exhibitionism or the act of sharing some pointless blah blah?

why do i feel any need to type some words of questionable quality which do not bear any sense whatsoever? and even more, why do i feel a need to not only punch the keys of my remarkably dirty/dusty vaio, but also to post them online? what is the point? what is it with the obsession of the internet community and all the posting in a "place" that everyone has access to?

people say that sharing is important. the need to share experiences, thoughts, ideas, obsessions with those closest to us. having that in mind, i think that typing some words - more as an exercise because quite frankly i haven't done anything "literary" in a while - and sharing those chaotic sentences with the few people who follow that blog (if they are still around) won't do much harm even if they don't contribute to anything good, creative or constructive.

so, for the first time in a long, long - what? - time i feel somewhat inspired. thanks to a fellow by the name of philip roth and his novel exit ghost. i don't want to say what the book is about not because i am too dumb to know, but because i am still reading it. i just want to share with myself, a few friends and possible the world (a thought that makes me laugh) that this is a remarkable read and that i hope and dream that one day i will be capable of producing a text which will be as good as roth's. i just want to think and believe that if i decide to sit on my ass and dwell into the process of writing i will be capable of polishing the little talent i am confident that i have and create something... i don't know, something good. i know it's vague, but this is the closest i can get to expressing what circulates in my childish mind at the time.

this is all. nothing more, nothing less. i just feel inspired again. despite the BB person i see all the time on TV; despite the fact that my city feels and looks like a god-forsaken village where life doesn't happen anymore; despite the provincialism that i feel even in my lungs every time i go out for a walk; despite the patchy friendships i am exhausted maintaining; despite the fact that i am not certain whether i can call my home, in which i grew up, 'home.' despite all that, i feel like i can manage somehow, somewhere, one day.

Neuromancer

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." opening line of Neruomancer

A couple of hours ago, a friend posted this very interesting info on the topic of Gibson. As it turns out, a movie based on the novel is in pre-production. I am just starting to fall in love with Case and Molly and I find out this. Thank you life, you are not such an ass-whole after all.

And by the way: listening to TOKiMONSTA is kinda cool while reading Gibson's cyberpunk.

P.S. I am not in love with what director Vincenzo Natali (Cube,, Splice) has already said about the project and his approach to it but I am willing to give him a chance. Especially considering that I am still in the middle of the first book of the Sprawl trilogy and I am far from being an expert.

BIUTIFUL

Don't Forget Me




Biutiful

— MOVIECLIPS.com

my whole being is shaking

it is biutiful

remember me, please

don't forget me.

11/02/11

February 14 - love as commodity and pink consumerism - I opened my mailbox and I found a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull (by one Richard Bach) was left there on 11/02/11 to wait for me for three days. A friend thought I needed a reminder that in order to achieve anything in that crappy life I need to try harder. She also reminded me that I'm a big pussy.

The book stayed on my bookshelf for a couple of weeks before I finally decided to pick it up and read it. Actually re-read it. The first time was eight years ago when I thought that having red hair makes me cool. The time when I thought of two beers as a lot of alcohol; when I wasn't neither a heavy smoker nor a freaking pothead; when I didn't have to shave; when I was still a virgin (all these quite irrelevant).

I thought eight years are enough time to make me read this parable of recycled Zen Buddhism differently. But no. I still think, as my friend said, that the seagull is helplessly romantic. And beautiful.

I am not able to recognize the naive little bastard who was once me when I look at the mirror, but there should be something left, right? I thought of writing a book review for the college magazine but the mission seems impossible to me now. Who is going to write it? The old me, or the new me? Or some future me? Or some non-me.

This is why I'm blogging about it. Because I cannot possibly review this parable. I can only punch the buttons of my vaio - which is what matters. A seagull told me that I have to do what I love, do it as much as possible, develop it, push harder and harder and harder... A little prince told me that essential things are invisible to the eye (now carved in my skin for as long as I live and probably for some time more before my skin decomposes)... And I'm telling myself that not everything is possible, that I will fail at certain things, that I will fail to see certain things... But there is a good chance that I won't fail at everything. Or something like that. Just keep on flying, dude.

looking down

ok, apparently homeworks are my writing driving force. i have a vague idea, an image, somewhere in this chaotic brain of mine, to turn this into a short movie. anyone care to join(t)?

