Clad in Blue: November 2011

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

This is beautiful.

Life is beautiful. Really, people, I'm serious. There are moments worth living for, and there can be a lot of them, life can be really really great, if you just make it so. People can be sunshine, gratitude itself. Sincere. Sometimes you find yourself in a company where being cynical is unnecessary.

This stupid, stupid, stupid world, where all the time, everywhere, you find stress, misery, most of us feel trapped, depression is completely normal, and so is suicide.. wake up. Fucking wake up. Please.

Make yourself break out of the whole nightmare of rutine, of money, of "doing what you have to" ..
Goddamnit. Live. You can live.

(Oceansize - "music for a nurse")

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Also.

Guys, the people with power are being ridiculous again.

More info - http://wyden.senate.gov/newsroom/press/release/?id=cdb3104b-cd55-4d7f-825e-3bec95d944be

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Hey, Jude

This morning I dropped an avokado seed on my toe. The perfect way to start the day, eh?

Also, how does one explore without losing the old? I don't want to lose any of my friends, but everyone's so different.. How do you look into all the sides of the crystal at once?
Is it this?

One, true, brilliant shape, shining, lighting up the world, just get to it, take it, it's yours..

Can there be a ONE TRUE thing, meaning, whatever, anything.. to seize at all costs, or else you go to Hell.. or to not strive for, to regard, to acknowledge, but it's only within reach if you don't want it, if you don't want, want, want. 'Cause we're all sinners anyway.

..or is it all around us? is it more like this...-

Everywhere, but we just don't see, we're blind. We're right in the middle of it, and we're like, ugh, what is this unusual substance that makes dreams come true, why is it all over me, get it off, get it off!!

Let me crawl back into the box with the windows of a jail cell. Let me turn back into the routine, let me eat this lovely, salty, poisonous thing they just advertised, pleaase.

Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive. Repetitive.

Or maybe it's a beautiful, bleeding cross, or x, heart, whatever the preference is these days.. as long as it's injury, it's justified. It's ok. Not only blind, but deaf, too, and mostly mute as well. Ladies and gentlemen, the Human Race. All meanings. Just because I said so. So there. I win. You lose. You lose.
'Cause I'm special. Mummy said so.

Wait, what? I'm showing you the clock, why the fuck would you see the bodily injury instead, relevant, I think not. Yes. It is. No, it is not, you you you.. -.

Time is much more complex than blood, am I right? Time holds much more in itself, isn't it more important than the sight of a liquid of a visually pleasing colour?

Irony, y u get old?

Friday, November 11, 2011

Ilo Veyou

Of all the beautiful voices, of all the beautiful people, of all the enchanting minds - oh, belle fille...

(Camille, dūh)

Aujourd`hui, c`est le plus beau jour, c`est la plus belle vie,

C`est le plus grand amour, sur la plus belle planète

Et aujourd`hui, c`est la plus belle minute, c`est la plus belle poussèe,

C`est la plus belle chute

Sur la plus belle planète, la plus belle planète

Et aujourd`hui, c`est la plus belle seconde, c`est la plus belle la plus belle voix lactèe, la plus belle ronde

Sur la plus belle planète, la plus belle planète

Et aujourd`hui c`est le plus beau col, c`est le plus beau cordon, le plus beau bisphènol, le plus beau plomb, placentas,

bèton, colostrum, ATL, uranium, OGM, homme, aime, femme, dioxyde de carbone.

Sur la plus belle planète, la plus belle planète...

Et aujourd`hui c`est le plus beau moment, c`est le plus beau bèbè, c`est la plus belle maman, Sur la plus belle planète

The most beautiful planet...?

Sunday, November 6, 2011

My sister's godmother and her wife..

..stopped by today. They are among the nicest people I know.

Also, today I feel like shit. No matter how beautiful life is, there are always days that are just.. shit.
But no matter, I have quality vanilla ice cream. And a splendid notebook of which one side is just my kind of indigo. See, I'm cheering myself up already. The boy is composing music. The ghost is in the room. Did I just call this upon myself? ..oh, well, better turn on the other light. And light the candles. And be like, LIGHT!.

"Men mamma, dom är ju inga barn längre, dom är ju riktiga människor!" I miss my cousins.

Deja vu. The music just seems to disappear sometimes. And don't get to know your friends too well, ok?
Is it just me, or is dubstep slowly invading our brains?

ooh, look, I found something I wrote with cold fingers outside while waiting for someone who didn't arrive. fun.

get out of the den of friends

the lonely, righteous thieves

part of the rest of the onlookers

no matter how much they grieve

what drips from their fingers

won't be blood

yet it brings the flood

be silent in your screaming

don't you dare awaken

you, yourself, don't tear the fraying sky

we couldn't take that much at once

not now, not then

what you take in your hands

you can hurl

just let ignorance be the world

sharpen your decisions to a point

the you can stab at what you want

...aand that's all there was. Oh well. I didn't light the candle.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

anticipation

I just stayed up all night. For various reasons. Here is the music that kept me alive -

(A. J. Roach - "Devil May Dance")

(The Velvet Underground - "I'm Sticking With You")

(Budgie - "Parents")

(Air - "Run")

(Four Seasons, Summer 3/3)

Vivaldi

Friday, November 4, 2011

thank you

I'm gonna share a little thing with you all. Why, I don't know. Of course.

