The next truest thing but not so true as the other one

There comes a moment when somebody says “I love you” and you just keep on breathing while realizing you are now fucked.

The truest thing

I don’t love you, but you need to love me. I need to come and go as I wish, and you need to wait for me, wherever and whenever I is. You were put on this earth to wait for me.

Vegetables and sushi

Sitting in a small a sushi restaurant on MacDougal,  looking at a double date situation in the corner (four very simple people), and listening to whatever is playing on the radio (a silver pill of sound, a brain straightener, the anti-mystery). 

In the future, pop chart will probably look something like this: “Music for Vegetables – Volume One”, ”Music for Vegetables – Volume Two”,  ”Music for Vegetables – Volume Three” etc.  I am only saying it for the sake of saying it. Music is not in danger, it’s eternal…

If course, I am also inspired by a conversation with David Thomas.

That’s the cake, ladies and gentlemen!

So that’s the cake that Linda got for Lacuna Coil. It survived in the four-hour air-conditioning-free drive to Glens Falls. 

And then the guys treated us to the best coffee on planet Earth, I am very impressed with what kind of coffee they can make on the bus. It was an unconditional yum.

Naturally, they delivered a superior performance prior to delivering superior coffee. I think I am in love………

This is the end, my only friend, the end…

I swear, I am off my nuts, and I don’t even have them. 

In my mailbox, somehow leaked in an email reading “Fast Female Orgasm Techniques – Help! Why Can’t My Girlfriend Have an Orgasm?”

And before I turned the brain switch on, in my head I already typed a reply back, full of helpful advice. I really did.  I OD’ed on unconditional compassion before I was born. My parents fucked me up. 

Christ, please make me evil, or at least, adequate.

God damn you, Proust!

I dreamt of love. I dreamt of being a vagabond. I dreamt of visiting a planet where people had distorted faces and wrote poetry consisting of only consonants. I waved a fake cheerful farewell at my love and walked into myself, watching out for local police. I was on the run again. I thought of buying cheap coffee from a bakery, to fortify my new image of somebody else. 

I spotted the familiar nine year old girls cutting through the  yard – Tanya & Tanya, the playmates of my childhood.  We never really connected  but we played a game or two together as I had no one else. One was nice, chubby and focused, the other one always talked about sex (as imagined by a third grader, of course – neither of us had any idea).

I saw them around the corner and I changed my trajectory. They were still nine years old.  I didn’t want to be seen by them. I had nothing, nobody and I was free. 

Then I woke up trying to remember my friends with the distorted faces, and me pointing a finger at myself and saying slowly “Me – human. You – understand?”

La-la-la-la-la la-la-la, la-la la-la la-la-la!

There is one and only one bad thing about living in the Bronx  - the fucking ice-cream truck!

My love for, and with Reverb Nation

It’s good when love is mutual. I love Reverb Nation, Reverb Nation loves me. Check me out on the front page in the featured artists!

What I am doing right now? Quite frankly, making squash and potato pancakes. 

Ciao, gotta go eat!

Inventors, prostitutes and soul for sale

True. But it rubs me the wrong way. Doesn’t feel right. Society says: “Making a fool of yourself is okay, as long as you get cash in exchange”.  I imagine, it’s even worse to put up one’s soul for sale and have no buyers. The blind dancing with the deaf. 

On a side note, the model of prostitution is all screwed up, too. Why do I think about such things? Well because of Siddhartha,  which is of course a very chopped book but it influenced me heavily when I was a teenager (hence, he REPRESENTS). I’ve been thinking about it since, and only now it dawned on me that prostitutes are not servants, they are queens and priestesses. Paying a prostitute is same as paying a priest. An honor. But somehow, at one point, kindness has been inaccurately given the name of weakness, and the roles have been distributed, however unhealthily. I guess….HZ is the answer.

Disappointment in the western civilization.

My culture taught us to suffer. How uncanny. We get it from literature, from films, from the radio, from newspapers, from our parents and our teachers. Life stinks, and you better get used to it.  Sigh. Gulp. 

American culture teaches us to pretend we are not suffering. 

I am considering a future  re-birth in an African tribe, where all people do is play music, dance and fuck. Sounds good to me.

In this life, I am already a westerner, as much as I love it and hate it.