'What if it is disease?'

he decided at last. 'What does it matter that it is an abnormal intensity, if the result, if the minute of sensation, remembered and analyzed afterwards in health, turns out to be the acme of harmony and beauty, and gives a feeling, unknown and undivined till then, of completeness, of proportion, of reconciliation, and of ecstatic devotional merging in the highest synthesis of life?'
(...)
He could not doubt, and could not admit the possibility of doubt.
(...)
Since at that second, that is at the very last conscious moment before the fit, he had time to say to himself clearly and consciously, 'Yes, for this moment one might give one's whole life!', the wothout doubt that moment was really worth the whole of life.

Myshkin, The Idiot, FD

i might be becoming a dylanist

especially when quoted by rimshaw...

7 simple rules for life in hiding

1. Never trust a cop in a rain coat
2. Beware of enthusiasm and of love, each is temporary and quick to sway
3. When asked if you care about the worlds problems, look deep into the eyes of he who asks, he will not ask you again.
4 & 5. Never give your real name, and if told to look at yourself, never look.
6. Never do or say anything that the person standing in front of you cannot understand.
7. Never create anything, it will be misinterpreted, it will chain you and follow you the rest of your life, it will never change.

the familiar place in my head

are you who you say that you are?
are you who you say that you are?
are you who you say you are?
the fact that we can't tell
makes us like you even more...

***

old tricks to get back to old places...

theft

someone stole my cigarrettes: when i grabbed my pack, there were only two left.
i've consumed number two.
i have my cigars...
but it's not the same.

someone stole my images: when i sat to write, there were only faintly shadows.
i turned the light on, they flew.
i have my echoes,
but it's not the same.

just not the same.

unacceptably not. the. same.

give me back blah-blah. give or take, i don' t really mind.

just leave me somewhere so i feel like i used to feel - alive.

fact, no tact

"That is a fact. And fact is the most stubborn thing in the world."
Woland, The Master and Margarita.

i am gathering my facts, as if i need this average exercise to reach a conclusion. i know my conclusion, already. i've known it for a very long time - i have this thing, perception, after all. perception is a fact. that's how i get familiar with fact, through perception. usually. only this time i am using the rational mind, which is always slower, and just confirms what i had already perceived, since the fact was fact for such a long time, way before i perceived and, obviously, eons before i knew it.

good heavens have we changed.

but yeah, we may be seasonal still - the heat hints so. provoking all the echoes in my head, enhacing mucha, wanting me to go back to our land that's the slavian epopey or just all those paintings awaiting in the hermitage.

commanding me to write. retake. reform. assess. redress.

be truthful.

be daring.

shhhhh:

"jump --
you will fly."

bop writing

so here we go for a little of bop writing - my sort of therapy, says I to john o'leary, my old friend with whom i've just discussed the state of the cinema and we've ended up checking at whatever's screening at la filmo. the russian ark. awesome.

i may go.

in the meantime, i am chilling out with my cocktail of the day (6/8 cava, 1/8 martini, 1/8 granini orange juice... that's until i ran out and now i'm using orange acuarius), a cigarrette (the cigar this morning got me nauseous), interpol's our love to admire (after a pre noon ride into the past with the clash and the replacements), i am fully clothed, which is weird for me to write in, the new position of the table, windows wide open, and this little typing's already making me feel better.

gris is sleeping. by the octopuss. on my pillow. he kicks me out of my pillow every night.

oh. it's peace is the trick: women, you have no self control... me? not now, not at the moment. it's just, i am a little tired. and my life is about to change yet again, and i am tired. mmm. peace is the trick, i guess. follow whatever in the starswept night.

GRIS

gris is home, and that's the only good thing i can think of.

i wish i had the guts to break down, or let it go. but i'm really starting to believe it's not up to me, but the screenwriters. the strike is over yes indeed. back to work, you typers, suckers, and my life is a mess - again.

ol' gris is home at least. he's watching the telly. i'm drinking wine and eating cheese, he's eating fuet. polonia is about to start. we just talked to our mom. it's getting warmer. larkin is still in my life. i am craving a fag. i am tired. tomorrow it's friday. some people are free. but most, they're just travelling. i miss the images in my head - yeah, i still believe in them. my neighbors' TV is too loud, it pisses me off. i am glad i am typing something that's not coubication, interconnection, tarif or cost. i wish i could change, and not change, and stay the same but all different. i am flying to chile in a fornight - that's fucking nuts. i'll get a new tat. in hanga roa. the forecast's on: rainy weekend. crap. i am cancer and delirium - nah, that's henry miller. i am poor and aging - just like paul banks back in the 2000s. only i'll be a creepy 30 next month. fuck fuck fuck.

get a life - quit the current one.

*dances to some music*

gris is fighting sleep - so he can be a pain in the ass tonight.