turbulent cathedrals and castles casting tall shadows
grandly elaborate tympanums
symphonic, rhythmic and powerful

perpetuating

I have never been so struck by the work of a single photographer to grant the title of ‘favourite’ to any such artist. Nevertheless, I believe that I recently discovered such a photographer: Helmut Newton. Perhaps is it the erotic undertones of the photographs or, as wikipedia puts it, the sado-masochistic and fetishistic subtexts that are of such particular interest to me. What I find most appealing is that the pieces are usually somewhat surreal, and always elegant – even if it is in the starkest of manners.

Below are a several other photographs,

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skilful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

- let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" -
. you will only create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.


E. E. Cummings

"Trees are much like human beings and enjoy each other's company. Only a few love to be alone."

Jens Jensen

A beautiful photomanipulation

I love Love, and the child of Love, the love-child. I am in love with Love. Love is the centre of my life. Love acts, and Love sings. Love is the Most Beautiful Lady, and has a dark ambiguous cunt. I am the child of Love, and her master. Love fills my days with boredom, and gives my nights moments of rapture. Love is laying me waste, but I want her devastation. I love Love when she combs her red-gold hair, and when she whispers shameful phrases in the dark. I love her when I am sick, and she ministers to me. I love her when she presses the golden swan to her slim body; and when she broods tenderly over the Christ child. I love her when she sits naked on a rock, her hair in strands from the sea water, her left hand resting palm-upward on her sturdy thighs – whether to give or to take, we don’t know.

D. M. Thomas, Ararat

As the shore meets your inspiration
the visible horizon slowly falls to truth,
and I equate your ecstasy with the pleasure of the night

Parce que

Parce que tu as vingt ans
Que tu croques la vie comme en un fruit vermeil
Que l'on cueille en riant

Tu te crois tout permis et n'en fait qu'à ta tête
Désolée un instant prête à recommencer {...}

The Cherry Blossom Sky

This isn't my own photography.

You’re my endorphin rush, as I escape this reality
However much you want me, I swear I'll make you want me more.

"She's not a girl who misses much..."

Please, consume me.

Chase the night, tremulous sleep.

"Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos."

Pablo Neruda, Juegas Todos las Días

Мне нравится, что вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной
Не уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной -
Распущенной - и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами.

Мне нравится еще, что вы при мне
Спокойно обнимаете другую,
Не прочите мне в адовом огне
Гореть за то, что я не вас целую.
Что имя нежное мое, мой нежный, не
Упоминаете ни днем, ни ночью - всуе...
Что никогда в церковной тишине
Не пропоют над нами: аллилуйя!

Спасибо вам и сердцем и рукой
За то, что вы меня - не зная сами! -
Так любите: за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами,
За наши не-гулянья под луной,
За солнце, не у нас над головами,-
За то, что вы больны - увы! - не мной,
За то, что я больна - увы! - не вами!

~Марина Цветаева, 1915


I apologize that this will not be understood by most of you; the translations out there pale in comparison.

I cannot stop thinking of you

Adriano Celentano - La Terza Guerra Mondialea

{Thanks, V.}

where is my parrot and the cloudless sky
the ever shining light of night
and ever present pleasure

I shall wear a fedora
take on a passive, casual, melancholic demeanor
and smoke from a long thin pipe
emitting narrow rings of smoke from my ever-glossed lips
wearing charcoal-dark sunglasses covering the greater part of my face
as my red hair will come in stark contract with the image
making it bold, lively

―We knew perfectly well of course that although it was bound to come to the light he would find considerable difficulty in endeavouring to try to induce himself to try to endeavour to ascertain the spiritual plenipotentiary and so we knew of course perfectly well―

James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist...

Oh, Joyce, you manoeuvre language as no other!
Yet, still, the somber disenchanted mood does not escape me...

ah.

uninspired predictability

I would like to be proven wrong, just once. Please?

