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.
dissabte, 22 de març del 2008
dijous, 13 de març del 2008
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.
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.
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