore; the words just did not come. Steven, at first, tried his best to understand; he did the only thing that he could do. He tried to change. I did not want him to change; not for me, not for the children. When words fail you, what else do you have? Actions? Actions? Actions don't speak louder than words. They are just as confusing; just as liable to ensnare you. You touch. It gets interpretated in ways you did not intend. A kiss can endear but also confuse. I withdrew in myself, and now I'm here in this country retreat, as they call it so politely. Locked away in the bosom of nature, trying to find myself, my voice, with the help of these strangers. My voice, ladies and gentlemen of this wonderful retreat, has been silenced by reason for reasons that are pathetically clear; we are not allowed to exist.

"Kathy. Wake up. Wake up, dear." Steven's voice came from afar as if it had to travel millions of lightyears to reach me. I turned my head slowly and stared quite unexpectedly directly into his stale blue eyes. I simpered, and said a tired hello. He kissed me on the cheek with such wariness that it made me uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. He sensed my disquiet. "I just came to see how you are doing. We are still married. I still care." My skin crawled when he said "married" as though he and I were shackled together. As though he owned me. "I'm not married to you. I've never been married. I do not belong to you, Steven. I am my own woman." Ridiculous. I needn't say these words out loud. I needn't claim my independence like this. I should live my own life, choose my own destiny. "Whether you like it, or not, Kath... we are married." I rested my head on the pillow, and shut my eyes. "Go away. Go away. Go away." The words dripped out of my mouth on to the pillow. I turned around so Steven could not see my face, as I lay there muttering the words like a mantra. He did not budge. He put his arms around me and whispered in my ear that he will always love me no matter what. I thought about the day I said yes. By the convention of fairytales when I secured the prize my tale should have ended happily. I was now a proper woman, and utterly dead to the world. Wiped clean. Tagged. Now known by a different name. Perfection comes at such a high expense, and its promise - a life without care - is as empty as the notion itself. Is a life without care even a life worth living? My life was perfect for just one second. One second before I sealed the deal with my unbendable yes. Yes, I do and with it I did, and had done myself in.

Steven's mother hated me. She hated me for things I wasn't even aware of. She hated me for making Steven leave her behind. I did not tell him to pack his things and go. But, she couldn't care less.

"I know your mother cursed me behind a blast of perfect manners. She is like that. She is just full of hate that woman. Born spiteful."

"You don't mean those things Kathy. You know mum loves you."

"She loves the thought of my being here, and spending the rest of my life safely tucked away under this rather lush rug in the middle of nowhere, out of her sight. She loves the fact that I've been declared unfit. She hates the fact that you still come here to visit me; that you haven't moved back to the West coast; that you still love me." It felt unreal saying that word. Love. What is there to love in life, really?

"Kathy, don't... Just rest. OK. Just lie down and sleep."

"For once, Steven you're being sensible. Now, leave me alone."

I closed my eyes, and thought about my wedding day. It was such a lovely day. Such a lovely day. When I heard Steven close the door behind him, I reached under my pillow and grabbed the bottle of pills I had hidden there. I emptied it in my hand. My hand was sweaty, and some of the pills stuck to it like lint to a pair of trousers. I put the pills in my mouth, plucked the rest that clung to my hand and licked my hand clean. My mouth was dry. I took a big gulp of water to wash them down. I slowly rested my head on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling; wishing I could see the stars.

When Steven next saw me I was dead. And, finally free.

Ice breaker

2006-12-05T16:02:00.001-08:00

A common strategy to cement new relationships is to go through a harrowing experience together; it is a certified way to bond. With this in mind I have to say, with certainty, that my trip with M. to the Museum yesterday firmly established our budding friendship; not that the Museum in itself is extremely disturbing, but rather the new exhibition. Eric van Lieshout - a Dutchman, who has received critical acclaim for his "thought-provoking analysis of modern day society" this year - has exhibited some of the nodules of the minglement of his imagination and interpretation: yes, it sounds as scary as it reads. I thought his view on modern day society quite puerile if not downright idiotic, and the critical analysis diffusing that his work is thought-provoking is faulty beyond reason; his work did nothing of that sort. Thoughts were not provoked; I remained quite indifferent, and felt cheated. Luckily, M. thought exactly the same. Bond.