At the distinct moment when another’s belief that they have gotten to understand your motivations and comprehend your course of action is evident, is the time to abandon this game and swiftly vary strategy.

Charles Aznavour - Les Deux Guitares

Take me into your loneliness and your thoughts Your heartbeat is a sound I have longed to hear… reassure me and hold me calm within your arms. Desires and stories release me, allow me To enter this deeper and soak it all in Eyelids slowly shut, a foundationless whim
forget my request, I am destined for solitude.

Thoughts and resonating notes I concoct while I shower

Subject me to you
And my fears will escape me
Long as I do
For your skin sweeping mine
Water drops along my body
Sober my memory

May I misread your nuances?

"After a bit of time passes it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone, and nice to revisit it from a safe distance... The much older man whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening. The first time with someone I still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with him too.

The few whom I could not get enough of. The way they smelled, felt, tasted... The times sex felt as much a spiritual calling as a biological need. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterward, like pearls dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time on trains and in taxis."

Forget my name; I never existed.
~
Tonight, the night glows.

You tell me stories of the past and read me tales of enchantment, Greek mythology – immortal love.
I am your goddess and you are my days.

Excerpts from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

I cannot define my satisfaction, yet it is so,
I cannot define my life, yet it is so.





THIS COMPOST.

I.

SOMETHING
startles me where I thought I was safest;
I withdraw from the still woods I loved;
I will not go now on the pastures to walk;
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea;



SONGS OF PARTING
...
Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—is best,


And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried eternally.

Sleep is not a method of release I do not miss a single thought nor am I able to forget my reality a lack of diagnosis is significantly more terrifying than a death sentence there is one and she is too young and her reality is illogical and harsh at the moment there is another and she is taking another’s love and caring for granted there is me I crave heights and strangers

That which I know
That which I know
The people I love
I love them dearly
And the winding path leads the wonderer to a solid oak doorway opening into a vast desert
{dessert of choice: Tiramisu}

sickness
delirium
causation?
fever
fatigue
If only sleep produced the desired effect…

Your darkest desires are all in your head.

Aujourd'hui je suis très loin de ce matin d'automne
Mais c'est comme si j'y étais. Je pense à toi.
Où es-tu? Que fais-tu?
Est-ce que j'existe encore pour toi?
Je regarde cette vague qui n'atteindra jamais la dune
Tu vois, comme elle je reviens en arrière
Comme elle je me couche sur le sable
Et je me souviens, je me souviens des marées hautes
Du soleil et du bonheur qui passaient sur la mer
Il y a une éternité, un siècle, il y a un an {...}

Gabry Ponte - Radioattività

Imagine a dark pantomime...
The long limbs of an ambiguous figure...
Overly dramatic gesticulations...

Mephistopheles!

I am perhaps imagining something similar, yet more sinister and twisted than the variety show of The Master and Margarita.

J'ai baisé ta bouche...

Perchance, venturing into those realms that I daydream about will bring a balance

Once the winter sets in and I am back in the city, I shall…

`scour and find some galleries or showings of (hopefully) beautiful art
`spend real time alone
`truly excel at my internship position
`read literature, modern novels and anything to inspire and stir the senses

As for other individuals,
in making no compromises in my life, I realize exactly what I am doing and the associated repercussions. The time will come… (the walrus didn’t quite say this, but I will live it down)

after all, there is always that one – the one and only child (who is quite far from being childlike), especially when she writes lines such as, “he had forgotten what it felt like to bask in sunlight and feel the warm rays hit his eyelids, making him see red.”

tell me and call the willow tree... night upon the abyss and a longing beneath
dream of falling, fear of betrayal; wish upon countless falling starts
recall the past – this faraway gaze drifting along the moonlit horizon

but that is not what I meant at all,

“Now then, let us begin. When we are at the end of the story, we shall know more than we know now…”

This is one of my favorite children’s story… I must have heard it more than ten times as a child, in various languages. Oh, how I sometimes wish it was read to me once again.