My parents wrote a song for me. I was probably about 3 years old at the time, and it's one of the best things they could have given me. Mom wrote he lyrics, dad composed the melody. He also knew a singer at the time, Cam, I remember her very vaguely. She sang it, recorded it, and put it in her album. "Song for E"is the song. My song. Heh.
I guess the point of this was to give my parents a 'thank you' that they'll probably never see. So there you go.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Now, the days..

I'm kinda in pain. I've made a few mistakes, explored a bit too much, and here comes our dear little friend called Guilt. So much has happened since the last time I was here, so many people have appeared to complicate everything, to change my sight.
And, I realized how much I've lost of my old life. You know those moments, right? - the ones where you remember something from years ago, and it could have been a very shitty day, but you desperately want to get back there again, just for a little bit.
Then again, a lot of things disappear because of neglect, or you've simply changed to much to experience that again. See, I'm no longer a child. I've been able to fool myself for quite some time, I could still return to those moments of creating little worlds in a clump of moss, and being chosen because you're still young enough to understand. I sort of want to be a child again.
But - I know more, and differently now.. the new life I have is a good one. It's interesting. It's very different, but I wouldn't back away, if I could. Would I?
Also, I was recently asked - "how do you make friends so quickly?" I think.. -
The people I've met in the past few months.. most of them I trust now, at last a little. I have little prejudice, (or so it seems), and I think that exposing myself this freely pulls people towards me a bit. Maybe I'm being arrogant.
And, I have a reason to .. maybe, partially.. believe in something supernatural. It's curiosity, about the paranormal at that, but I'd almost regard it as a religion, it would finally be something not to doubt, something more or less stable in a world of deceit. The downside (there always is one somewhere) would be that it's fucking scary. And if I have proof, I wouldn't be able to convince myself that it's all in my head. Happily oblivious sounds quite charming, and safe, but then, I WANT TO KNOW. Would you? Would you change your life to know the truth? It's sounds cliche and melodramatic, yes, but, hey, when else am I going to get a chance to play around?

I don't want to lose this, you know. I really, really don't want to lose this. It's kind of annoying that as you grow up, more and more of what your elders have said makes sense. OH GOD,WE'RE BECOMING THEM, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!
Forgive my rambling.

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by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here';

Love said, 'You shall be he.'

'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,

I cannot look on Thee.'

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply.

'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.'

'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'

'My dear, then I will serve.'

'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste My meat.'

So I did sit and eat.

/ˈænʒənuː/

In the company of a spirit of light

a delicate queen of the darker nights

shimmering gently in a blue-walled room

with a promise of something, soon, very soon

I'd die for that promise, spoken out loud

instead, it stays hid in her glimmering shroud

so proud

so, here we are in a black-walled room

amongst smoke and pillows from midnight to noon

and I cannot sleep, for you keep on shining

and I cannot know for what I am pining

though a sin to compare to a creature so frail

I outrank you on the morality scale

your smile, so pale

yet here we remain in a rose-walled room

with a silent promise - soon, very soon

betwixt the legs of a creature of light

leading me through the darker nights

too many words to share

The Dispossessed, by Ursula K. LeGuin
Dangling Man, by Saul Bellow
A Song Of Ice And Fire, by George R.R. Martin
De Profundis, by Oscar Wilde
Smoke and Mirrors, by Neil Gaiman
Moab Is My Washpot, by Stephen Fry
Män som hatar kvinnor, by Stieg Larsson
The Shell Collector, by Anthony Doerr
The Europeans, by Henry James
Vargbröder, by Michelle Paver
The Abortionist's Daughter, by Elizabeth Hyde
The Folk of the Fringe, by Orson Scott Card
Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Izshiguro
The Wonder Spot, by Melissa Bank
Dreamland, by Sarah Dessen
A Wrinkle In Time, by Madeleine L'Engle
What happened to Lani Garver, by Carol Plum-Ucci
Die Fließende Königin, by Kai Meyer
Herr der Díebe, by Cornelia Funke
Watership Down, by Richard Adams
A Girl of the Limberlost, by Gene Stratton Porter
Songmaster, by Orson Scott Card
Wise Child, by Monica Furlough
The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak
Isabel's Daughter, by Judith Ryan Hendricks
Uguns Nemodina, by Inga Ābele

The Crickets Have Arthritis, by Shane

It doesn't matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesnt matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who's faith tells him God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold. Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas, and he's 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got.The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they're trying to make him feel at home because he's going to be here awhile.

I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"

But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."

And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."

He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."

The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.

But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?

People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.

I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."

Tony: What is this?

The Blonde: Corn.

Tony: Corn? Corn comes in a little white box from Birdseye. Corn? Kansas is corny! Can ya eat it?

The Blonde: Yeah.

Tony: Can ya smoke it? Can ya drink it?

Can ya lie in it?

The Blonde: Sure.

Tony: Then lie in it with me.

The Blonde: Are you crazy?

Tony: Yeah, I'm crazy. I'm crazy in love with your blue eyes.. and your corn-silked hair. Your corn-silked hair. I'll never eat corn again without thinkin' about you. Canned corn, candy corn, popcorn, Crackerjacks! You're the prize in my box! And my box is this country. It's all tinfoil on the outside.

Corn and sweetness on the inside.

American Pop (1981)

Clad in Blue