Have a New Year
may it be filled with immaturity, ignorance and ego-centrism
may you be fulfilled in your power lust
may your stupidity eat you alive
may you finally realize that life has left you alone
may life finally kick you in the balls so hard that you grow half a brain
obviously, through it all it hasn't yet
maybe one day you will stop making excuses for your denial and realize you had it all
maybe one New Year you will stop and think and cry
maybe you will learn form all this
maybe you won't
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Simple
I am so simple
perhaps an acquired taste
but never comprised or polluted
Truth and transparency are Heaven
they are comforting and yielding
to some
To others it is insecurity and Hell
fear of losing power and control
of autonomy
Immaturity driving through the roads of life
it could all be so easy
it could all be so right
it could all work like vodka and tonic
i am here
patient and studying the statistics of life
of outcome
of choice
of what could be
Life is so simple
perhaps an acquired taste
but never comprised or polluted
Truth and transparency are Heaventhey are comforting and yielding
to some
To others it is insecurity and Hell
fear of losing power and control
of autonomy
Immaturity driving through the roads of life
it could all be so easy
it could all be so right
it could all work like vodka and tonic
i am here
patient and studying the statistics of life
of outcome
of choice
of what could be
Life is so simple
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Black Swan
I guess the Black Swan always gets the man, while the white suffers in solitude. 'The Little Mermaid' retold in the physical sexual form. But isn't it the truth? It seems a repeating theme in life and art; the 'bad' sexual muse is the one that the man chooses, while the 'good', pure, and devoted is left to wither alone and sacrifice her existence for the one that she loves and cannot live without. Yet, when the roles are reversed, let's say Phantom of the Opera, and the poor thing that 'needs' a man in her life has to choose, she picks the 'good' guy over the dark, mysterious, passionate seducer.
Could it be? When art mimics life it defines our habits in such a way that only cliches can be assumed? Men want sluts and women want the good guy they can trust? Is this who we are as humans? Is this the difference between men and women that will forever be taught and recited in circles til the end of time? Swan Lake and the Little Mermaid ingrained into our core until we hear ourselves saying "it's a beautiful story"? Is really this shallow for our coexistence? Has it always has boiled down to sex. Do men really desire the devout house wife sacrificing her life for their family and his career when he can have the alluring, high healed, little number at the office? No wait, he wants to have his cake and eat it too. Right. For the same reason a dog licks his balls; because he can.
Now we take the struggle that is common for so many women; the fight between the white and black swan. The inner struggle that leaves individual women wondering why he wasn't interested in our version of the Black Swan. Why is the girl at the office a better depiction of her than i am? Here's why; they can't coexist in the same body. Therefore; the White Swan kills herself. As if it isn't difficult enough for women to strive to be successful at what they do in for themselves, subsequently they are mother, wife, whore, virgin, to their lovers and husbands. Throw in children and everyday problems into the equation and the White Swan rushes in to save the day. While at the end of the day the Black Swan is too tired to perform on the seductive stage of bed linens. Yes, it seems that cliche has taken its toll here too and the 'little number at the office' has a better version of the dance.
Aronofsky got it right. Women will only be 'his little princess' when they can perform both roles perfectly producing schizophrenic dancers, even if it kills us. Meanwhile; He, Vincent Cassel, gets to play the role of a egocentric pig consuming, with a vivacious appetite, one dancer after another without conscience and choreographing her every move on and off stage. Might i add it was a nice touch to wrap Vincent's character into the decor of his apartment. Everything he owned was black and white, the two could not mix (no gray), yet they shared the SAME space in his cave. The furnishings created such a harsh environment visually that one can only imagine the conflict that the black and white, or the black and white swan, produced in the body/mind of the dancer. To Thomas, or men in general, this might be the perfect woman. The one that can embody both black and white? Good luck to the ladies that try to take on the task and to the gentlemen that think such a woman can exist in perfect harmony.