In life, everyone has their own burden{s}.
I refuse to be one of those people that unloads my problems on others.

The fog evaporates as I awake
waiting for you
As I run from summer days and lonely nights and sleepless haze and I awake
I disappear.
The mountains fall –
Cascading blue
You crossed my heights
Hills like white pinnacle of strength
In dreams of you
Unforgiving
I do not shed a single tear
Eternal words may sum to little
questions
unanswered
await a response

Lately I have found myself singing quietly into my scarf as I walk in the cold.
Naturally, it is my own material – unfortunately, I usually forget the really great stuff shortly after it escapes my lips

"You gave me a beast, and I wanted a mind, so stroke the thoughts, maybe stimulate time,
You gave me a word, but I just wanted you to be mine.
It's hardly a secret clue,
that I'm secretly wanting you."

the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

James Joyce, Ulysses

I do not long for something remarkable.
Yet, ultimately, this is precisely that which I wait for.
How long shall I wait?
Upon reading and rereading, it seems the mundane inevitably unfolds into a profound realization, thus, making up that which one becomes.
Thought and a significant lack of forethought lead me,

“…To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question…”


T.S. Eliot

Oftentimes, I wish to be elsewhere...

It may not help that this song has been running through my mind ever so frequently lately…

Le soleil brille à pleins feux
Mais je ne vois que tes yeux
La blancheur de ton corps nu
Devant mes mains éperdues
Viens, ne laisse pas s'enfuir
Les matins brodés d'amour
Viens, ne laisse pas mourir
Les printemps, nos plaisirs

L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va, ça s'en va l'amour
C'est comme un jour de soleil en ripaille
Et de lune en chamaille
Et de pluie en bataille
L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va, ça s'en va l'amour

C'est comme un jour d'un infini sourire
Une infinie tendresse
Une infinie caresse
L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va mon amour

Notre été s'en est allé
Et tes yeux m'ont oublié
Te souviens-tu de ces jours
Où nos cœurs parlaient d'amour
Nous n'avons pu retenir
Que des lambeaux de bonheur
S'il n'y a plus d'avenir
Il nous reste un souvenir

L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va, ça s'en va l'amour
C'est comme un jour de soleil en ripaille
Et de lune en chamaille
Et de pluie en bataille
L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va, ça s'en va l'amour

C'est comme un jour d'un infini sourire
Une infinie tendresse
Une infinie caresse
L'amour c'est comme un jour
Ça s'en va mon amour

Charles Aznavour

Caress
Undress
A tress {gently moved}.
Supposition,
disposition.
Outwardly content,
controlled
Yet dawn breaks in several hours and all I have are
confused
tormented
thoughts

I wish to go galumphing along the briny beach!

The Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arm, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe

(Lewis Carroll, The Annotated Alice).

The moon prefers your face to mine
and in my sleep
my dreams; divine
conjure images of a time
but still I wonder…

I need an instrument
for my regret
My sanity is lacking
Yet I forget the truth,
the past,
the memories

And I forget the early morning breeze as you walk near
and touch me
and whisper in my ear
and hold me

near
as I fear the waking

Fuck you,
local and global maxima and minima of multivariable functions with a ridiculous amount of terms

fuck you.

I like you better at night;
when you are dark and lonely

I would like to place them {all of those individuals}, in glass cubes for observation
as my misery washes over their blank faded gazes of contentment
while I search for a beautiful life

Yes, I would like those cubes stacked.

Alone;
I am alone.

Unable to comprehend the differences
between general discontentment
and the present gaping feelings of fear and needing
Aloof compromises may not lend themselves to coherent conclusions
To be lonely in a crowded room
Isolated around seemingly close friends
Content when alone and yet the ever-present lacking void
Is this a life-long quest for an inexplicable source of fulfillment or gratification
Is this truly unhappiness; have I ever been happy?