At any rate, we did enjoy the collection of paintings by true artists. Bond tightening. Modern art is often so bland, and devoid of depth. I'm not at all conservative in my tastes; on the contrary, I'm a staunch supporter of progress, whether in art, literature, or music. But, I'm a staunch supporter of a philosophically based progression; a movement rooted in a philosophy (a critical analysis of fundamental assumptions or beliefs). I care not for the random view of an individual if it's mere his anxieties put into words, paintings, music without a frame of reference; I cannot but be reminded of pubertal writings (poems!), drawings, and songs discharged under the influence of a changing hormonal balance. Incoherent projections. Eric van Lieshout's work is devoid of a philosophy; I could not detect a message in his work, a binding theme, something that would validate his work being there... in a Museum... for people to look at. If it weren't for the company of M. I would have been bored beyond belief.

I had not thought I would spend such a long time with M. We spent a good seven hours in each other's company. All in all, it was a very entertaining seven hours. Entertaining yet strained in some way. I found him rather tense. Not per se so because of me. I find his being so tense is his own doing, and the roots lie in his past - not unsurprisingly - and his current life. Also I sensed that he was not fully "present"; he was a little preoccupied... and kept checking his phone, which - of course - made me feel awkward.
I have had a nice enough day though; only the whole experience has left me puzzled. Perhaps, even a bit unsettled. It is a feeling I cannot explain; I think I do not have the energy to invest in new friendships, and M. is a person to whom I want, maybe even need, to give my full attention, and as I cannot give him that I'm pondering whether I should invest in this. All my friendships have reached that point of equilibrium; we are comfortable with each other, and we know and respect each other's wishes. It is going to take a while before he'll let his guard down. I'll just have to see how this will play out.

The fear of being alone is this:

The face of an empty bed
The eyes of which cause a rift
In the perfection in your head

(No drink can ever cloud
That)

The desperation of your hands
As they clasp open air
The strain on your spine as it bends
Toward a palpable nowhere

(No drink can ever cloud
That)

The empty lines on your wrist
(Where you lover's name used to beat)
Which his tapered lips once kissed
Will forever remain unfulfilled

(No amount of magick drink
Can ever cloud that)

Arctic

2006-12-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

It's foul weather. Rain. The wind is blowing maddeningly, and I'm a mess - not directly as a result of this furious weather. I have been thinking about the novel I have been working on for the last three, I lie, four, I lie again, five years, or so. It's been roaming about my mind for quite some time, and I have even kept a journal in which I have delineated the storyline. It has existed in this - skeletal - form for three years, and now - I'm afraid - it demands to be brought to term, if not fleshed out. I have no choice in the matter. My mind is pregnant with ideas, and these are violently making themselves aware. I have started writing yet again.

I have Gertrude Stein, Anaïs Nin, and Somerset Maugham to blame. Of the three Miss Stein is the biggest culprit with her essays that have sparked my enthusiasm and reminded me why I love writing so much. I was a little apprehensive at first; afraid that her writing might frustrate my train of thought, but all that unease proved to be superfluous. Quite unnecessary, not unlike the writing of some people whose names shall remain unmentioned.

The novel I have been working on deals with Pain - among other themes. The mythologizing of drama through talk shows, through confession, through reality shows. Via these channels Suffering enters the realm of myth. This vulgarized Suffering creates in its wake multiple possibilities of overcoming it; possibilities handed by the gurus that preside over the cathartic process of confession witnessed by a studio audience. Pain is intrinsically shareable. It communicates itself through universal tropes / language / sensations. Shared Suffering binds people.

At any rate, I do not want to bore you with details.

The unmending lovely lies
Which made me feel obliged
To smell the sameness in the air;
The cigarette-burned mixture
Of sexual atrophy & Paradise.

Murky

2006-12-04T03:31:00.001-08:00

So, to-morrow I'm going to the Boijmans van Beuningen Museum with a colleague-slash-potential-friend. I have been looking forward to this little outing for several days now, and am slightly nervous since this will be our first time hanging out in a totally non-work related environment. It never crossed my mind until recently to socialize with colleagues outside of work; it was simply unthinkable. Most of the people I have worked with were, in some form or other, nauseatingly annoying... and it was my policy to keep colleagues out of my private sphere. But this policy was chucked right out of the window when I started working for the ZDG Group; since my getting this job involved a clean act of nepotism, on the one hand, and a clean display of my worth, on the other. Tainted it was from the get-go; so why fuss with policies that are there to be changed?

I wonder how it will go. I will probably write a full report on how the day went.

Of course, you opted for a knife
The sharp end of which is so versatile
One can cut, sever, dissect a smile
To save, or simply end a life.

He can't be a hero all the time.

Naturally you possessed a wicked eye
For tendons, nerves, & spines
Your tongue could carve the perfect lie
& whisper neatly between the lines:

You can't be a whore all the time.