Looking down

For 10 straight minutes looking down

Walking around and seeing sound

I know these streets better than

I know myself

Now I get them with my shoe soles

Reversal of roles

Following chalk arrows pointing

Pointing and exploiting

Exploiting my trust

But the direction is safe

I end up talking to my shoes

“So, how ya doing my old friends?

You’re from one of those brands:

The expensive and the posh?

But you’ve carried me in rain

And you’ve treaded on slush.”

They keep their silence and continue walking

Remembering the shapes of the streets.

Bikers passing by

Cars passing by

People passing by

And I don’t receive a single “Hi!”

But I am looking down

Trying to keep my focus intact

I am helped by the smoking buddy between my fingers

She’s dangerous, in fact

But her sweet death lingers

And I have more time to smell burnt fuel

It’s a whole different universe down here

The universe of chewing gum and nicotine buds

The ants, street cats and bodies of dead birds.

It’s strangely ordered and yet chaotic

I hope my presence is not despotic

Stepping on the railing –

Equilibrium in and out just failing

Arms stretched for a flight

But still looking down

Not flying up but turning left or turning right

Stopped at the end

Looked up, not ready to defend

Not ready to pretend

Not ready to offend

The pavements have become my walls

The shafts – my windows, my doors.

Reordering the dimensions

With this youthful lack of patience…

I just wanna walk the streets.

the recipe of found words

I have never been good with recipes but I think I found out one worth sharing. The meal is called "a poem of found words" and it is the living proof that homeworks might be fun and interesting. The meal is easy to prepare and best served cold. One might share it with people, but the preparing part is a solo mission. And like every solo mission requires good music as a background (Tricky, Bonobo or whatever floats your boat). There are several easy steps and it starts like that...

1. Dress well if it's cold outside. Put comfortable shoes. Take a bottle of water and a backpack. Stick these headphones of yours in your ears. Take a deep breath. Ignore any incoming calls. Clear your mind. This is the most difficult of all steps. Don't worry - the fun starts when your feet touch the pavement outside and when you light up the first of many cigarettes.

2. Don't ever think about a route. Just walk. Choose a part of town and explore it. Look at the people. Follow the people. Pay attention to what they look at. Take every small street or alley you chance to ponder. Walk slowly. Keep your camera (or in my case phone) ready. Look at the gutters, the trashing bins, the benches. Look on what you tread. Look at the roofs, look at the walls. And don't think. Just search for words. There are words everywhere. Your mind is full of words, so try to block them and give space to new ones. To new experiences. Stop and enjoy the things you see. Collect, collect, collect...

3. Stop collecting. Sit on a bench and light one more. Breath in heavily. Now think. Now try to comprehend the wor(l)d.

4. Don't start writing your poem yet. Let a couple of days pass. Talk to people. Laugh with them, cry with them, whatever. Just share some experiences.

5. Go out. But not the same routine. Take a friend with you. Sit in a café (Coffee Company if you are pretentious fuck like me). Take a latte. Taste it and get your pencil and a piece of paper. Lay your collection of words in front of you. Now write, write, write... Assemble the words, assemble your memories, assemble your feelings.

6. Look at the end result.

Zwarte poesie

Pissed off in limbo,

hey me!!!

Strong as death

but sweet as love.

Rocking my territory, smashing...

and stealing from work.

A squatted world, a clone town.

Cuz coffee is black as hell

and if the kids are united

we'll never be divided.

7. Now write some more...

plovdiv walk-through

"...a rat became the unit of currency"

Zbigniew Herbert from Report from the Besieged City

"You see that pack of Virginia killing sticks on the end of the piano? All you need to know about life is retained in those four walls. You will notice that one of your personalities is seduced by the illusions of grandeur - the gold packet of king size with a regal insignia, an attractive implication towards grandeur and wealth, the subtle suggestion that cigarettes are indeed your royal and loyal friends, and that, Pete, is a lie.

Your other personality is trying to draw your attention to the flip side of the discussion, written in boring bold black and white; it's a statement that these neat little soldiers of death are in fact trying to kill you and that, Pete, is the truth.

Oh, beauty is a beguiling call to death and I’m addicted to the sweet pitch of its siren.

That that starts sweet ends bitter, and that which starts bitter ends sweet.

That is why you and I love the drugs and that is also why I cannot give that painting back. Now please, pass me a light.”

Johnny Quid from RocknRolla