I remember a time; the past – thousands of kilometers away…
It is here where I am unable to reach
I am disinclined to believe this can change

One fall morning, at half-past ten,
dreaming, transcendental sensations…
this phantasmagoria captures my mind
do not leave me behind
recreate this sensation
please
recreate this sensation

closely holding,
closely held

Fall winds may induce new recollections

I am in dire need of a new sketch book.
I would like it to be spiral bound with a black leather cover. Would anyone like to do me this favour?
That is all.

To the art supplies store it is...

This is NOT my own; found poetry you might say. Found where? Elsewhere.
{She is very good; I think.}

"I found you sleeping on the tip of my tongue
So I took you in, what else could I have done?
I found you staring at the lace of my shirt,
and I thought to myself;
"If only I had been wearing a skirt."
I can still taste you on the tip of my tongue,
while restless souls burry their goals,
I dream of togetherness and sing myself a song."

I am feeling quite small

Everything worth a thought is elsewhere.
All that is left
here
is
you.
You cannot possibly
wish for me
to think
of
you.
So stay.


{Written quite a while ago, before I had come to certain realizations...}

L'étreinte

Do I believe in magic? Of course, I am still chasing naiveté

It all began in the most ordinary fashion. Yet, there was a vast beauty and more particularly, significance, to this specific night, not known to most humans living on earth. On the highest green peak of the tallest mountain, the wildest of flowers bloomed only on such occasions. I am, of course, describing the hours between midnight and three in the morning, on the sixth day after every sixth full moon. Any doubts that you may possess about the accuracy of this tale must, at this very moment, vanish, for I do not spread lies.

A tall, frail-looking man stepped forward; seemingly, he appeared right from the steady trunk of the linden tree. Draped across his downward swooping shoulders was a burgundy cloak so long that it dragged across the leaf-covered path. The walkway resembled a boulevard, but with an unpaved natural foundation found in woods of this latitude and covered with foliage of varying vibrant colours. The almost-boulevard opened onto a steep downward slope and at daybreak, the most magnificent sunrises in the world could be observed while perched upon a rock, not far from the beautiful linden. {...}

I am finding it [quite!] difficult to maintain a straight {interested} face when conversing with you. There are manymany more engaging thoughts floating through my mind…
activities I could partake in…
locations far away… places that you will never visit where I may discover new secrets

I dislike you for taking parts of me – pieces you can never comprehend.
Masterful appropriation is an art – just consider Picasso for a moment.
You have not mastered this; you never will.
You can never know what I see,
Nor will you ever find out.

Distance
I have been told
The whispering hushed winds
Softly
Reiterating
Clearing my mind
Walking the night
Clarity
Thinking of
A melody,
A moment,
A scent,
Another time,
Another you

Fleeing
Reality
in
Solitude

I find it so pleasing to discover old sketches of loved ones...

Amour chassant un oiseau

1902, Picasso

A lone figure,
slightly obscured horizon,
Alone



Thoughts of
floating along on a solitary thin
calm

La courbe de tes yeux

La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur,
Un rond de danse et de douceur,
Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr,
Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu
C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu.

Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée,
Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés,
Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière,
Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer,
Chasseurs des bruits et sources de couleurs,

Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores
Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres,
Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence
Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs
Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.

~ par Paul Eluard

Dangers of sharing, letting in
I’d like to watch –
watch and sit,
watch and walk
possibly, walk away
listening to these
sounds that
speak
to my dejected moods
I see the bare, naked, reality
A beautiful contribution –
The possibilities escape.
Not my own
But this truth fears
the cold bitter daylight
it flees from the harsh winds, grey skies and Fall rain

more of E.E. Cummings

(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

It dawns on me
there is something so beautiful
in pure, calm, unsoiled motivations
that are only possible when
in the fight with time, one is not yet defeated

he was so very gentle
that it was poetic

la luna
las estrellas
las ondas

His name resonates in my mind
As his touch reverberates through my bones

It is found within the drive and the motivation; the strength and the precision; the focus and the forethought.

