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Sunday, 21 April 2013

Poem: When we are ourselves



In an endless blue, I hold up a red balloon;
                    waiting for things to happen.
We lost something familiar in the connection,
as the nervous river of thought feeds our bodies,
in cloaks of invisibility we wish to hide.
Hands that used to wipe away our tears,
when there were monsters under our beds,
                     have grown away from us.
So we learnt to be unmoved and untouched.
We hide our vulnerability under our cloaks.
How can we ignite a life into a new heart
                     and call it an accident?
Then we are tragedies,
crashing one over another.
We are not a definition of life.
We collect pieces and dots of eternal summer rays
and flickering shadows of raindrops.
How those insignificant stains
make a much more meaningful picture.
A single drop can colour a glass full of water;
                      before it melts away;
– that’s what happens when we are ourselves.
.

Saturday, 20 April 2013

Poem: Of skin dreams


He asked her why she carries the moon upon her shoulders;
but her answer gave him more questions than answers.
»So that the ghosts I know become faceless.«
He knew the balance between intruding and letting things develop.
»May I give you stars, so people might confuse you for a night sky?«
She smiled apologetically: »I didn't ask for the stars,
but for someone to lay down with and watch them.«
It starts with a few gentle piano keys.
Between tiny neon bulbs we spread our hearts on these sheets,
wishing our hands would grow roots
into each other skin.
“My eyes are burning and my eyelids feel heavy,” she said.
“But I’m afraid to even blink,
‘cause all of this could be gone when I open them.
My mind keeps reaching for you.”
He put his palms against her cheek and said:
“Your skin and nerves developed from the same group of cells.
They were of a familiar mind; lovers like you and I;
they were separated, but made something beautiful out of it.
Now the nerve cells keep grasping towards the skin.
They never give in. Carefully listening to every stroke, brush, tingle...
So don’t be afraid to rest your eyes,
I’ll draw dreams on your skin.”
---- so many ways to touch someone
electricity of our fingers leave us breathless
refilling our lungs, restarting our hearts
until there is no fear left inside.
.

It's kind of weird how this poem and drawing accidentally fit together. Neither one influenced the other.

Saturday, 13 April 2013

Blog: Things just...happen, one after another



It's been a month since I started following a new diet, the one that should help the stomach to heal itself. Basically more frequent meals, less food and easy-digestible meals. Which left me with no pants that would fit, and with more energy and an overall better feeling. It’s been proven on animals, such as rats and mice that a lower caloric intake gives them more energy and they live longer and have less signs of ageing. I’ve been reading forums on how people helped themselves when facing high stomach acid. And what I’ve learnt from that? Nothing. Everyone has their own theory on what works and what doesn’t. Some of them, I think, would do even more harm. Like having just three meals a day?! It surprised me how many vegetarians have problems with supposed high acid of the stomach (acid should be low if you don’t eat animal protein). These are people who like eating healthy and why do they end up with these kinds of problems? Well, to be honest, I was one of them. Last week I felt very nauseous for two days straight and then I started craving Sauerkraut and sour milk. Cabbage helped for few hours, but sour milk seems to have a very beneficial effect on this poor stomach of mine. So...? You really shouldn’t follow any rules, any diet, any advice... Just listen to what your body wants. I rest my case.

And since rain is for reading...
I’m reading Terry Pratchetts’ The amazing Maurice and his educated rodents, which is categorised as children’s fantasy book. But I think anyone can enjoy it. It’s a classic Pratchett - witty and wise. Maurice is an amazing cat, who never meant to be amazing, it had just happened. Here are some parts, which I loved:

“Ah, yes, but the trouble is, see, that he things everyone else is like him. People like that are bad news, kid. And our lady friend, she thinks life works like a fairytale.”
“Well, that’s harmless, isn’t it?” said Keith.
“Yeah, but in fairy tales when someone dies...it’s just a word.”

*
“Look cat, there’s two types of peoples in the world. There are those who have got the plot and those who haven’t.”
“The world hasn’t got a plot,” said Maurice. “Things just...happen, one after another.”

*
“Well, I’ll tell you something,” she said. “If you don’t turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else’s story.”
“And what if your story doesn’t work?”
“You keep changing it until you find one that does.”