So girls. Pick one. OH...and we so want to be both?
Could it be? When art mimics life it defines our habits in such a way that only cliches can be assumed? Men want sluts and women want the good guy they can trust? Is this who we are as humans? Is this the difference between men and women that will forever be taught and recited in circles til the end of time? Swan Lake and the Little Mermaid ingrained into our core until we hear ourselves saying "it's a beautiful story"? Is really this shallow for our coexistence? Has it always has boiled down to sex. Do men really desire the devout house wife sacrificing her life for their family and his career when he can have the alluring, high healed, little number at the office? No wait, he wants to have his cake and eat it too. Right. For the same reason a dog licks his balls; because he can.
Now we take the struggle that is common for so many women; the fight between the white and black swan. The inner struggle that leaves individual women wondering why he wasn't interested in our version of the Black Swan. Why is the girl at the office a better depiction of her than i am? Here's why; they can't coexist in the same body. Therefore; the White Swan kills herself. As if it isn't difficult enough for women to strive to be successful at what they do in for themselves, subsequently they are mother, wife, whore, virgin, to their lovers and husbands. Throw in children and everyday problems into the equation and the White Swan rushes in to save the day. While at the end of the day the Black Swan is too tired to perform on the seductive stage of bed linens. Yes, it seems that cliche has taken its toll here too and the 'little number at the office' has a better version of the dance.
Aronofsky got it right. Women will only be 'his little princess' when they can perform both roles perfectly producing schizophrenic dancers, even if it kills us. Meanwhile; He, Vincent Cassel, gets to play the role of a egocentric pig consuming, with a vivacious appetite, one dancer after another without conscience and choreographing her every move on and off stage. Might i add it was a nice touch to wrap Vincent's character into the decor of his apartment. Everything he owned was black and white, the two could not mix (no gray), yet they shared the SAME space in his cave. The furnishings created such a harsh environment visually that one can only imagine the conflict that the black and white, or the black and white swan, produced in the body/mind of the dancer. To Thomas, or men in general, this might be the perfect woman. The one that can embody both black and white? Good luck to the ladies that try to take on the task and to the gentlemen that think such a woman can exist in perfect harmony.
So girls. Pick one. OH...and we so want to be both?
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Hard
She told me i had a hard shell. That i don't let many in. i can't let many in, not really. i wear who and what i am on my sleeve, it doesn't mean i let you in. Not behind these iron curtains, even communism has nothing on me. But to let you in, to let you in completely, physically, emotionally and mentally, it means i have made myself a part of you. You should know by now not to squander it. You were the chosen one and yet stupid you stand with your dick in your hand. Ignorant and unknowing of how to operate in sync. It's so simple, so easy and i gave you the manual, the instructions to my very being, to my existence. As if God himself had written it. A Bible if you will to the center of my chakras. The golden force field of everything i am is handed to you, yet you walk away. Perhaps you need more of that fast food mentality, more commercial happy-go-lucky, high heeled, Mad Men ideology of life kinda woman.
I've let few in. Each broke my armor, but you of all have pierced it bit by bit with a fork. Injured i stand and fight with the many piercings you have left. You won't even acknowledge the wounds. I can't compete, i have no spite or revenge. All i want is compassion and reconciliation, a naive thought when i spin my mind around all that you've kept so secretly from me. The other man i do not know has taken you; your hidden life that i am not apart of.
i wait. Radiating gold, in a chair, holding tight and still as if it were the electric chair and i about to burn. i can only wait so long before i will want to fade away and follow the winds as dust.
I've let few in. Each broke my armor, but you of all have pierced it bit by bit with a fork. Injured i stand and fight with the many piercings you have left. You won't even acknowledge the wounds. I can't compete, i have no spite or revenge. All i want is compassion and reconciliation, a naive thought when i spin my mind around all that you've kept so secretly from me. The other man i do not know has taken you; your hidden life that i am not apart of.
i wait. Radiating gold, in a chair, holding tight and still as if it were the electric chair and i about to burn. i can only wait so long before i will want to fade away and follow the winds as dust.
