Boring thoughts

At the moment writing has no appeal to me. Words disgust me, ideas do the same. But at the same time, I have an urge to write. Don’t know, maybe I’m just fed up with my way of writing. Maybe something new is wishing to born?

What could that be?

I’ve never been into therapy writing. I don’t like to delve in my so called deepest thoughts and put them into words. I’ve found that very boring.

My writing has always had a function, I’ve written for some reason –articles to smallish papers, novels to magazines, stories to my blogs. I’ve never been the one writing only to myself.

I’m used to that my texts are being read and although I have not the possible public in my mind while writing, the knowledge that my stories will be read, makes my writing somewhat satisfactory. A writer wants to be read, wants to be acknowledged and wants to be seen. If someone tries to deny that, I just won’t believe.

Now I have the feeling that being seen is not enough. Or then it is too much. I don’t know and that puzzles me. Should I start to write a diary, only to myself (I think Reiska would vote for that, hah) or should I have a brake from writing into my blogs(now I can hear Reiska cheering…)?

Or should I try to write something different?

My thoughts bore me. Like words.

I'm afraid that I was very, very drunk

show me the way to the next
whiskey bar

here I go again, the trumpets will blow again!

every day I spend my time drinking
wine
drinkin’ wine spo dee o’dee
I got red blood, and I got blood red wine

hey, hey, hey!

wasting our time on cheap talk and wine

good ol’ boys were drinking whiskey and rye
drinkin’ dark whiskey, telling white lies
whiskey in the jar

please me and I’ll please you

the piano has been drinking, not me

one for my baby and one more
for the road

The Pillar

She’s tired of being the strong one. She’s fed up with everybody counting on her –her family, her friends, her colleagues at work. She doesn’t want to be the one everybody depends on.

She’s tired of listening. She doesn’t want to hear anything, she doesn’t want to be covered by the feelings other people vomit on her.

For once in her life she would like to answer herself, but nobody asks her anything. Nobody wants to know her feelings, nobody is interested in her thoughts. Not at work, not at her home.

No one asks her how her day was when she comes home after work. No one is interested in that, because they are too anxious to make her listen to their thoughts, their feelings and she is once again pushed in the corner. Her duty is to listen, nothing else.

Sometimes she tries to rebel, tries to say something, but she is ignored by words such as “you’re such a good listener”, “you’ve got experience, wisdom”, “you are a person I can depend on”, “you’re my mum”, “you’re my wife”, “you’re my daughter”.

We need you, they say, you’re strong and sane and you know the solution to our problems. We trust in you, you can’t let us down. You must cope, because we have no one else. You carry us in your hands and without you, we’ll fall.

She’s trapped, because she knows that her strength is nothing else than weakness and because of her weakness, she has to stay.
She’s got no power to run away from them.

Herself she has left years ago.

Come rain, come shine

I hate to wash windows. I don’t like cleaning on the whole, but particularly I hate the mere thought of window-washing.

And now it’s spring. How do I know that? Oh, believe me, I do know! The snow on the ground doesn’t fool me a bit. The frost on the pavements in the morning doesn’t lure me to think the winter’s still here. Oh, no. It is spring.

The sun is hanging low all day, just at that particular height that lets every ray from that light yellow ball rush against my windows. The cold and bare sunlight hides nothing, it shows all the milky white, or should I say grey, spots on my windows. Looking at the windows makes me wonder, if I live in a house of ghosts (other facts speak for that, too…).

It’s time to wash the windows. I know, but I also know that I won’t do anything. I’ve managed once to live in a flat for five years without washing the windows. I must have that same strength now! Well, I did wash the windows two years ago, didn’t I?

I miss the place I used to live before. The flat was on the ground-floor and when it started to rain heavily, I took my umbrella and a wiper and went out. There I stood, in the rain, but not getting wet thanks to my umbrella, and wiped the windows, if not dry, at least clean.
It was simple and efficient.

Now I live on the third floor.

I’m waiting for the summer. The leaves turn big and green in the trees in front of my windows and the sun won’t bother me any more.

His Story Is His History

You think you know something?
You think you are something?

You do think a lot,
but it’s of no use.

You’re nothing. Absolutely nothing.
That does piss you off, doesn’t it?
To be nothing. That is: nothing of importance.

Wind in the hay. Buzz of the bees. Piece of shit.
They’re more than you. Really.

Come back after three thousand years and see
if somebody still remembers you.

I doubt it.

But shit still smells.

You’re talking to me?

Go away. Stop thinking. Go.

The Battle

The boy is sitting alone in his room. He looks at the computer screen, his eyes follow the movements of the hero whose task is to save the world. The boy’s hands move rapidly as he forces the hero to go further, to push harder and to fulfil the mission.

The eyes stare and there’s nothing else in this world for the boy. He forgets everything that’s outside his mind and body. Nothing else remains but the world in which the hero lives, the world the boy yearns to belong to.

The hero conquers the enemies, the planet is saved and the battle is over. There’s no need to fight, no need for adventures any more. No need for anything. Everything is over.

Even for the boy.

