He said to her: life was nothing but a dream worth living or worth dying for depending on what you choose here and now.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Reflections on Closness
He said to her: life was nothing but a dream worth living or worth dying for depending on what you choose here and now.
Friday, February 12, 2010
dream 02.12.10
i had a dream last night one that I have quite often.
I have lost my bag with everything in it.
There is a train this is also something that happens quite often.
I am at a train station or I am missing a train. But this time there were cliffs and if I could only get over them, climb up I would be at a dinner party where everything was going to be calm and I could overlook a bay with a beautiful view of a blue ocean.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
letter .1
Wake all the neighbors by apollo rosa
The fading pink sky escaping over the tracks from the back door window of the train to the sound of Sufjan Stevens
makes me think of him.
I feel almost happy, mostly relieved—
that I know I’m not as numb as I feel.
Maybe it’s the recent madness, or maybe it’s the come-down of the crescendo of almost two months spent living at a non-stop running pace.
It’s all plausible, and a combo of post pain-and-fear shock is most probably it
But as I looked upon my brother today in the corner seat sunlight on Baldwin street
Say he was a loser
Only the Monday afternoon half-carafe of white wine loosened my numb face
To betray blank
And let my eyes fill with tears
Though none fell
How has he trained his own numbness to such a T?
And how and when will he crack?
And when would I if
if
if
if we were to become
the destinies we’re doomed to?
What were we to do?
If we believed this—
Someone else’s song sings through me, always,
But I didn’t write those words
When I open my mouth
Nothing comes out
Throat dry
Jaw clenching
Teeth grinding
Like he did in his sleep
I remember
I always pretend,
Or try not to complain,
Either way it’s all the same:
I don’t sleep well.
I toss and I turn a thousand times a night through torrid symbolic dreams that are so vivid when I wake at the smallest disturbance
—like morning
Or his teeth grinding
Bad blinds or an unshakeable thoughtfeeling
‘Cause in that half-born state,
Aren’t they just the same?
Like dreams make mythologies of buried feelings, hidden knowing
That may often or never surface as formed thought or decipherable feeling in waking
Hollering with all my might at the world
Is all I can think to do
To fight the numbness
—I won’t resign myself
(no, not yet, I’m not ready!
A friend distracted by her own self-doubt-and-destruction told me last night
When did my brother decide to? I wonder
What is that inescapable recurrent feeling
Of “but I didn’t decide!”
And why am I more afraid of this than anything else?
Because we did, we always do.
How do people fall asleep walking,
Living in a glass box of their own making
Whose ceiling feels uncomfortably low
Though you can see out of it,
It feels like you’re crushed, gasping for air, no less.
If we’re all so enlightened, so disillusioned, so jaded—
And we know we made it ourselves,
of course we did,
who else could have?
Then why can’t I get out?
How is it that it seems everyone helped pull me in here, but no one wants to help pull me out? My brother’s sad eyes say this.
When I know that no one but me closes that door—
And no one can fling it back open in disgust and disbelief
Only me,
Only me
Only him,
Only him
dead silence
Now I know
Why loneliness universally haunts
But what will the walls of his empty perfect suburban townhouse whisper
When the family he built and suffered daily numbness to bring to the world
Is gone
What language but silence will the walls speak?
A silence so strong,
Only a hollow holler could make it go away
Wake all the neighbors.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Moment in Time
7. INT. BEDROOM – mid morning
She stands by the window looking out.
I wanted you to be angry.
She puts her hand on the windowpane and touches it ever so lightly.
She breathes on the glass and presses the tip of her finger onto the condensation and leaves a distinct mark of her fingerprint.
Aline moves the curtain aside. Looks out the window and sees HIM leaving.
The street is empty as she recognizes him only by the color of his blazer.
We see a glimpse of his breast pocket in frame as he walks off.
Aline is sitting by a window in a street side café watching passers-by.
Footsteps and voices are heard. Faint jazz is heard from inside the café.
She is humming to herself.
She watches as an old man takes out some food out of a paper bag, bites at it
and throws some bread crumbs on the pavement for birds.
Writes in her journal:
"Man who feeds the birds knows what hunger is."
The MAN walks past the window.
The familiar shoes.
She waves at him – her face lights up.
He pauses, and walks on.
He doesn't hear her and walks away.
It stars to rain.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Is there More?
My escapism is kicking into overdrive as the winter sets in and the greyness of every day is starting to suck out the last of my enthusiasm for the daily grid of work and work and a little but of sleep and more work... So I think Argentina is where I would love to be right now! Dancing tango in the sun in the colourful streets of La Boca, speaking spanish, feeling absolutely aimless...ahh the traveler's life.