The cold comes
What once use to be lush and green is now in hibernation. Silent and whispering through the ice and snow. They talk to me and tell of their buried past. Rest they say. Rest my child. Sleep with us.
Sound of Silence
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence
-P. Simon, 1964
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turn my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never shared
No one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools," said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence
-P. Simon, 1964
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Is There a Way Out of Hell?
I can't stand those that say "life is what you make of it". It's simply not true and it's about as irritating to me as " dream big and shoot for the stars". Seemingly the majority of the population, particularly here in the U.S. share these sentiments, so i hear. Life is more about adapting to what the winds and waters throw at you. Let's be "realistic", we have all dreamed big and we would all like to think that we are the captains of our destiny, if there is such a thing. I think the harsh truth is that we are all boats out at sea, some with sails set high and ready for anything that mother nature might curse us with, some that don't care where the tides take them and drift aimlessly, and for the majority of the population there is the mixture of the two. Just boats out at sea, some are better equipped than others, some are faster, slower, weaker, stronger. You get it.
We as animals have so little control as to what we make of our lives. Sure we like to think that we can get a better education and make more money, build a better life with better things and faster download speeds. But life in the purest form is made up of connection for our self-centered species. The materialism, greedy and power lust that is all wrapped up in a warm egocentric blanket takes second as well. Connection, what we like to call love, is something that we cannot control and yet controls us totally. This hell that has been coded into our DNA since the existence of time. Our never ending need and desperation for something that is so far above our heads that most cannot and will never understand the structure of the emotion of "LOVE". Therefore; it is watered down to the physical sense and becomes nothing more than confusion of "love" and sex. Not to mention the confused tangle the two so completely and manage to weave a rope of egoism through the two and blame their ignorance on "destiny". "let's agree to disagree" and "it wasn't meant to be", but it started out so great and it always does.
The ocean waters just toss us around while we try to cling to whatever it is we have. So here i am, clinging yet at the same time tired and restless. You see, i know what love is. I like to think i do at least, this doesn't go to say that i can execute it with perfection. I'm dealing with 30 foot waves at the moment and my rage is trying to take on the waves rather than facing "reality" and allowing them to swallow me completely and get me out of this Hell. Drowning though is not the option i can take at this point in life, although in the back of my head, an Ophelian tide sweeps through me. Wouldn't it be nice if i could just turn it off? The connection i mean. To be happy never feeling again. To drift through life as a rock, this time not tossed by Neptune's wild horses, but stamped into one place at the bottom of some ocean floor. I am a rock, i am island... so the song goes.
What could be so bad with finding your lover in her arms? what could be so wrong with reading her words written to him, and his tender responses back. The same words he once wrote me drenched with flirtation and lust are now written to her. And this wave crashes against me and takes everything i had and washes it off deck. I know what love is; it's trusting that he is really at work and making a warm decadent dinner daily. Waiting for his return, his attention, building him a house and making it a home, getting so sucked into living for him that i forget of my own existence. Wait, i know what love is, i do? Another wave hits my bow and i long for defeat. The lies bombard me one after another. Does he really think i am that stupid? my heart races out of my chest. The excuses are for the ignorant and that i am not. I am just a tiny yacht fighting to stay afloat with not control over these seas. For him to take and take and take some more and never give back but to withdraw. Not even putting up a flight? No confession? Just an abandoned home of what was once a life built together. I fight with passion, rage and blood streaming down my face instead of tears...i am a shadow boxer. I am a deserted ship with the words "quantum fiducia fide honoris" written at the bow.