When I was seven years old, I used to walk to my ballet lessons every week. I would vary the journey a little every time in order to see new purplish/pink flowers blooming on those little cacti (they would grow and create such beautiful formations along the irregular inclines of the Israeli town) or to venture down new unfamiliar slopes. Yet, still, I always kept to certain favorite corners. As a child, I believed it to be so romantic to find a ‘new’ place, undiscovered territory, and my own secrets. I truly believe that the fundamental human traits of individuals do not change with time. I have not grown past the desires of my youth. In fact, it is at that stage when most inner wishes are developed, I think. It was a significant number of years later that I grew to know myself better. To learn that which is so deeply engrained in us is simply a matter of realization and outlook. I miss certain aspect of myself – I feel as though I have neglected and pushed aside fundamentally critical parts of me.

A mystery, an enigma, a riddle, a game… my thoughts and observations are the precious aspects of my life that are, for the most part, not shared. They remain to be my dearest secrets. It is not as though my sentiments about the unique drops of the rain, the hue of the sky, the thickness of the air, or the body lying next to mine, can be of any interest (nor will any of it/can any of it be fully comprehended by another.)

This is not a conclusion, these are simply words.

"…all was smooth with a smoothness and firm roundness pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happy-making, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight held loneliness…"

Hemingway is such a beautiful writer.

I remember reading For Whom the Bell Tolls quite a few years ago, it was a masterful work, but most of all, this stayed with me. It is such an exquisite description of lovemaking – so tender and real.

The Bamboo Mat

I cannot bear to put away the bamboo sleeping mat;

The night I brought you home I watched you roll it out.

{by Xuan Chen}

Glimpses into the beauty of the world
unconventionally realized
through
placid blueness
serene evenings
alone

I refuse to recite soliloquies,
and I have found out much, too much
I know of
the knowing
and the thoughts
I know of the decisions
I see the mindless waters;
Seas


I found this somewhere and really enjoyed it:

On that day, she will leave me for someone with a beret and cigarettes who will treat her badly and quote poetry at her in other languages.

I do not know about the leaving, though it seems likely; and I dislike the beret, but I do wait for the poetry. In truth, on a someone, the cigarettes are addictive and the other - the maltreatment - makes it simpler; gives my mind some freedom.

I have no words for the words that you wrote on the walls of the shadows

there are a myriad of things so painful
that beautiful tears
just don't seem to be enough

Destiny waits by the beach
for your soul

you have forgotten the key
and I could gaze into your eyes for hours but I will never get in

I could never
bring them to my place
I never knew how
and when I will want you here
still, I will not know
how will you come here with me?
how will we walk through the orchid garden?
how will we take in the sparse air
of this mountain

if I fall into it without a second glance
who will be there to pick up the pieces?
who will be there to remember,
when I shall choose to forget?
it is the hardest with those...
those for whom
you will never be first
you will never be the light
you will never really matter
and I will always be fleeing
because they are inevitably the ones that will cause the pain
and I play with dull knives because I know the sharp one will cut deeper
but it is with the dull knives that the worst and permanent damage will be inflicted

she is doing this to herself
it will hurt. it will sting
an addiction
this is my fear
this
the reason I run
she keeps reading
an injection of pain
and I know
because I too am reading
yet, it is not the same
it will slowly come upon
sting so bitterly
to be filled and be so empty
simultaneously
with fear
and tears
I know they flow
endlessly flow
I shall run from this
where is there to run to?
And it is complicated
And it is empty
And I don’t want to know
And I don’t want to feel
And it pains me to see
A subjection
So blatant
To eminent pain

cowardice
simple weak self-preservation
on his behalf
it is a lack of concern and
it is hypocrisy and pretending
and the fact, in itself, that the capability for such deep emotion is there
but being so horribly underutilized and misused is the most damaging of all

