Archive for January, 2016

All my framed photos are turned the other way, to avoid the low sun’s glare, magnified through glass – I don’t want them to fade.

I see the backs of the frames on the cabinet, they are shunning me: my past is turning it’s back on me, what?

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You lost your ambition somewhere along the way, mid-way between parallel disappointments.

Your family thinks you’re a screw-up. No career. No husband. No prospects.

Surviving life is about all you hope to do now.

Music provides some relief, when you really get into it, escape from the reality of the here and now.

Later you switch the TV on. At their best, TV programs can be informational, educational, inspirational – you want and need some of that. You wait. Adverts blast noise out the speakers (twice as loud as the program’s volume). Banal and repulsive hawking, hijacking your space. It gets worse, in another minute it gets personal. Your eyes widen and narrow, your head thumps, you hear one of your favorite songs (with such deep lyrics, such meaning and feeling) … you hear one of your favorite songs being used to sell dog food.

You throw a book at the TV.

You run out the house.

You run to the hills.

You have a new ambition.

Comrade Remek’s got red hands,

slapped by his master:

whenever he tries to touch a dial,

adjust a setting,

do something,

in life.

 

He’s not the only one.

 

Day by day

we all get slapped down

deeper and deeper

until we are six feet under,

or burnt to ashes,

consumed on re-entry,

returned to our natural place, natural state,

death and non-existence,

nothingness on Planet Earth.

 

From Mir it looks so nice.

 

Timaru, Timbuktu.

Posted: 2016-01-28 in Thoughts For The Day

Mama would have been a New Zealander, she visited me tonight and told me so.

Timaru, her father had a feeling for.

Clean air and new beginnings.

Escape and true destiny.

And that’s where they were headed, out of Europe and pain, they sailed on the ship.

 

But for politics, it was her destiny.

Politics and circumstance screwed the plot.

New Zealand, it emerged, only took refugee families of four, you see.

Shit, I said, you should have thrown Uncle X overboard (after all, he grew up to be a bum).

Shit, she replied, I should have thrown both my brothers overboard, they were *always* scum.

 

Dirty little fuck!

You complicate my life, haunt my dreams and screw my waking hours.

Stupid bitch!

I hate you, I love you, I hate you.

Left hand between my legs, fingers fondling, groping. Sloppy lips on my face. Stupid words spoken and misunderstood. Stupid words not meant. I push you aside. I don’t want you in me anymore.

GET THE FUCK OUT!

Storm damage. Destruction. Another complication, another disappointment, another frustration, another nail in my coffin. Life fucked. Sigh. Sigh, the bigger picture, you say: “It could’ve been worse.”

Yeah, really, you say that from your house on the hill, with the perfect exterior, interior, furniture, ornamentation and accoutrements of all manner and focus. Your walls are lined with reminders of achievement and pleasure. My walls are smeared with excrement.

I’m sick and tired of: “It could have been worse.”

So, count your blessings, instead. 

MOTHERFUCKER!

Tonight on My Kitchen Rules: Jim and Jules cook a decadent feast for their guests. Force-fed goose liver; abhorrently young (oh so tender) veal, kept in the dark; beluga caviar and truffles, for the wusses; eagle eggs plucked from absurdly high, dangerous Himalayan cliff-face nests by 8 year-old child slaves, just for your pleasure. In between times there will be witty repartee, filled with much innuendo. Dessert will be served on the naked body of a voluptuous sixteen year-old young woman (whose parents signed a consent form, on proviso that she be given a 3-figure modelling contract with Con’s Fruit & Veggie Fondue Magazine – absurd, no?).

Absurd, yes. Humorous, yes. Repulsive, illegal and immoral – yes. And not far from truth (pretty darn close to what you desire!)

Actually, life’s pretty great. Since I’ve been free, on the outside, delivered from the walls.

I’ve found love, I’ve found riches, I’ve found meaningful employment, I’ve found a purpose, I’ve found life, since my family died.

So, so long to the long so whats of the past. Fuck you, family, for keeping me back, in a box, curtailed, enslaved, unable to realize my potential, used and abused, worked to the bone, boned to the work, fuck you!

Perfidy and betrayal, I lost a family and I found myself. Boundless joy. Dear readers: would that you all could be so lucky.

So tired of my own life, so disappointed by my own results, that I’ve got to reach outside the box, touch someone else, in a passive way.

TV, online, newspaper, whatever forum or media, I like to watch, I like to get off on their exposure, their mistakes, their pain.

Urghh!

Do either of us profit from this interaction?

Certain things should remain private, perhaps.

Another day, hollow, of the sentence served.

Jesus, hear my call and help me out of these walls!

Corn is good. Straight roads are awesome. Fresh air and empty space, a lack of people, beautiful!

Space to breathe, space to think, room to move. Time feels like it’s on your side, in Iowa.

Don’t besmirch the girl with the Cross around her neck. She has faith – the here and now, the future to come – she is a beautiful person, her thoughts and words are ardent. Why, she reminds me of the girl I left behind in Yelets. … Behind? Cliché and pejorative and nonsense. In reality, she left me behind (I could never keep pace with her beyond university – how she has blossomed).

Cold feet, gloriously refreshing, until they start to hurt.