Translucent

2006-12-01T16:46:00.001-08:00

Today I read in one of those self-proclaimed "quality newspapers" that the current trend in architecture (To borrow heavily from past styles) is pathetically anachronistic, and quite vulgar. The critics postulate that it goes against progress, that it is far from picturesque; on the contrary, it is rather absurd, that the aficionados risk asphyxiation by the fumes of sentimentalism that escape from such monstrosities. Yadda Yadda Yadda.

I reckon what they would have said to the architects of the Renaissance.

Beautiful men sitting with their backs bent
In commuter trains.

Should I lament the empty space in my bed?
With my knees clenched together
Mimicking a human
Not fully formed.

Or, should I brood over the loss of youth
And wear my slippers to work
To show that my body
Has not frozen
From rolling on the floor?

(It's silly, he knows
The fire of the volcano's
Breath can hardly be
Put out like that)

Or, should I run to the local jeweller
To buy diamond rings and necklaces
For the sleeping ladies
In their blue dresses
(Such pretty creatures)
Who all reside at the same address?

(They don't know me
It is safe to talk.
To stop and smile
This is the otherside
Of the liver)

Everyday my bed gets emptier
Beside me shall lie only my hair
Reminders of the time when I
Had only Time in wait.

Gaseous

2006-11-28T05:20:00.000-08:00

My heart feels like it is running out of fuel. It sputters vehemently. Perhaps in a vigorous attempt to postpone the inevitable. It seems that the hearts in my family have a tendency to stop prematurely. This may, in part, explain my escapist nature.

I'm trying to figure out what it is that I precisely want, or rather, need to make me a better person. The list of requirements is awfully short at this moment in time. And, I'm afraid that it will show me up as the ice cube I am. To face one's nature in its complete nakedness, stripped bare of all the trimmings, is not half as bad as the thought of having oneself exposed in front of the scrutinous gaze of strangers. But being an ice cube: should I really care?

At any rate, I'm a little out of sorts. Yes, well. I have just eaten a salad (goat's cheese, spinach, apples, walnuts, honey, sundried tomatoes) and it has made me a tad more than queasy. So. I'm inclined to attribute my nausea, and general feeling of unease, to my grub and my sputtering heart - whose silencing is imminent, I'm sensing...

I've just returned home from work, and today I had a talk with my supervisor. Not one of those "talk" talks, just a regular talk with little, or no, consequences. She was highly curious about how I have experienced working the graveyard shift with my colleague B. - of whose character I had been informed by many colleagues before I had even set eyes on him. Their synopses did not endear him to me immediately, but rather made me extremely wary. Yes, B. I had been told is a very vitriolic man. I was intrigued. It is perhaps needless to say that B. and I did not hit it off. We had a huge blow-up which resulted in my telling him off, and in my thinking him completely embittered by his failure in life, alcoholism, and divorce. Oh. B. did not mind telling his lifestory to me - not even when I showed him through my body language and my not asking after his motives when he disclosed facts of his private life that were "private" - and to me at least - should have remained so for the time being, if not for ever, that I was not in the slightest degree interested. One cannot deny him persistence, at any rate.
At a certain point I had enough. The blow-up ensued. The make-up did not. Well. We managed to patch things up - but it was quite shoddily done, since neither of us had the mental strength to deal with the issue right there and then.

So. Today my supervisor wanted to know "what went down". I told her. I also told her that I'd rather not work with B. Sadly, she could not make me any promises. Soit. I'm used to getting my wishes thwarted by the-powers-that-be; why should it be any other way when the powers are closer to home, and less omnipotent?

I screwed up a lot today at work. I wasn't really focussed. So, in an attempt to divert attention from my failing to meet the standards I showed my colleagues pictures of Britney S.'s vagina - which is making quite a name for itself on the Internet; I think someone's vagina is going to realize that her owner is cramping her style, and decide to get herself an agent and a solo career. Mark my words. We haven't seen the last of Britney's vagina.

We should not waste faith on countless gods
That breathlessly hold their cameras
Directed at our reposing souls.

Nor should we dull the air with prayers
That hang like a mist over our sins
(like the kindness of drunken strangers
that taps us gently on our chins
When we offer them another drink)

Prayers tend to cloud our goodwill:
A supernatural cosmetics
They are in fact sticky tarmac roads
That lead to the same old Rome.

