luni, 12 octombrie 2009
The Closest Thing to Crazy....
...you have ever been? It's been today, o, happy day, after a "grasse matinee", lasting till 11 AM. You have endured their laughter and their constant teasing, properly dressed in half an uniform, then, you headed to the doctor's office, with a giant, defiant smile on your face, struggling with no success to deal with a life-threatening pain. You couldn't see any doctor, though, as he/she was closing. So, you went home instead, where the fresh potatoes were eagerly waiting for you to cook and eat them. So, you decided to fulfill their destiny, by placing them inside a small pot and covering them with a transparent, classy lid, after you had drowned them in water. Merciful and kind-hearted as you are, you left them alone on the cooker, went on a date with your PC, then, had a long conversation on the phone. As you heard the turmoil in the kitchen, you started to worry. There must have happened a catastrophe, all right. More precisely, a huge flood, on the floor, on the cupboard, and on your spotless cooker, threatening to extinguish the weak flame.
luni, 5 octombrie 2009
Im Just a Little Bit Caught in the Middle
Life is a maze, love is a riddle. Cunoaştem melodia, iar ritmul ne revine în minte de la sine, deus ex machina mental, surogat de soluţie pentru probleme adânci, la suprafaţa cărora am putea pluti, până am atinge linia care desparte cerul de mare.
De ce zic desparte, când uneşte?
Să ne întoarcem în labirint. Încercând să mi-l imaginez, nu mă îndepărtez prea mult de imaginea convenţională, comercială şi digerabilă, cu pereţi albi, texturaţi astfel încât să semene cu nuca de cocos de pe prăjituri, cu inimioare roşii, atârnând graţios de panglici roz; în centrul lui, plasez un mare premiu, surpriză, şi pentru mine, şi pentru...cine mai are timp de pierdut să-l caute.
Love is a riddle; nu mă grăbesc să dezleg ghicitoarea; pentru fiecare om de pe lumea asta, răspunsul e altul. Şi pentru mine, e deschis. La fel şi pentru tine.
De ce zic desparte, când uneşte?
Să ne întoarcem în labirint. Încercând să mi-l imaginez, nu mă îndepărtez prea mult de imaginea convenţională, comercială şi digerabilă, cu pereţi albi, texturaţi astfel încât să semene cu nuca de cocos de pe prăjituri, cu inimioare roşii, atârnând graţios de panglici roz; în centrul lui, plasez un mare premiu, surpriză, şi pentru mine, şi pentru...cine mai are timp de pierdut să-l caute.
Love is a riddle; nu mă grăbesc să dezleg ghicitoarea; pentru fiecare om de pe lumea asta, răspunsul e altul. Şi pentru mine, e deschis. La fel şi pentru tine.
duminică, 4 octombrie 2009
Blogsport
Caloriile se ard vertignos şi ireversibil, pe măsură ce degetele aleargă din ce în ce mai repede pe tastatură (de la 10 litere/minut la 20...), nervoase, neobosite. De la succesiunea sinaptică, se ajunge la suprapunere; muşchii lombricali se contractă şi se relaxează ritmic, hematiile galopează prin capilare, transpiraţia se scurge în valuri.
Rezultatul, la pauză, 0-0. Premiul: o nouă postare about nothing.
Rezultatul, la pauză, 0-0. Premiul: o nouă postare about nothing.
Another Day at the...
...chain reaction trouble site, a.k.a. home, bittersweet home, where peace, quiet and solitude are always there for you. Until morning comes, rushing its shine on the tired windows, indirectly telling you to wake up.
In a hurry, you have enough time for a fight with the iron, that refuses to make your shirt smooth, at a decent temperature; as you turn the button, you hear a sizzle that could have been pleasant, if you were in the kitchen, in front of a frying pan full of raw goods; you smell the danger of losing the important wardrobe item, so you stop a little, enough to drop the hot iron on the floor, where happens to be a green plastic bag; you quickly grab the iron, fortunately, before it cots itself in melted plastic; you silently contemplate the poor injured green bag you'd bury in the junkyard.
Your sorrow is meant to be short lived; you have to dress up and leave your safe spot. Scared of the trouble to come, you contemplate the rain; you're brave enough to face it without the help of the umbrella.
In a hurry, you have enough time for a fight with the iron, that refuses to make your shirt smooth, at a decent temperature; as you turn the button, you hear a sizzle that could have been pleasant, if you were in the kitchen, in front of a frying pan full of raw goods; you smell the danger of losing the important wardrobe item, so you stop a little, enough to drop the hot iron on the floor, where happens to be a green plastic bag; you quickly grab the iron, fortunately, before it cots itself in melted plastic; you silently contemplate the poor injured green bag you'd bury in the junkyard.