A warning is not enough
and an addict would know
and an addict would see
and even! an addict
most especially this one
Should feel it
Should know it
Must stop it

Oh
the girl ran across the burning sand
without a care
towards the open sea
on a deserted beach
on an unknown island
perhaps in the Pacific
more likely in the vicinity of the Aegean or Mediterranean seas

Eye lids slowly shutting as I sit and
early hours of the day roll forth while
thoughts keep me from sleep
Familiar green eyes reflect back at me
evoking a beseeching gaze
I cannot explain
How I wish I knew

notes unable to reach the desired melody playing across my mind

It seems,
lately,
nothing seems to reach

and when I know
will I know?
it is impossible
for a moment
for the time
this time

The deep azure evening spread out before me

bare

I needed that one last time
self concerned
gratification
sadistic pleasures
I still feel it
the sweat was so sweet


too many questions
too many secrets
my mind is swarming with thoughts

I wait for the expected and allegorical climax

It was my nineteenth summer, and I knew I was alone

Numb
miss the goose bumps
clearer
making it, inevitably, more difficult

So removed
tears are needed
Am I still here?
So much more is uninteresting
all is too expected

When does it shift?

Does it shift?



“…it does not much matter what things are in themselves, but only what they are to us; and that the only real truth of them is their appearance to, or effect upon, us. From which position, with a hearty desire for mystification, and much egotism, selfishness, shallowness, and impertinence, a philosopher may easily go so far as to believe, and say, that everything in the world depends upon his seeing or thinking of it, and that nothing, therefore, exists, but what he sees or thinks of… be it observed that the word ' Blue' does not mean the sensation caused by a gentian on the human eye; but it means the power of producing that sensation; and this power is always there, in the thing, whether we are there to experience it or not, and would remain there though there were not left a man on the face of the earth. Precisely in the same way gunpowder has a power of exploding. It will not explode if you put no match to it. But it has always the power of so exploding, and is therefore called an explosive compound, which it very positively and assuredly is… the gentian and the sky are always verily blue, whatever philosophy may say to the contrary; and if you do not see them blue when you look at them, it is not their fault but yours.”

Stranger,
In passing
I thought of you

When we cross paths
this shall escape me
Yet,
in that fleeting moment,
there will be no ambivalence
A recollection;
It shall dawn upon me
with such intensity

the sun will set and rise at once
the moon will shine
the tide will move as does my heartbeat

within me
balance – for a fleeting moment

life will simply be

I shall remember you as a faint breeze

I imagine
those moments I cannot know
Those fleeting seconds
too far from my grasp

Torrid hours passing into airlessness

To enter her and think of me?

Oh, there must be more
and I cannot know any more

I wish not to know any more

Of this

Of all.

All that comes to mind
Are those certain
Elements
Lacking
At this moment
For a feeling of fulfilled
Satisfaction
The softness of the sheets
A soft wind enveloping my skin
Tender warm sunlight dancing beyond my resting eye lids
Salty thick ocean foam and warm sea water at my feet

Fading familiar melodies in the distance

The touch of stars

Sometime
music takes over
and
all there is to do is
Dance.
Like a shadow in the rain

{Elvis Crespo - Luna Llena}

It is a summer afternoon. The city slowly soaks in the stagnant heat of the sun – I try to be impassive. I am consciously aware of my lack of desire to face all that is to come. I step in a regular pace along the shimmering pavement.

To clarify: I stand by the firm belief that communication is impossible. This is the general case; it is, however, amplified in certain situations. Life simply does not cascade like a song – I am a great fan of illusions, but this appears to be too palpable.

Perhaps it is not the general case, but truly conversing with another, being fully understood – comprehending one another on a different level… has never occurred to me – nor will it ever happen. If it becomes eminent, I shall run from it. There is no reason for someone to be able to comprehend me to such an extent.

So he stands there, fingering yet another cigarette in his right hand. He seems unable to comprehend the rational beyond the purposeful glance– I hope he never realizes.