I look around and all i can see is water. Miles and miles. I don't know what is worse. the white room with no exit or this? This is what Hell is. It's knowing there is no way out with loneliness triggering our DNA to want more connection, we must have love. Falling victim only to the storm and asking that constant question; "what's it all for"? Perhaps those of us, the more evolved, have found land? But is that better than water? The chances of dying out at sea are greater, perhaps there is comfort in that? Perhaps "quantum fiducia fide honoris" should give up the fight with the blind and resign to the oceans depths where she can decompose and rest, finally.
We as animals have so little control as to what we make of our lives. Sure we like to think that we can get a better education and make more money, build a better life with better things and faster download speeds. But life in the purest form is made up of connection for our self-centered species. The materialism, greedy and power lust that is all wrapped up in a warm egocentric blanket takes second as well. Connection, what we like to call love, is something that we cannot control and yet controls us totally. This hell that has been coded into our DNA since the existence of time. Our never ending need and desperation for something that is so far above our heads that most cannot and will never understand the structure of the emotion of "LOVE". Therefore; it is watered down to the physical sense and becomes nothing more than confusion of "love" and sex. Not to mention the confused tangle the two so completely and manage to weave a rope of egoism through the two and blame their ignorance on "destiny". "let's agree to disagree" and "it wasn't meant to be", but it started out so great and it always does.
The ocean waters just toss us around while we try to cling to whatever it is we have. So here i am, clinging yet at the same time tired and restless. You see, i know what love is. I like to think i do at least, this doesn't go to say that i can execute it with perfection. I'm dealing with 30 foot waves at the moment and my rage is trying to take on the waves rather than facing "reality" and allowing them to swallow me completely and get me out of this Hell. Drowning though is not the option i can take at this point in life, although in the back of my head, an Ophelian tide sweeps through me. Wouldn't it be nice if i could just turn it off? The connection i mean. To be happy never feeling again. To drift through life as a rock, this time not tossed by Neptune's wild horses, but stamped into one place at the bottom of some ocean floor. I am a rock, i am island... so the song goes.
What could be so bad with finding your lover in her arms? what could be so wrong with reading her words written to him, and his tender responses back. The same words he once wrote me drenched with flirtation and lust are now written to her. And this wave crashes against me and takes everything i had and washes it off deck. I know what love is; it's trusting that he is really at work and making a warm decadent dinner daily. Waiting for his return, his attention, building him a house and making it a home, getting so sucked into living for him that i forget of my own existence. Wait, i know what love is, i do? Another wave hits my bow and i long for defeat. The lies bombard me one after another. Does he really think i am that stupid? my heart races out of my chest. The excuses are for the ignorant and that i am not. I am just a tiny yacht fighting to stay afloat with not control over these seas. For him to take and take and take some more and never give back but to withdraw. Not even putting up a flight? No confession? Just an abandoned home of what was once a life built together. I fight with passion, rage and blood streaming down my face instead of tears...i am a shadow boxer. I am a deserted ship with the words "quantum fiducia fide honoris" written at the bow.
I look around and all i can see is water. Miles and miles. I don't know what is worse. the white room with no exit or this? This is what Hell is. It's knowing there is no way out with loneliness triggering our DNA to want more connection, we must have love. Falling victim only to the storm and asking that constant question; "what's it all for"? Perhaps those of us, the more evolved, have found land? But is that better than water? The chances of dying out at sea are greater, perhaps there is comfort in that? Perhaps "quantum fiducia fide honoris" should give up the fight with the blind and resign to the oceans depths where she can decompose and rest, finally.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wait
I want to start writing about my grieving process as one would expect at this sour point in my life. To get it out by slitting my veins open on these pages with a butter knife and begin to pour vinegar into them to see what the reaction of the two could possibly create. To start writing metaphors for tears and how they are the equivalent to Pompeii. But something in me won't allow me to do that today. Perhaps a fight for my self preservation or perhaps it's the words that i read that are not my own that keep me coming back and writing. Just to see if i get a response from you. To bridge with you in a moment where i have been left alone and abandoned with nothing more than my thoughts which are guilty of taking my mind hostage and running my body through time and space like an old rag. I want to know who you are and where you are, what you do and why. you've fascinated me with your words, your small bits and pieces of tasty emotional morsels that i can feed off and relate to, so completely at times that i need not write but just read what you have written over and over again. like a truffle in the universe of life, i know you come with a heavy price tag. I wish i could talk to you and hear your voice, listen to your words and forget about all that ales me. I've had too much to drink, that sake waited up for me. Now i wait again. my dreams forge their own versions on my emotions and desires all drawn from desperation and self pity. Still i wait for more of your words on memorabilia, antiquities, titles in Latin and French, for more responses to get me through the day.
amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus
i can't even find the strength to write today. through my hurt, through the tears of lava, Jimmy was the only thing that came to mind. i can't help but think how much i hate the holidays and how much i don't and never will understand those that run away for the truth, from loyalty, honor and love. this headache didn't even allow me to drink...the numb buzz is enough to make me spin. i guess the bottle of dry sake will have to wait a day.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Man
Mother, I remember what you told me once; of how I should grown up and become a man. Or of how I should have been a man from the beginning. But I refused to believe you and somehow, perhaps I need to listen. Oh how these godly hours remind me of how human I should appear. For that, I apologize. -HM
Sunday, December 19, 2010
locks fall off
Snip. Snip.
I can feel the blades carve into the thin extension of what use to be my history. All together, tightly bound with a green rubber band, the kind you use to see on your morning paper. There it all lay in front of me lifeless and detached after so many years; my long blond hair. I wanted it all gone, all off. I needed to feel all of gross past being lifted off me like sin; a new start. I was going for Jean Seberg circa 1967 or Mia Farrow from Rosemary's Baby. Let the gender bending begin. I've always had the face for hair this short. I've had it this short when i was young...twice. I looked like a boy every time and yet i kept coming back for more. Third times the charm. Stupidly I kept it long to please him.
Fuck you men, here i am. Yes i had the balls to be "less feminine", to part with the matel barbie you made of me in your tasteless culture of global trash. Now instead of seeing a blond sex symbol you will first ask yourself if i am gay, just because you are that pathetic. Face it, women with looks and short hair scare you. It's our way of visually telling you that you can't pull our hair in bed, you won't have your way with us in your shallow head. My long flowing locks that once sat at my bust reveal who i am now and no long hid my existence. I will not submit to you moronic truths that have forged themselves on to the very way i look. You will have to deal with me, with the bare reality of who i am. No grand facade of whatever that latest victoria's secret magazine or GQ instilled into that cave man gray matter you received for brains.
Fuck you if you don't like it. it's because you don't know what a real woman should look like anymore that your member is limp and confused. It's because you don't want an equal but rather someone that will submit to your thigh-highed fantasies. I don't and never will. I need to have honesty and transparent truth in life and love and existence. I need to visually force you to see me so one day the visual sense can translate to the emotional and you will see the real me. The black or white me, the no gray area me that swims in loyalty and drinks passion. I am not the plastic and pink bullshit that America manufactured in a catalog. I'm that girl you call a European elitist because you are too uneducated and insecure about yourself.
I can feel the blades carve into the thin extension of what use to be my history. All together, tightly bound with a green rubber band, the kind you use to see on your morning paper. There it all lay in front of me lifeless and detached after so many years; my long blond hair. I wanted it all gone, all off. I needed to feel all of gross past being lifted off me like sin; a new start. I was going for Jean Seberg circa 1967 or Mia Farrow from Rosemary's Baby. Let the gender bending begin. I've always had the face for hair this short. I've had it this short when i was young...twice. I looked like a boy every time and yet i kept coming back for more. Third times the charm. Stupidly I kept it long to please him.