*
Humans, eh? Think they’re lords of creation. Not like us cats. We know we are. Ever see a cat feed a human? Case proven.
*

*

And then most of them go back to their own towns and set their traps and put down their poisons, because some minds you couldn't change with a hatchet. But a few see the world as a different place. It's not perfect, but it works. The thing about stories is that you have to pick the ones that last.

*

Because some stories end, but old stories go on, and you gotta dance to the music if you want to stay ahead.

*

As a kid I loved watching cartoons and it would drive my parents crazy, when I woke up very early every Sunday and go and watch TV in the living room. And I’d stay there ‘til lunch. I also enjoyed reading Mickey Mouse comic books. I’ve recently found this blog about Calvin and Hobbes and their pearls of wisdom:

»Calvin: Everybody seeks happiness! Not me, though! That’s the difference between me and the rest of the world. Happiness isn’t good enough for me! I demand euphoria!«

*
»Calvin: As you can see, I have memorised this utterly useless piece of information long enough to pass a test question. I now intend to forget it forever. You’ve taught me nothing except how to cynically manipulate the system. Congratulations.«

*
»Calvin: Trick or treat!

Adult: Where’s your costume? What are you supposed to be?

Calvin: I’m yet another resource-consuming kid in an overpopulated planet, raised to an alarming extent by Madison Avenue and Hollywood, poised with my cynical and alienated peers to take over the world when you’re old and weak. Am I scary, or what?«

*

Too bad I hadn’t had the chance to read this as a kid. But better to read it now than never. I love old cartoons, and thanks to YouTube, I can watch some that I’ve never seen before. It’s strange to think that cartoons in the beginning were meant for adults. These days there are so many cartoons for children, but are they really any good? ‘Cause some seem so dumb (like teletubbies, not actually a cartoon, but still). I think every good cartoon can be educational. And even when we’re older we enjoy looking back on those characters that made our days...or we get to enjoy the ones’ we haven’t yet seen, like Fantasia, which I saw for the first time few years ago, loved it.

Here’s a few old cartoons I found on YouTube:

Walt Disney La Danza Macabra (The Skeleton Dance) – 1929
Goofy - how to dance, 1953
I adore Goofy :)

Tex Avery - Doggone Tired

Droopy - Dumb Hounded
 Droopy is so cool :)

I’m not really good at writing these blogs, am I? I jump from one thing to another... Well, that’s how my mind works. As for poetry...I did write a few pages, nothing that would make one poem whole, so instead I'm currently writing on... like 8 at the same time. But there are two songs that seem to evoke creative side of my brain these days, and it’s far from what I’d expect them to do:

Maybe it's the piano.

Sunday, 7 April 2013

Poem: Shadow of our lives



the stones we gathered have disappeared
crystal air-bubbles invading through the hourglass
escaping through the oceans with no memories
          of our precious minutes
in the room where clocks keep on ticking
          I see it clearly now –
our lives are plays displayed on our dashboards
if I write a story, would you play a role for me?
- touch me deeper than myself, for I am not a fragile bird
or would that be totally inappropriate?
           among twenty-seven versions of us,
we write down the one designed by time and space
I searched for a definition of myself in your words
as if your eyes have a better understanding of myself
now we don't seem to care if the other lives of dies
we painted on the walls of our parents house
writing down stories of the faces we found on the ceiling
          - not giving much care to the one we were living
we carelessly ran away from things – not knowing they always ran after us
we knew that when we grow tall our feet will fit in the grown-ups' shoes
and we'll take longer and more important steps
little did we know our faces will change their colour
and we'll abandon the games we used to play
but the manner with which we'll do things, will stay the same
we had today, but today turned into yesterday
and yesterday clings in the back of our minds
like a faded memory and now we're questioning its existence
for everything has an expiration date
        we were never kids first,
always trying to put ourselves in the roles only adults were allowed to play
from primary school, to a college, to a job, to a house, to a home...
years later we forget how to keep wonder
where is the force that glued our hearts together?
words of freedom hang on the wire through wind and snow
birds whispering their songs at sundown
the winter of our hearts has passed
many people have left the train
many love stories never reached a beginning
         or have lost their spark
many new lives have begun while others have lost their writer
remaining ones searching for a sound mind and a place to hide
as the time capsule swallows us into its depths
         are we out of our minds?
future us dropping past into the sea
the dead town stealing away tomorrows
slaves refusing revolution for comfort and injustice
who's driving this train anyway?
there's a promise of a treasure on a map
we're running like mad men to the hills
so we can fight for the little we managed to hide as our own
in a seemingly small playground we are building future
not out of rocks and stones, but with hearts and bones
and we wonder what kind of shadow our lives will cast behind
.

