Sorrows of a tigress

If I could draw, I would draw a girl’s eyes, looking aside, a stolen epitome of eternal sex and eternal loneliness.

I feel retarded. I feel like I should wear orange.

HELLO, WHO IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND ME?
HELLO, WHO IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND ME?
HELLO, WHO IS GOING TO UNDERSTAND ME?
.
.
.
.
Hello?
.

.

.
Ah, fine. Shrugging my shoulders has always been just another way to react to this question evidently left hanging in the air. When my words sink in a foreign chemical reaction, for a moment I feel like a very quiet motherless child with anxious ants making fussy pathways through my safety net. I start really missing my home.

But by the time I drop the last dot in the end of this very sentence, I have been back home for eternity. Suckers.

Wet Christmas

So I ran out of foods in my house.

And on Christmas Eve (sorta), I went to Fairway to replenish my stock of organic groceries. Conditions were perfect. It was raining, my car was driving, and the traffic was moving along nicely. And no lines at the cashier’s, blessing.

But what did I see at the store? Crying children and fighting couples. SMASH! And a belly that scared me. SMASH! For fuck’s sake, it’s Christmas……For fuck’s sake, it’s Christmas. Ho, ho, ho.

And I felt a sickening guilty advantage, a virtual toothache, a depressing feeling of happiness, because I got my free will and I have some idea about what it’s for. Some idea, just some, but crap, does it suck to have no clue. And I am grateful for having pretty much, everything I need. Most importantly, something to live for, and time to torture myself with voice exercises, and…

Ho, ho, ho.

Thus spoke Zarathustra. Why?

I am mad that boys are stupid and bullheaded, and…stupid. Has nothing to do with love. Has to do with music and quitting.

I hate it when people who I love quit the dream that we shared for years. My very first band, the very beginning, not that!

I hate it when people who have been my soul’s bread for so many years choose a different road, and my voice becomes mute, and they are angry because they want to be right, and if that’s the path they choose for themselves, they are right. Period. There is no obligation to carry on. Fucking shit but there is no obligation to carry on. Just another faded office worker with a hobby. Oh fucking crap.

I just hope he changes his mind. Please, not you, not you, please.

Sex talk

I don’t understand talking about sex. As in, the mechanics of it. I perfectly understand talking about the anthropology of sex. As in, human psychology. Human behavior is interesting to turn around in your hands, lick it from different angles, and once you caught the right words, pour them blindly to depict it. I am not using the lingo to create a literary contrast, I am just expressing the physiological process of giving birth to words.

I think (and I think I am right) that people who brag about their sexual grandeur, or speak derogatively of their mates, are not so sure, deep in their honest stomachs, that they are so important. At least at that particular moment. I tested the theory, including on a couple famous people with a strong public presence of sex gods. I can’t say “poor buggers” because they are not so poor, but it’s all different in the warm place with fewer defenses. And, most reliably, I know how I feel when I drop cynical remarks. Usually, not so good. When I feel good, I smile.

I wish it were more beautiful, simpler.

I think about “sex talk” because I pay attention to what people are saying, and how they are saying it, and I listen to commercial radio in the car (By they way, I see one of the two things happening – either my taste is getting worse, or commercial radio is getting better). And it all depends on the context. For example, when I hear hip hop or R&B singers going in detail over foreplay and coitus, I don’t relate but I don’t judge. It’s a different culture, I didn’t grow up in it and I can only peek in that particular variety – I can feel but I don’t know the rules. I personally wouldn’t be able to make my mouth move to describe those things so plainly (oh I would overcomplicate, and use metaphors, and poetic masquerade – that’s my sandbox, that’s how I think).

But when I hear folks originating from the same culture as me (typically, white westerners) bluff about sex, as in contemporary burlesque, I remain untouched and slightly annoyed. It might be just that they are still a different kind of people, but I suspect that they are like me but just can’t admit to being too damn lonely. I am not talking about sex now. I am talking about soul. But then again, what do I know….

Good night.

I forgot where I started (and why).

What it is like to be me

If I were to describe my whole being with one word, it would be the eyes. It’s always the eyes that are looking from the inside of my head (that is connected to the spine that is connected to the stomach, and then the legs) into the outside air. It is always the eyes. It’s me.

In the air there are trolleys, activities, people and, since some time ago, also bars with more people and more activities.

I was born on a different planet. I don’t understand. I want to fit in but I don’t want to blend. It’s my little tragedy, so big that my head wants to go back home.

So I am looking at you like a scared animal. I see you, you don’t see me. You notice me when I start blending in, but it’s so horribly painful that I always stop half way, achieving nothing. I crawl back in through the hole in my scull and relive my loneliness.

When I meet people who seem to understand, my arms and my breath warm up instantaneously. For the moment of the discovery, I become the fairy I was born. But they go every time. And when they do, I grow a little bit older.

The happiness I know is more natural than 360 degrees of round-love elevated heaven. I don’t know where it comes from and I don’t know where it goes. But when it’s there, I am complete. It feels like I am back in the womb and worrying has not even been created.

And when it leaves life becomes dry and interesting again. Again, I become the eyes and long for love.