There is another. I can feel him taking me in – determining how to approach.

Both misread me – quite horribly. Perhaps it is all in my head – I may be much more transparent than I believe. I am unable to vocalize my thoughts and perhaps it is for the best.

A discussion ensues: approaching others with positive intentions guarantees a positive reciprocation. As the eternal cynic, I merely laugh at the idea.

I realize that it may be vital for me to change my mindset when approaching this game.

All that so positively built up to this has dissipated… There is no necessity for it to escalate – no need for that intimacy, it still remains from those other nights…

The descending sun, passing time…
A sporadic conversation, a cell phone rings. Spanish is spoken.
The methodology is to relax. Forgo thought; let life encompass, live, take pleasure in it all.

Another joins the group – we can now conveniently disappear for an indefinite amount of time.

The distraction of reality doesn’t help. Foolish behaviour and unjustifiable decisions. Slowly returning downward along the spiralling stairs – this time it has left me unaffected.

Enters the Russian; over a cold beer and harsh cigarettes, all types of men will bond. This specimen is in his early forties. He has a fading but evident accent and the manner of a man who has seen too much. Heavy involvement in the Russian black market and putting into practice a significant number of illegal operations in over forty countries across the world has not helped refine him. He happens to speak around seventeen languages, discusses woman in a particularly vulgar manner. He is here to gamble – to throw money and risk around. The poker game will begin shortly.

I fell I fear I shall forever be
chasing the adrenaline
Craving speed
Recklessness; the outlet
the temporary fix
a jolt
heart racing
so close
to everything
yet
unstable.
so far
the fear
I seek the fear
I wait and
Dream of the screams

Heightened urge to flee
Dreaming
of cool breezes
warm waters
Solitude.
Absolute desertion of it all
To welcome the loneliness
Unhindered
Unaffected
The long narrow peer
Warm breezes of the
Ocean sweeping past my
skin
Longing.
the peer and my thoughts
To be alone with
the moon
Reflections surfacing
along the tranquil waves
Depth flowing on
seemingly forever

Darkness
Night
and sea…

The inevitability of it was so clear.
To be proven wrong… just once
Never.

To maintain clarity
Refuse attachment
Separate oneself

Only myself
the stark nature of it all
Retain space
It is so vital in this life to
Remain cold. Distant. Self-contained

Israel, circumstances, the others and life

Often, I find it vital to remind myself that there is no need to unnecessarily ruin one’s nerves because life moves along as the skin on a zebra.
Presently, this self-induced message is resounding in my head.
There is also a song – my mother reminds me of it from time to time, when everything is difficult. It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi in English, but nevertheless, the makeshift translation is as follows:

In order for others to love you,
Love no one.
In order for others to fear you,
Fear no one.

When the glimmer of the positive is impossible to find, it is necessary to force it.

Drowning in the sea of this.
Weakened.
Irregular shapes dance along the wall
Red shadows encompass the space
cigarette smoke fading
The smell of you.
The touch.
Longing to stay – yet leaving soon
moments dripping.
flowing.
fading.
The game becomes exceedingly dangerous
I cannot let go of the thoughts
you are right – it is about the desire
It is about the wanting
and I want.
Still
Unable to mention the red elephant in my thoughts
More.
One minute
Ten minutes
One more
Once more
To stay
feel you breathing
I fear that I cannot – should not – succumb to this

{as I wait for the taxi
the sky grows into dawn}

A slow arduous process… presently, needing some rest…
It is not easy to lie to oneself, subconsciously, if you spend enough time with yourself, the echoes resonate and overpower.
Telling myself to slow down does not seem to help…
I don’t want to slow down.
I can easily say to myself that I should stop running – but I shall never go through with it. What scares me is that I have so expertly suppressed that which I seem to be running from, that I am unable to face it. It does not resonate…

I came across this; it induced some calm:

'Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from The Eternal'
~Dante Alighieri