Your sorrow is meant to be short lived; you have to dress up and leave your safe spot. Scared of the trouble to come, you contemplate the rain; you're brave enough to face it without the help of the umbrella.
joi, 1 octombrie 2009
I want to Break Free
...and I've got the key. În buzunarul stâng, mai precis. Cam greu de întins mâna, ce-i drept, când ai multe de făcut. Mai bine te gândeşti că încă nu e momentul; te prefaci că-ţi ajunge spaţiul, că te desfăşori exact la dimensiunile tale reale, că eşti cu adevărat tu...
Wish You Bad Luck....
Or that's what you wish to yourself, every second that you have available for thinking about other things than thoroughly sweeping the blueish tile floor or dusting that wood patterned surface of paper. Like you can't get enough, especially after such a day...
You wake up late in the morning-you're close to hitting the barrier between morning and afternoon, yet, you sleepwalk from the bedroom to the bathroom, you precariously follow the daily hygienic ritual, trying desperately to remove the last spots of drowsiness of your mind. Yet, you go on sleepwalking, feeling that the carpets are made of colourful savanna weeds, long enough to hide you. You open the door, close it behind you, lock it, then check its resistance once or twice, shortly before forgetting all your automatic gestures and wondering whether your door is too welcoming for burglars.
As you head towards a place where you would spend all your money, you get your eye caught on a book, shining behind an innocuous vitrine. You can't wait to make it yours, so you engage into a short, yet intense fight with the zippers of your purse, then, with the stubborn pink wallet, you take out two, maybe three banknotes, while a beggar-looking man asks the shopkeeper for another pack of cigarettes. You wait, patiently, fall asleep again, then grab the book that has become yours. You encounter resistance, you pull it harder from the hands of the half-old woman, who asks you again for money. Though you allow yourself to scream "What???", you obediently give her the money, walk away, full of anger, designing an intricate vengeance plan that includes grenades/zippos on fire/newspaper torches/throwing rocks etc. You try to calm yourself down, think about your wrong deeds, that may have been punished by this easy to avoid loss, can't help imagining the poor improvised thief dead, with the money spread across her chest.
In front of a building, which is, for you, the center of the universe, you meet an old friend, who has an interesting manner of speaking. Tired as you are, you partly listen to her, approve her arguments, feel happy for her newly discovered reason for pride. You'd like to get involved, yet, you are busy recovering a lost night. You are not even trying to make an impression, though you fit the vaunting type on a daily basis. She gets hungry, buys some olive bagels, offers me one, despite my resistance. She eats, and you conscientiously follow her; suddenly, you take a close look at the inside of the bagel; you discover that someone has picked his/her nose and left the debris in the filling. Not very keen on swallowing epithelial cells, coated with a thick bacterial layer, you remove the corpus delicti, along with a piece of bread, eat the rest, in spite of feeling an incessant urge to throw up.
You refuse to eat all day; you have won the match with your hunger. Finally, you'd be able to stick to your diet; you are very close to happiness.
You wake up late in the morning-you're close to hitting the barrier between morning and afternoon, yet, you sleepwalk from the bedroom to the bathroom, you precariously follow the daily hygienic ritual, trying desperately to remove the last spots of drowsiness of your mind. Yet, you go on sleepwalking, feeling that the carpets are made of colourful savanna weeds, long enough to hide you. You open the door, close it behind you, lock it, then check its resistance once or twice, shortly before forgetting all your automatic gestures and wondering whether your door is too welcoming for burglars.
As you head towards a place where you would spend all your money, you get your eye caught on a book, shining behind an innocuous vitrine. You can't wait to make it yours, so you engage into a short, yet intense fight with the zippers of your purse, then, with the stubborn pink wallet, you take out two, maybe three banknotes, while a beggar-looking man asks the shopkeeper for another pack of cigarettes. You wait, patiently, fall asleep again, then grab the book that has become yours. You encounter resistance, you pull it harder from the hands of the half-old woman, who asks you again for money. Though you allow yourself to scream "What???", you obediently give her the money, walk away, full of anger, designing an intricate vengeance plan that includes grenades/zippos on fire/newspaper torches/throwing rocks etc. You try to calm yourself down, think about your wrong deeds, that may have been punished by this easy to avoid loss, can't help imagining the poor improvised thief dead, with the money spread across her chest.
In front of a building, which is, for you, the center of the universe, you meet an old friend, who has an interesting manner of speaking. Tired as you are, you partly listen to her, approve her arguments, feel happy for her newly discovered reason for pride. You'd like to get involved, yet, you are busy recovering a lost night. You are not even trying to make an impression, though you fit the vaunting type on a daily basis. She gets hungry, buys some olive bagels, offers me one, despite my resistance. She eats, and you conscientiously follow her; suddenly, you take a close look at the inside of the bagel; you discover that someone has picked his/her nose and left the debris in the filling. Not very keen on swallowing epithelial cells, coated with a thick bacterial layer, you remove the corpus delicti, along with a piece of bread, eat the rest, in spite of feeling an incessant urge to throw up.
You refuse to eat all day; you have won the match with your hunger. Finally, you'd be able to stick to your diet; you are very close to happiness.
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