Fuck you men, here i am. Yes i had the balls to be "less feminine", to part with the matel barbie you made of me in your tasteless culture of global trash. Now instead of seeing a blond sex symbol you will first ask yourself if i am gay, just because you are that pathetic. Face it, women with looks and short hair scare you. It's our way of visually telling you that you can't pull our hair in bed, you won't have your way with us in your shallow head. My long flowing locks that once sat at my bust reveal who i am now and no long hid my existence. I will not submit to you moronic truths that have forged themselves on to the very way i look. You will have to deal with me, with the bare reality of who i am. No grand facade of whatever that latest victoria's secret magazine or GQ instilled into that cave man gray matter you received for brains.
Fuck you if you don't like it. it's because you don't know what a real woman should look like anymore that your member is limp and confused. It's because you don't want an equal but rather someone that will submit to your thigh-highed fantasies. I don't and never will. I need to have honesty and transparent truth in life and love and existence. I need to visually force you to see me so one day the visual sense can translate to the emotional and you will see the real me. The black or white me, the no gray area me that swims in loyalty and drinks passion. I am not the plastic and pink bullshit that America manufactured in a catalog. I'm that girl you call a European elitist because you are too uneducated and insecure about yourself.
Wintersleeper ...
Are you waiting for a miracle?
Are you waiting for a lightning bolt?
Are you waiting like a paranoid little boy?
Are you ever gonna come back home?
Do you believe that the sky is falling?
How you ever gonna pick up the pieces?
Do you really think that anybody will listen?
Do you really think that anybody will notice?
I used to dream about saving the world
Now i just dream about the holidays
I used to write so many songs for my girl
Now all i think about is floating away
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
Out of this place
-Wintersleep by search party
Perhaps you are the only one listening?Perhaps you are a wintersleeper too? You sent a search party to find me. In my darkness, you noticed, when all i want to do is fade away to distant lands where no one knows my name. You knew i needed a vacation out of this place. Why? Why would you care? Did I strike a cord?
You. Who are you? Do you exist and where? Yes, i need to pick up the pieces that shattered and rolled away to far off places. I can't seem to locate them. Should I even try? I would like to come back home, but i am too hurt and too far away to get there anytime during my life. Walking down a dark hallway that never seems to end by candle light seems to be my path. Perhaps it's just another level of Hell Dante didn't mention? Eventually i might see that place called home if only with a constant, slow, and painful limp. So it seems it be. This way and not the other. A "unique" (God how I hate that word) existance for those composed of one cliche after another. A Lego land of cliches all there to happily make up this pile of heaping dung.
Thank you
Whoever you are; i love you.
Are you waiting for a lightning bolt?
Are you waiting like a paranoid little boy?
Are you ever gonna come back home?
Do you believe that the sky is falling?
How you ever gonna pick up the pieces?
Do you really think that anybody will listen?
Do you really think that anybody will notice?
I used to dream about saving the world
Now i just dream about the holidays
I used to write so many songs for my girl
Now all i think about is floating away
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
I think I need a big vacation
Out of this place
-Wintersleep by search party
Perhaps you are the only one listening?Perhaps you are a wintersleeper too? You sent a search party to find me. In my darkness, you noticed, when all i want to do is fade away to distant lands where no one knows my name. You knew i needed a vacation out of this place. Why? Why would you care? Did I strike a cord?
You. Who are you? Do you exist and where? Yes, i need to pick up the pieces that shattered and rolled away to far off places. I can't seem to locate them. Should I even try? I would like to come back home, but i am too hurt and too far away to get there anytime during my life. Walking down a dark hallway that never seems to end by candle light seems to be my path. Perhaps it's just another level of Hell Dante didn't mention? Eventually i might see that place called home if only with a constant, slow, and painful limp. So it seems it be. This way and not the other. A "unique" (God how I hate that word) existance for those composed of one cliche after another. A Lego land of cliches all there to happily make up this pile of heaping dung.
Thank you
Whoever you are; i love you.
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