Saturday, 6 April 2013

Blog: Quote notes

I've had some time off work and I think I spent it very productively. Also, I think my desk is shrinking:

Yes, life is messy sometimes. Due to this long winter I'm fighting one virus after the other, and I'm frustrated because it takes longer to fight it off as it used to. I did enjoy the snow, but lately it's a nuisance. It's been raining/snowing the whole week and there seem to be endless amounts of fog around. And as I was looking outside from the window, listening to the birds singing... It felt a bit like spring, but will it ever come? Or will we be left only with winter and summer and no "in between" seasons? Also, I want to try out if my knees are indeed better off as they were. It's five months since I had knee arthroscopy, and it took me this long to gain back the muscle mass I lost. Never thought it normally takes six months to fully recover, I thought they were just kidding me when they told me. And that it might take even longer since cartilage was damaged. Oh well, I wish I could run already, but at least the weather isn't running-friendly, so it's easier.

I've been reading Richard Dawkins books and from one of them a little note with a quote fell out. And this was on a page 222, which doesn't seem like random number to me.
And I was all like "oh, my God, this is brilliant. Who the hell wrote this?", until I discovered it's a quote from the movie American Psycho. But I was tempted to leave a quote behind as well. I like finding these kind of small notes in unusual places. Wouldn't it be nice, if you left a thought behind in a book for the next reader to find it, and maybe the next one would also add something to it... I'd really like for someone to leave me behind notes, in the house for example, and then in a daily routine I'd find it. It would make my day. As did the tea I've been drinking. I've been drinking it for a while now, and it's the only tea that really soothes the stomach, but it wasn't until recently that I discovered there are quotes on the back of the tab (the papery part of a teabag):
 

Job hunting hasn't been fruitful. There is a position open, which I'm totally qualified for, actually I'd be doing what I'm doing now... But they requite from a person to have ten years of work experience. I'd use a very inappropriate word here... but seriously, are they deliberately mocking us? So I have a new plan:

You have to keep a sense of humour. And to end on a more gentle note. I love Bruce Springsteen, and I was listening to his unreleased songs and I found a lovely video for Dream Baby Dream. The movie in the background is called Sunrise from 1927 and it all fits perfectly together:
 

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Poem: Growing



cells are not the greatest of liars
they document everything,
conscious or unconscious,
things we'd call waste
this body has been caged by my thoughts
beaten by words,
judged by penetrating eyes,
scorn by social media,
reshaped by depression,
extinguished.
fallen,
a back that got strong from all the rising up's
there is a strong taste of desire
to bloom
eager to pull all the weeds
so our gardens would over shine
the mess we've made
there's something growing inside
I felt it move today
the gentle sound of a seed bursting
and small roots caressing
jumping through the shadows of the mind
I do not know what it feeds on
and if it's been here all this time
waiting for a perfect moment
to change the strings of my voice
blossom needs a spine to stand
mine has been long time in the making
leaves are pushing on the stitch
from the inside
oh, wait, I think I'm gonna sneeze!

Monday, 1 April 2013

Poem: Two lovers lost at war




Feather fell down in a dusky lighted room,
with enough sound to be noticed,
but not enough to draw attention.
The same manner in which I’ve been
opening and closing doors.
Dreams we make up as kids,
'cause later we forget how to dream.
Even if they are taken away from us,
it is important to create them.
Otherwise today has no more tomorrow.
All that we know, we can capture in a glimpse.
Our expectations are greater,
but they blindfold us.
The flowers on the window
and candles at the door.
A ballet dancer as a dandelion puff,
bending the arms as if to speak;
in a storm that comes and goes
as if with the waves.
Standing on a floating feather,
with an angel weeping at the shoulder.
We haven't been running,
yet we have always been racing,
since the day we were born.
We shed our skins and call it dust.
Fear finds the smallest of cracks
and it permeates through.
Growing bigger in an anxious mind.
There is still place to leave a trace.
Curiosity takes you a step further
and awards you with undiscovered lands.
Remember the feeling when your heart
just can’t take it anymore?
Chasing eternity through the golden summer fields;
there is quite enough light to hope,
for two lovers lost at war.