We should learn to grow
Asphodels instead
(To entice the bees
In the black of our eyes)
In the gardens at
The edge of Infinity

Liquid

2006-11-27T18:24:00.000-08:00

In the grand scheme of things why should it matter if I choose to watch amateur porn as a pastime? Why should anyone go out of their way to reprove me for watching innocent little clips of people emulating the fabulous lives of porn stars? Would not one deliver a great injustice to these aspiring porn stars by denying them an audience? I do not have the heart to snub their (American) dreams of limited fame, forestalled fortune, and earthy happiness. Besides, their stellar performances have inspired me to adopt a signature moan.

I am obliged to ride the train more often than my delicate sensibilities can handle. It is almost a rule of thumb that some, or other, stranger with lambent eyes, or pendulous breasts, or a menacing moustache, or drenched in some designer disinfectant seeks conversation with me; either by staring at me until I feel extremely uncomfortable and am forced into conversation, or by simply starting talking to me as though we are old acquaintances.

I wonder whether I'm unconciously sending out signals that say: "I'm starved for conversation. Do not mind this book that I'm reading. It is just a silly ploy to keep my attention from wandering to the fact that I had rather talk right now than read. I will commend you for seeing through this shoddy ploy."

At any rate, a few days back I was sitting in the train minding my own business, which was reading 'Cakes and Ale', when a Chinese couple entered the train. They were heavily in conversation and hurriedly looking for some empty seats. Like the gentleman I am, I non-verbally let know that there were a couple of seats empty where I was seated by removing my bag, and my feet, off the empty seats. They repaid my magnanimity with a broad smile, and several flitting glances, and nestled themselves swiftly in the available spaces lest someone should beat them to the empty seats. All the while they were feverishly talking Chinese.
I smiled. I had taken, when I was in college, some Chinese language lessons. I tried to figure out what they were saying; alas to no avail. They were speaking - to my knowledge - Mandarin, and I had only learned Cantonese. Nevertheless I was distracted by their animation if not by what they were saying. After a while though I dug back into my book. From the corner of my eye, however, I could espy the Chinese couple eyeing me as though I was some curious artefact. I looked up. They smiled broadly. I smiled back, and nodded. The man blushed. The girl giggled. I was perturbed - if only moderately. They gave me these knowing looks, as though I had been made part of their secret world. The communication between us was entirely sub rosa.

I was intrigued. I feigned understanding what they were talking about; I closely followed their non-verbal communication, and reacted accordingly. I could see that now they started to feel a bit uncomfortable. Aha! This little play went on until I had to get off. When I stood up to exit the train they both looked up at me, and smiled intently and let their eyes linger on me as I walked down the aisle to the door.

Delighted to be
In your arms again
I grew a simple wish
At the edge
Of my eyelash:

Let all the deeds
of trust make arches.

Frozen

2006-11-27T02:08:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should write an introduction, or other. I suppose I should delineate my intentions, or rather, what my wishes are, with a certain care. Should not it be funny if that were my shortcoming?

Of the social rituals I find the mediated introduction the most deleterious. It is wicked in that the act of your being presented to another person is always accompanied by a brief synopsis of your person; written, and unedited, by the person who is mediating the act.

"May I introduce you to Frozen Tapwater? He's the most glistening ice cube in the sea of cola; and, I have heard that he does not melt in your hand, but rather in your mouth. So, you can shake his hand without any apprehension. He's a good friend of mine, yes. We have known each other for - what is it? - six years now."

Smiles appear, whether genuine or fake, followed by a string of perfunctory courteous questions. The 'conversation' gets flailed anxiously by the newly acquainted lest an awkward silence falls and they get rushed to the real world in which they care nothing for each other's existence.

"So..."

"Straw tells me you're in accounting?"

"Yes, uh, but I sort of hate my job, and I'd rather not talk about it... if you know what I mean."

"Oh. Fortunately I don't know..."

[Pause]

"Yes, isn't that Bubbles over there?"

"Who?"

"I'm going to say Hello to Bubbles."

"OK."

And quite against common sense we persist in subjecting each other to this social minuet. I once, in a fit of absence of mind, introduced two friends of mine who instantly took a dislike to each other but remained perfectly courteous the entire time. It was the most horrific thing I had ever seen.

One of them on the next occasion he saw me said: "What a character such-and-such was. He worked the room like an inspirational speaker, whose motto - which was without a doubt prompted by some insidious side-effect of a stimulant drug - read "Let's keep the discussion lively - at any cost."

The other was equally witty: "Such-and-such looks really great. Does he use the souls of young virgins as a moisturizer?"

That was the last time I introduced people to each other.

I love not Boys,
Or silly Men.
I love rhetorically
For lack of toys

But every now and then
I kiss them metaphysically
Just to feel
The Universe shake with the fever

Of being born again.