In the morning

The call for the pray wakes me up every morning at 5 a.m. The voice from the Mosque does not annoy me. That’s strange, because I don’t usually want to be disturbed in my sleep.
The chant in Arabic somehow comforts me.
I’m not a religious person -in fact I have a bad habit of disbelieving everything- and I’m sure not to get any mysterious or euphoric sensation listening to the prayers in the dim morning light of my bedroom.

I should be irritated by the shriek and scream in a language I don’t understand, but I’m not. It makes me feel safe to know that somewhere there are people, who are awake at the same time as I am.
I’m not alone.

Maybe there’s someone next door who unrolls his mat and kneels to a prayer. Someone whose mumble will lull me to sleep again.

Or maybe not. My room is in a hotel and probably the sixteen years old English blonde is crying in her sleep, that’s more likely. She’s been drinking beer all day with her mum and when I last saw them before retiring to my room, they hugged each other and the waitresses in the hotel bar. Mum and daughter, both drunk in their miniskirts and tight blouses, printed “don’t touch” on the breast and “cheeky” on the bottoms of their way too shirt skirts.

The thought of them snoring bottoms up doesn’t comfort me as much as the sound from the Mosque. I concentrate on the incomprehensible, monotonous pray and fall asleep.

Fly me to the Sun

Fly me to the Sun
and let me rest forevermore.
The Sun is all I long for,
all I worship.

Never more

Coldness.

Grey

HPY challenged me into something, but I must pardon my French, didn’t understand much. I presume that I should tell something about my peculiarities, was it so, HPY?

I like to be quiet. That’s sometimes difficult, especially at work, because I speak for living. At home it is also a bit odd, because I don’t live alone.

I like to travel, but I don’t want to leave home.

I love to sleep, could do that always.

I like musicals and hard boiled detectives.

I’m not a social drinker, if I drink something.

I don’t want a pet, never have wanted.

Well, I’m not odd at any rate. There are much weirder people than me. Or maybe not. Who am I to tell? The older I get the better I realize that the world is neither black nor white. The world is made of different shades of grey.

The greyness demands light to glisten, to live and to love. On Sunday I’ll fly towards light.

I'm phoning you

if you won’t answer me
get me jesus on line

hallelujah
I love you so

you’re
walking the line in black
black is beautiful

and black

the line white as snow
snow white
so are you
white
dear and prudent

dearly saving your beauty

let me
like a beast
rip it off
tear you down

low and blue

in the night
I heard the blues
coming to get me
and my shadow

remembering your smile

Having fun is a hard thing to do

I tried to party last night. It was difficult. Once again.

It almost always goes the same way: I sit in a restaurant, drink some wine or beer, eat something, talk with my friends and suddenly I get the urge to run away. Go home.

I drink a little more, try to get in the mood. I look at people having fun, ordering more to drink, getting drunk and at the same time I feel myself sliding away from all the merry-going-around. I feel isolated, I feel tired, maybe even a little bored.

At this point I have two possibilities. I can either drink more and try to get on the same level with that happy-go-lucky-feeling that frenzies my friends or I can get up, say “see you” and walk away.

I walk away and while doing that I wonder what’s wrong with me, why can’t I enjoy an evening with my friends? Why don’t I get excited when people start to reveal their secrets, when they begin to yearn to tell their truest thoughts and facts about their lives, their beings, their opinions, their children, their relationships? Why don’t I get thrilled by music that leads other people to the dance floor and makes them dance like maniacs?

Is it because I’m afraid that I’ll do the same? Be something that I’d regret next morning? Or am I just tired of listening to other people? Should I really be a hermit?

Or am I just a bore?

The tap-dancer

Can you hear the music?
Do you feel the rhythm?
Let your pulse take control, feel the blood oozing in your veins,
wildly throbbing through your limbs.
Listen, listen, listen to the beat.

And let it go, let it loose.
Be the drums, be the rhythm, be

the tap

and dance, dance, dance. Twirl around, spin on your heels and inhale the vibration, let the pounding of your heart move your legs.

Dance.

Too cold

It’s too cold to write. The temperature is 20 degrees below zero and the north wind is blowing painfully. My words are surrounded with ice, my thoughts are freezing. I long for the golden sun and the warmth of the lazy, sunny days of summer.

I don’t want to write. This happens seldom. Words make me shiver and all I want to do is to crouch under the blanket and sleep and maybe dream about nothing.

I don’t understand people who enjoy winter, who find pleasure in skiing, skating and walking in the crisp wind. But I know they are lucky and I envy them. They will survive the winters yet to come, while I, year after year become more aware of the fact that to be able to live in a relatively sane state of mind, I must do something to my dislike of winter.

Any suggestions?

The magic of music

My upstairs neighbour has bought a slide trombone.
He’s still learning to play.

Listening to him is interesting and it brings to my mind an old song by Eddie Cantor. “If I give up the saxophone (will you come back to me?)”

Music really turns you on or off.

Heaven and hell

this could be heaven

love is like a song

if you’d only

love me tender
love me do

LOVE AND MARRIAGE!

all for love

love touch
true love

all you need is love
just a little lovin’

moon love

YOU’D BETTER LOVE ME!

this is hell