Monday, August 31, 2009

i must go out and get drunk one of these days
it seems like my sub-conscience wants to say so much


it's not love.
it's idolization.
does it make it less of love?
does love always have to be compatible
why can't it just be visual voyeurism


"Voyeuristic behaviour involves getting sexual pleasure from secretly watching other people having sex or taking their clothes off." [1]

extending that definition and replacing sexual appeal with visual appeal
why can't love involve getting visual pleasure from secretly watching images from other people's heads
watching things at the same angles they watch things at
and with the same intensity

it's no coincidence that vicarious rhymes with voyeurism

[1] Collins, my favorite dictionary

diversity is happiness

o lord-e
when will you stop measuring success as progress
and start measuring progress as happiness

Sunday, August 30, 2009

To Yuko: "Dedication"

The fact that I
am writing to you
in English
already falsifies what I
wanted to tell you.
My subject:
how to explain to you that I
don't belong to English
though I belong nowhere else.

~Gustavo PĂ©rez Firmat

Monday, August 24, 2009

trying religion

let's try religion
like we'd try a colour
or a new dish from slovakia
religion can be anything
obsession with a code
regression into the past
hope for the future
sayings, axions, and maxims
a collection of stories

let's try religion today
today tomorrow everyday
singing and dancing
sleeping and chanting
pale blue religion
tinged with saffron yellow
and looking up
i see stark white


sometimes, like now, i really really miss my job
oh life

Sunday, August 16, 2009

key learnings from ladakh

i have changed
i take my sense of fairness too far (so far that i've become intolerant if i don't perceive something as being fair)
i've lost some compassion
i've lost a lot of understanding
i have too much unspent energy
i don't give third, fourth, and fifth chances
i live in the past
i live in the future
it takes me unusually long to let go
i stick to safety
i complain
i want more comfort
i want more love
i want more space
i want more me
i'm no longer cool
i'm no longer happy-go-lucky
or lucky-go-happy

but i hope we will always be
like the mountains and the sea
my dear bumblebees

Saturday, August 15, 2009

"I’m a Stranger Here Myself"

Sometimes when you stop for directions,
when you ask someone who doesn’t look
threatening or threatened the way to a gas
station or restaurant, the person stares at you,
dumbly, or seems apologetic or guilty,
and says these words as if they’d been
scripted: I’m a stranger here myself—, shaking
her head, or his head, and you’re especially struck
by the bond between you, your strangeness,
and the town, or city, changes to unnumbered
anonymous facades, but generic, unmistakably
New England—white clapboard houses, black shutters;
or Texas storefronts—low porches, two-by-four columns,
longhorn arches; or even Southern California,
the faces its bungalows make, the expressive mouths
of, say, Los Angeles doors—and suddenly you want
to live there, wherever there is, to belong
in one place, to read the surviving daily,
you want to get a grip on the local mores,
to pay taxes, to vote, you want to have cronies,
be tired together in the Stormy Harbor
Coffee Shop, to be bored with the daily specials:
you want not to be like him, or her, not the outsider
who’s never sure where things are; so you say,
“Thanks, anyway,” and find the worn face of a
native who’ll point you to a real estate office,
which hadn’t been where you were going—
But then, you stop cold, scared, wanting
only your own room, the books under the bed,
the pencils, the snapshots, what’s left
of your family, the dead flies on the windowsills,
the exhausted scorched-coffee smell of your city,
familiar as your own particular dust—and you turn
on a dime, shaking off Church Street and School Street,
the allegorical buildings, the knick-knack bookshelves
in the glowing blue family rooms blind to the moonlit
Main Street night, the lonely, confused, censorious
American-ness of places you drive through, where
you can get ice cream or a flat fixed, places where
strangers get hurt, so you jump back into your car
and head out to the highway, until the town,
that stage-set that almost swallowed you,
disappears at last in the fogged rear-view mirror,
and you drive to the next and the next and the next,
fleeing that vicarious life for your life.

~Gail Mazur

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